Dave Darrin's Second Year At Annapolis

Or

Two Midshipmen As Naval Academy "Youngsters"

By

H. Irving Hancock



Chapter I

A Question Of Midshipman Honor

"How can a midshipman and gentleman act in that way?"

The voice of Midshipman David Darrin, United States Navy, vibrated uneasily as he turned to his comrades.

"It's a shame -- that's what it is," quivered Mr. Farley, also of the third class at the United States Naval Academy.

"But the question is," propounded Midshipman Dan Dalzell, "what are we going to do about it?"

"Is it any part of our business to bother with the fellow?" demanded Farley half savagely.

Now Farley was rather hot-tempered, though he was "all there" in points that involved the honor of the brigade of midshipmen.

Five midshipmen stood in the squalid, ill-odored back room of a Chinese laundry in the town of Annapolis.

There was a sixth midshipman present in the handsome blue uniform of the brigade; and it was upon this sixth one that the anger and disgust of the other five had centered.

He lay in a sleep too deep for stirring. On the still, foul air floated fumes that were new to those of his comrades who now gazed down on him.

"To think that one of our class could make such a beast of himself!" sighed Dave Darrin.

"And on the morning of the very day we're to ship for the summer cruise," uttered Farley angrily.

"Oh, well" growled Hallam, "why not let this animal of lower grade sleep just where he is? Let him take what he has fairly brought upon himself!"

"That's the very question that is agitating me," declared Dave Darrin, to whom these other members of the third class looked as a leader when there was a point involving class honor.

Dave had became a leader through suffering.

Readers of the preceding volume in this series, "DAVE DARRIN'S FIRST YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS," will need no introduction to this fine specimen of spirited and honorable young American.

Readers of that preceding volume will recall how Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell entered the United States Naval Academy, one appointed by a Congressman and the other by a United States Senator. Such readers will remember the difficult time that Dave and Dan had in getting through the work of the first hard, grinding year. They will also recall how Dave Darrin, when accused of treachery to his classmates, patiently bided his time until he, with the aid of some close friends, was able to demonstrate his innocence. Our readers will also remember how two evil-minded members of the then fourth class plotted to increase Damn's disgrace and to drive him out of the brigade; also how these two plotters, Midshipmen Henkel and Brimmer, were caught in their plotting and were themselves forced out of the brigade. Our readers know that before the end of the first year at the Naval Academy, Dave had fully reinstated himself in the esteem of his manly classmates, and how he quickly became the most popular and respected member of his class.

It was now only the day after the events whose narration closed the preceding volume.

Dave Darrin and Dalzell were first of all brought to notice in "THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' SERIES." In their High School days, back in Gridley, these two had been famous members of Dick & Co., a sextette of youngsters who had made a name for themselves in school athletics.

Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, two other members of the sextette, had been appointed to the United States Military Academy at West Point, where they were serving in the corps of cadets and learning how to become Army officers in the not far distant future. All of the adventures of Dick and Greg are set forth in "THE WEST POINT SERIES."

The two remaining members of famous old Dick & Co., Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, became civil engineers, and went West for their first taste of engineering work. Tom and Harry had some wonderful and startling adventures, as fully set forth in "THE YOUNG ENGINEERS' SERIES."

On this early June day when we again encounter Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell in their handsome Naval uniforms, all members of the first, second and third classes were due to be aboard one of the three great battleships that lay off the Yard at Annapolis at four p.m.

These three great battleships were the "Massachusetts," the "Iowa" and the "Indiana." These three huge, turreted fighting craft had their full crews aboard. Not one of the battleship commanders would allow a "jackie" ashore, except on business, through fear that many of the "wilder" ones might find the attractions on shore too alluring, and fail to return in time.

With the young midshipmen it was different. These young men were officially and actually gentlemen, and could be trusted.

Yet here, in the back room of this laundry, was one who was apparently not dependable.

This young midshipman's name was Pennington, and the fact was that he lay in deep stupor from the effects of smoking opium!

It had been a storekeeper, with a shop across the street, who had called the attention of Dave and his four comrades to the probable fate of another of their class.

"Chow Hop runs a laundry, but I have heard evil stories about a lot of young fools who flock to his back room and get a chance to 'hit' the opium pipe," the storekeeper had stated to Dave. "One of your men, or at least, one in a midshipman's uniform, went in there at eleven o'clock this forenoon, and he hasn't been out since. It is now nearly two o'clock and, I've been looking for some midshipmen to inform."

Such had been the storekeeper's careful statement. The merchants of Annapolis always have a kindly feeling toward these fine young midshipmen. The storekeeper's purpose was to enable them to help their comrade out.

So the five had entered the laundry. The proprietor, Chow Hop, had attempted to bar their way to the rear room.

But Dave had seized the yellow man and had flung him aside.

The reader already knows what they discovered, and how it affected these young men.

"Bring that copper-colored chink in here, if you'll be so good," directed Dave.

Dan and Hallam departed on the quest.

"You're wanted in there," proclaimed Dalzell, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

"Me no sabby," replied Chow Hop, looking up briefly from his ironing board.

"Get in there -- do you hear?" commanded Hallam, gripping the other's arm with all his force.

"You lemme go chop-chop (quickly), or you get alle samee hurt -- you sabby?" scowled Chow Hop, using his free hand to raise a heavy flat-iron menacingly.

But Dan Dalzell jumped in, giving the Chinaman's wrist a wrench that caused him to drop the iron.

Then, without a bit of ceremony, Dan grasped the Oriental by the shoulders, wheeled him about, while he protested in guttural tones, and bluntly kicked the yellow-faced one through the door into the inner room.

At this summary proceeding both the Chinese helpers gripped their flat-irons firmly; and leaped forward to fight.

In an ugly temper the Chinaman is a bad man to oppose. But now this pair were faced by a pair of quietly smiling midshipmen who were also dangerous when angry.

"You two, get back," ordered Dalzell, advancing fearlessly upon the pair. "If you don't, we'll drag you out into the street and turn you over to the policemen. You 'sabby' that? You heathen are pretty likely to get into prison for this day's work!"

Scowling for a moment, then muttering savagely, the two helpers slunk back to their ironing boards.

Yet, while Dan turned to go into the rear room, Hallam stood just where he was, to keep an eye on two possible sources of swift trouble.

"Chow Hop," began Dave Damn sternly, as the proprietor made his flying appearance, "You've done a pretty mean piece of work here" -- pointing to the unconscious midshipman in the berth. "Do you understand that you're pretty likely to go to prison for this?"

"Oh, that no maller," replied Chow, with a sullen grin. "Him plenty 'shipmen come here and smoke."

"You lie!" hissed Dave, grasping the heathen by the collar and shaking him until the latter's teeth rattled.

Then Dave gave him a brief rest, though he still retained his hold on the Chinaman's collar. But the yellow man began struggling again, and Dave repeated the shaking.

Chow Hop had kept his hands up inside his wide sleeves. Now Farley leaped forward as he shouted:

"Look out, Darry! He has a knife!"

Farley attempted to seize the Chinaman's wrist, for the purpose of disarming the yellow man, but Dave swiftly threw the Chinaman around out of Farley's reach. Then, with a lightning-like move, Dave knocked the knife from Chow Hop's hand.

"Pick that up and keep it for a curio, Farley," directed Dave coolly.

In another twinkling Darrin had run the Chinaman up against the wall.

Smack! biff! thump!

With increasing force Dave's hard fist struck the heathen in the face.

"Now stand there and behave yourself," admonished Midshipman Dave, dropping his hold on the yellow man's collar, "or we'll stop playing with you and hurt you some."

The scowl on Chow Hop's face was ominous, but he stood still, glaring at Dave.

"Chow, what can we do to bring this man out of his sleep!" asked Dave coolly, and almost in a friendly tone.

"Me no sabby," sulked the Chinaman.

"Yes, you do," retorted Dave warningly. "Now, what can we do to get our friend out of this!"

"You allee same cally (carry) him out," retorted Chow, with a suspicion of a sulky grin.

"None of that, now, you yellow-face!" glared Dave. "How shall we get our comrade out of this opium sleep!"

"Me no sabby no way," insisted Chow.

"Oh, yes, you do!" snapped Dave. "But you won't tell. All right; we'll find the way, and we'll punish you into the bargain. Dan, get a piece of paper from the other room."

Dalzell was quickly back with the desired item. On the paper Dave wrote a name and a telephone number.

"It's near the end of the doctor's office hours," murmured Dave. "Go to a telephone and ask the doctor to meet you at the corner above. Tell him it's vastly important, and ask him to meet you on the jump."

"Shall I tell him what's up!" asked Dan cautiously.

"Yes; you'd better. Then he'll be sure to bring the necessary remedies with him."

Dan Dalzell was off like a shot.

Chow tried to edge around toward the door.

"Here, you get back there," cried Dave, seizing the Chinaman and slamming him back against the wall. "Don't you move again, until we tell you that you may -- or it will be the worse for you."

Ten minutes passed ere Dan returned with Dr. Lawrence.

"You see the job that's cut out for you," said Darrin, pointing to the unconscious figure in the bunk. "Can you do it, Doctor?"

The medical man made a hasty examination of the unconscious midshipman before he answered briefly:

"Yes."

"Will it be a long job, Doctor?"

"Fifteen minutes, probably."

"Oh, good, if you can do it in that time!"

"Me go now?" asked Chow, with sullen curiosity, as the medical man opened his medicine-case.

"Yes; if you don't try to leave the joint," agreed Dave. "And I'm going outside with you."

Chow looked very much as though he did not care for company, but Midshipman Darrin kept at his side.

"Now, see here, Chow," warned Dave, "this is the last day you sell opium for white men to smoke!"

"You heap too flesh (fresh)" growled the Chinaman.

"It's the last day you'll sell opium to white men," insisted Dave, "for, as soon as I'm through here I'm going to the police station to inform against you. They'll go through here like a twelve-inch shot."

"You alle same tell cop?" grinned Chow, green hatred showing through his skin. "Then I tell evelybody about you fliend in there."

"Do just as you please about that," retorted Dave with pretended carelessness. "For one thing, you don't know his name."

"Oh, yes, I do," swaggered Chow impudently. "Know heap 'bout him. His name alle same Pen'ton."

Seizing a marking brush and a piece of paper, Chow Hop quickly wrote out Pennington's name, correctly spelled. His ability to write English with a good hand was one of Chow's great vanities, anyway.

"You go back to your ironing board, yellow-face," warned Darrin, and something in the young third classman's face showed Chow that it would be wise to obey.

Then Hallam drew Darrin to one side, to whisper earnestly in his ear:

"Look out, old man, or you will get Pen into an awful scrape!"

"I shan't do it," maintained Darrin. "If it happens it will have been Pen's own work."

"You'd better let the chink go, just to save one of our class."

"Is a fellow who has turned opium fiend worth saving to the class!" demanded Dave, looking straight into Hallam's eyes.

"Well, er -- er -- " stammered the other man.

"You see," smiled Dave, "the doubt hits you just as hard as it does me!"

"Oh, of course, a fellow who has turned opium fiend is no fellow ever to be allowed to reach the bridge and the quarter-deck," admitted Hallam. "But see here, are you going to report this affair to the commandant of midshipmen, or to anyone else in authority?"

"I've no occasion to report," replied Dave dryly. "I am not in any way in command over Pennington. But I mean to persuade him to report himself for what he has done!"

"But that would ruin him!" protested Hallam, aghast. "He wouldn't even be allowed to start on the cruise. He'd be railroaded home without loss of a moment."

"Yet you've just said that an opium-user isn't fit to go on in the brigade," retorted Darrin.

"Hang it, it's hard to know what to do," rejoined Hallam, wrinkling his forehead. "Of course we want to be just to Pen."

"It doesn't strike me as being just exactly a question of justice to Pennington," Darrin went on earnestly. "If this is anything it's a question of midshipman honor. We fellows are bound to see that all the unworthy ones are dropped from the service. Now, a fellow who has fastened the opium habit on himself isn't fit to go on, is he?"

"Oh, say, but this is a hard one to settle!" groaned Hallam.

"Then I'll take all the responsibility upon myself," said Dave promptly. "I don't want to make any mistake, and I don't believe I'm going to. Wait just a moment."

Going to the rear room, Dave faced his three comrades there with the question:

"You three are enough to take care of everything here for a few minutes, aren't you?"

"Yes," nodded Dan. "What's up?"

"Hallam and I are going for a brief walk."

Then, stepping back into the front room, Darrin nodded to his classmate, who followed him outside.

"Just come along, and say nothing about the matter on the street," requested Dave. "It might be overheard."

"Where are you going?" questioned Hallam wonderingly.

"Wait and see, please."

From Chow Hop's wretched establishment it was not far to the other building that Dave had in mind as a destination.

But when they arrived, and stood at the foot of the steps, Hallam clutched Darrin's arm, holding him back.

"Why, see here, this is the police station!"

"I know it," Dave replied calmly.

"But see here, you're not -- "

"I'm not going to drag you into anything that you'd object to," Darrin continued. "Come along; all I want you for is as a witness to what I am going to say."

"Don't do it, old fel -- "

"I've thought that over, and I feel that I must," replied Dave firmly. "Come along. Don't attract attention by standing here arguing."

In another instant the two midshipmen were going swiftly up the steps.

The chief of police received his two callers courteously. Dave told the official how their attention had been called to the fact that one of their number was in an opium joint. Dave named the place, but requested the chief to wait a full hour before taking any action.

"That will give us a chance to get out a comrade who may have committed only his first offense," Dave continued.

"If there's any opium being smoked in that place I'll surely close the joint out!" replied the chief, bringing his fist down upon his desk. "But I understand your reasons, Mr. -- "

"Darrin is my name, sir," replied Dave quietly.

"So, Mr. Darrin, I give you my word that I won't even start my investigations before this evening. And I'll keep all quiet about the midshipman end of it."

"Thank you very much, sir," said Dave gratefully.

As the two midshipmen strolled slowly back in the direction of Chow Hop's, Dave murmured:

"Now, you see why I took this step?"

"I'm afraid not very clearly," replied Midshipman Hallam.

"That scoundrelly Chow made his boast that other midshipmen patronized his place. I don't believe it. Such a vice wouldn't appeal to you, and it doesn't to me. But there are more than two hundred new plebes coming in just now, and many of these boys have never been away from home before. Some of them might foolishly seek the lure of a new vice, and might find the habit fastened on them before they were aware of it. Chow's vile den might spoil some good material for the quarter-deck, and, as a matter of midshipman honor, we're bound to see that the place is cleaned out right away."

"I guess, Darry, you come pretty near being right," assented Hallam, after thinking for a few moments.

By the time they reached Chow Hop's again they found that Dr. Lawrence had brought the unfortunate Pennington to. And a very scared and humiliated midshipman it was who now stood up, a bit unsteadily, and tried to smooth down his uniform.

"How do you feel now?" asked Dave.

"Awful!" shuddered Pennington. "And now see here, what are you fellows going to do? Blab, and see me driven out of the Navy?"

"Don't do any talking in here," advised Dave, with a meaning look over his shoulder at the yellow men in the outer room. "Doctor, is our friend in shape to walk along with us now?"

"He will be, in two or three minutes, after he drinks something I'm going to give him," replied the medical man, shaking a few drops from each of three vials into a glass of water. "Here, young man, drink this slowly."

Three minutes later the midshipmen left the place, Dave walking beside Pennington and holding his arm lightly for the purpose of steadying him.

"How did this happen, Pen?" queried Dave, when the six men of the third class at last found themselves walking down Maryland Avenue. "How long have you been at this 'hop' trick?"

"Never before to-day," replied Midshipman Pennington quickly.

"Pen, will you tell me that on your honor?" asked Dave gravely.

The other midshipman flared up.

"Why must I give you my word of honor?" he demanded defiantly. "Isn't my plain word good enough?"

"Your word of honor that you had never smoked opium before to-day would help to ease my mind a whole lot," replied Darrin. "Come, unburden yourself, won't you, Pen?"

"I'll tell you, Darry, just how it happened. To-day was the first time, on my word of honor, I came out into Annapolis with a raging toothache. Now, you know how a fellow gets to hate to go before the medical officers of the Academy with a tale about his teeth."

"Yes, I do," nodded Darrin. "If a fellow is too much on the medical report for trouble with his teeth, then it makes the surgeons look his mouth over with all the more caution, and in the end a fellow may get dropped from the brigade just because he has invited over zeal from the dentist. But what has all this to do with opium smoking?"

"Just this," replied Pennington, hanging his head. "I went into a drug store and asked a clerk that I know what was the best thing for toothache. He told me the best he knew was to smoke a pipe of opium, and told me where to find Chow Hop, and what to say to the chink. And it's all a lie about opium helping a sore tooth," cried the wretched midshipman, clapping a hand to his jaw, "for there goes that fiendish tooth again! But say! You fellows are not going to leak about my little mishap?"

"No," replied Darrin with great promptness. "You're going to do that yourself."

"What?" gasped Midshipman Pennington in intense astonishment. "What are you talking about?"

"You'll be wise to turn in a report, on what happened," pursued Dave, "for it's likely to reach official ears, anyway, and you'll be better off if you make the first report on the subject."

"Why is it likely to reach official ears, if you fellows keep your mouths shut?"

"You see," Darrin went on very quietly, "I reported the joint at the police station, and Chow Hop threatened that, if I did, he'd tell all he knew about everybody. So you'd better be first --  -- "

"You broke the game out to the police!" gasped Pennington, staring dumfoundedly at his comrade. "What on earth --  -- "

"I did it because I had more than one satisfactory reason for considering it my duty," interposed Dave, speaking quietly though firmly.

"You -- you -- bag of wind!" exploded Midshipman Pennington.

"I'll accept your apology when you've had time to think it all over," replied Dave, with a smile, though there was a brief flash in his eyes.

"I'll make no apology to you -- at any time, you -- you -- greaser!"

Marks for efficiency or good conduct, which increase a midshipman's standing, are called "grease-marks" or "grease" in midshipman slang. Hence a midshipman who is accused of currying favor with his officers in order to win "grease" is contemptuously termed a "greaser."

"I don't want to talk with you any more, Mr. Darrin," Pennington went on bitterly, "or walk with you, either. When I get over this toothache I'll call you out -- you greaser!"

Burning with indignation, Midshipman Pennington fell back to walk with Hallam.



Chapter II


Dave's Pap-Sheet Advice

When our party reached the landing a lively scene lay before them.

Fully a hundred midshipmen, belonging to the first, second and third classes, were waiting to be transported out to one or another of the great, gray battleships.

Several launches were darting back and forth over the water. The baggage of the midshipmen had already been taken aboard the battleships. Only the young men themselves were now awaited.

Near-by stood a lieutenant of the Navy, who was directing the embarkation of the midshipmen of the different classes.

Five minutes after our party arrived a launch from the "Massachusetts" lay in alongside the landing.

"Third classmen, this way!" shouted the lieutenant. "How many of you?"

Turning his eyes over the squad that had moved forward, the officer continued:

"Twenty-two. You can all crowd into this launch. Move quickly, young gentlemen!"

In another couple of minutes the puffing launch was steaming away to the massive battleship that lay out in the stream.

Dave stood well up in the bow. Once he barely overheard Pennington mutter to a comrade:

"The rascally greaser!"

"That means me," Dave muttered under his breath. "I won't take it up now, or in any hurry. I'll wait until Pen has had time to see things straight."

As soon as the launch lay alongside, the young midshipmen clambered nimbly up the side gangway, each raising his cap to the flag at the stern as he passed through the opening in the rail.

Here stood an officer with an open book in his hand. To him each midshipman reported, saluting, stated his name, and received his berthing.

"Hurry away to find your berthings, and get acquainted with the location," ordered this officer. "Every midshipman will report on the quarter-deck promptly at five p.m. In the meantime, after locating your berthings, you are at liberty to range over the ship, avoiding the ward room and the staterooms of officers."

The latest arrivals saluted. Then, under the guidance of messengers chosen from among the apprentice members of the crew, the young men located their berthings.

"I'm going to get mine changed, if I can," growled Pennington, wheeling upon Dave Darrin. "I'm much too close to a greaser. I'm afraid I may get my uniforms spotted, as well as my character."

"Stop that, Pen!" warned Dave, stationing himself squarely before the angry Pennington. "I don't know just how far you're responsible for what you're saying now. To-morrow, if you make any such remarks to me, you'll have to pay a mighty big penalty for them."

"You'll make me pay by going to the commandant and telling him all you know, I suppose?" sneered Pennington.

"You know better, Pen! Now, begin to practise keeping a civil tongue behind your teeth!"

With that, Darrin turned on his heel, seeking the deck.

This left "Pen" to conjecture as to whether he should report his misadventure, and, if so, how best to go about it.

"See here, Hallam," began the worried midshipman, "I begin to feel that it will be safer to turn in some kind of report on myself."

"Much safer," agreed Hallam. "It will show good faith on your part if you report yourself."

"And get me broken from the service, too, I suppose," growled the unhappy one.

"I hardly think it will, if you report yourself first," urged Hallam. "But you'll be about certain to get your walking papers if you wait for the first information to come from other sources."

"Hang it," groaned Pennington, "I wish I could think, but my head aches as though it would split and my tooth is putting up more trouble than I ever knew there was in the world. And, in this racked condition, I'm to go and put myself on the pap-sheet. In what way shall I do it, Hallam? Can't you suggest something?"

"Yes," retorted Hallam with great energy. "Go to the medical officer and tell him how your tooth troubles you. Tell him what you tried on shore. I'll go with you, if you want."

"Will you, old man? I'll be a thousand times obliged!"

So the pair went off in search of the sick-bay, as the hospital part of a battleship is called. The surgeon was not in his office adjoining, but the hospital steward called him over one of the ship telephones, informing him that a midshipman was suffering with an ulcerated tooth.

Dr. Mackenzie came at once, turned on a reflector light, and gazed into Midshipman Pennington's mouth.

"Have you tried to treat this tooth yourself, in any way?" queried the ship's surgeon.

"Yes, sir; I was so crazy with the pain, while in Annapolis, that I am afraid I did something that will get me into trouble," replied Pennington, with a quiver in his voice.

"What was that?" asked Dr. Mackenzie, glancing at him sharply. "Did you try the aid of liquor?"

"Worse, I'm afraid, sir."

"Worse?"

Pennington told of his experience with the opium pipe.

"That's no good whatever for a toothache, sir," growled Dr. Mackenzie. "Besides, it's a serious breach of discipline. I shall have to report you, Mr. Pennington."

"I expected it, sir," replied Pennington meekly.

"However, the report won't cure your toothache," continued Dr. Mackenzie in a milder tone. "We'll attend to that first."

The surgeon busied himself with dissolving a drug in a small quantity of water. This he took up in a hypodermic needle and injected into the lower jaw.

"The ache ought to stop in ten minutes, sir," continued the surgeon, turning to enter some memoranda in his record book.

After that the surgeon called up the ship's commander over the 'phone, and made known Pennington's report.

"Mr. Pennington, Captain Scott directs that you report at his office immediately," said the surgeon, as he turned away from the telephone.

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."

Both midshipmen saluted, then left the sick-bay.

"This is where you have to go up alone, I guess," hinted Midshipman Hallam.

"I'm afraid so," sighed Pennington.

"However, I'll be on the quarter-deck, and, if I'm wanted, you can send there for me."

"Thank you, old man. You're worth a brigade of Darrins -- confound the greasing meddler!"

"Darrin acted according to his best lights on the subject of duty," remonstrated Mr. Hallam mildly.

"His best lights -- bah!" snarled Pennington. "I'll take this all out of him before I'm through with him!"

Pennington reported to the battleship's commander. After some ten minutes a marine orderly found Hallam and directed him to go to Captain Scott's office. Here Hallam repeated as much as was asked of him concerning the doings of the afternoon. Incidentally, the fact of Midshipman Darrin's report to the police was brought out.

"Mr. Pennington, I shall send you at once, in a launch, over to the commandant of cadets to report this matter in person to him," said Captain Scott gravely. "Mr. Hallam, you will go with Mr. Pennington."

Then, after the two had departed, an apprentice messenger went through the ship calling Dave's name. That young man was summoned to Captain Scott's office.

"I am in possession of all the facts relating to the unfortunate affair of Midshipman Pennington, Mr. Darrin," began Captain Scott, after the interchange of salutes. "Will you tell me why you reported the affair to the police?"

"I went to the police, sir," Dave replied, "because I was aware that many members of the new fourth class are away from home for the first time in their lives. I was afraid, sir, that possibly some of the new midshipmen might, during one of their town-leaves, be tempted to try for a new experience."

"A very excellent reason, Mr. Darrin, and I commend you heartily for it. I shall also report your exemplary conduct to the commandant of midshipmen. You have, in my opinion, Mr. Darrin, displayed very good judgment, and you acted upon that judgment with promptness and decision. But I am afraid," continued the Navy captain dryly, "that you have done something that will make you highly unpopular, for a while, with some of the members of your class."

"I hope not, sir," replied Dave.

"So do I," smiled Captain Scott "I am willing to find myself a poor prophet. That is all, Mr. Darrin."

Once more saluting, Dave left the commanding officer's presence. Almost the first classmate into whom he stumbled was Dan Dalzell.

"Well, from what quarter does the wind blow!" murmured Dan.

Darrin repeated the interview that he had just had.

"I'm afraid, Dave, little giant, that you've planted something of a mine under yourself," murmured Dalzell.

"I feel as much convinced as ever, Danny boy, that I did just what I should have done," replied Darrin seriously.

"And so does Captain Scott, and so will the commandant," replied Dan. "But winning the commendation of your superior officers doesn't always imply that you'll get much praise from your classmates."

"Unfortunately, you are quite right," smiled Dave. "Still, I'd do the same thing over again."

"Oh, of course you would," assented Dan. "That's because you're Dave Darrin."

Here a voice like a bass horn was heard.

"All third classmen report to the quarter-deck immediately!"

This order was repeated in other parts of the ship. Midshipmen gathered with a rush, Pennington and Hallam being the only members absent. As soon as the third classmen, or "youngsters," as they are called in midshipman parlance, had formed, the orders were read off dividing them into sections for practical instruction aboard ship during the cruise.

Dave's name was one of the first read off. He was assigned to duty as section leader for the first section in electrical instruction. Dalzell, Farley, Hallam, Pennington and others were detailed as members of that section.

The same section was also designated for steam instruction, Dalzell being made leader of the section in this branch.

The class was then dismissed. Somewhat later Pennington and Hallam returned from their interview with the commandant.

Hallam at once sought out Dave.

"Darry, old man," murmured Hallam, "Pen is as crazy as a hornet against you. As he had taken the first step by sticking himself on the pap-sheet (placing himself on report), the commandant said he would make the punishment a lighter one."

"What did Pen get?" queried Dave.

"Fifty demerits, with all the loss of privileges that fifty carry."

"He's lucky," declared Dave promptly. "Had the report come from other sources, he would have been dismissed from the service."

"If Pen's lucky," rejoined Hallam, "he doesn't seem to realize the fact. He's calling you about everything."

"He can keep that up," flashed Dave, "until his toothache leaves him. Then, if he tries to carry it any further, Pen will collide with one of my fists!"

Not much later a call sounded summoning the youngsters to the midshipmen's mess. Dave was glad to note that Pennington sat at some distance from him at table.

While the meal was in progress the "Massachusetts" and the other battleships got under way. The midshipmen were on deck, an hour later, when the fleet came to anchor for the night, some miles down Chesapeake Bay.

Before the youngsters were ordered to their berths that night Third Classman Pennington had found opportunity to do a good deal of talking to a few comrades who would listen to him.

Pennington was determined to stir up a hornet's nest for Dave Darrin.



Chapter III


Midshipman Pennington Goes Too Far

At eight o'clock the following morning the various sections were formed and marched to the deck.

Dave reported:

"All present, sir."

The chief electrician was now summoned, and to him the section was turned over. This young man, Whittam, by name, was an enlisted man, but a bright young sample of what the Navy can do for the boy who enlists as an apprentice.

"You will take your orders from Mr. Whittam as though he were an officer," directed the officer, his words intended for all members of the section, though he looked only at Darrin.

Dave saluted, then, as Chief Electrician Whittam turned to lead the way, Dave called quietly:

"Section, left wheel -- march!"

They followed Whittam down into the dynamo room, an interesting spot for a machinist.

"It's fine," muttered Dan, as he stared about him at the bright metal work, the switch-board and the revolving machines. "But I'm afraid I couldn't learn the use and sense of all this in five years."

"Silence in the section," commanded Dave, turning around upon his chum.

Whittam now began a short, preliminary talk upon the subjects in which the midshipmen would be required to qualify.

"One of the first and most important requests I have to make," said Whittam presently, "is that none of you touch the switches, except by direction. None of you can guess the harm that might follow the careless and ignorant handling of a switch."

"It's pretty cheeky for an enlisted man to talk to midshipmen about ignorance," whispered Pennington to Farley.

"Oh, I don't know -- " Farley started to reply, but Darrin's quiet voice broke in with authority:

"Cease talking in section."

Farley knew this to be a merited rebuke, and accepted it as such, but Pennington's face went violently red.

"Confound that grease-spot-chaser," growled Pen. "He'll be bound to take it out of me as long as the cruise lasts. But I'll get even with him. No cheap greaser is going to ride over me!"

That morning none of the midshipmen were called upon to handle any of the fascinating-looking machinery. Nearly the whole of this tour of practical instruction was taken up by the remarks of the chief electrician. As he spoke, Whittam moved over to one piece or another of mechanism and explained its uses. Finally, he began to question the attentive young men, to see how much of his instruction they had absorbed.

"This is a shame, to set an enlisted man up over us as quiz-master, just to see how little we know," growled Pennington; but this time he had the good sense not to address his remark to anyone.

Pennington was not yet in good shape, after his harrowing experiences of the day before.

Ere the tour of instruction was over, he began to shift somewhat uneasily.

Then his attention began to wander.

A brilliantly shining brass rod near him caught his eye. Something about the glossy metal fascinated him.

Once or twice Pen put out his hand to touch the rod, but as quickly reconsidered and drew back his hand.

At last, however, the temptation proved too strong. He slid one hand along the rail.

"Here, sir, don't handle that!" rasped in the voice of Whittam.

Pennington drew back his hand, a flush mounting to his face.

"The fellow has no right to talk to a midshipman in that fashion!" quivered Pennington to himself. "But it was the fault of that low-minded greaser Darrin, anyway. Darrin saw me, and he glanced swiftly at the chief electrician to draw attention to me."

It is only just to Pennington to state that he actually believed he had seen Dave do this. Darrin, however, was not guilty of the act. He had in no way sought to direct attention at Pennington.

Towards the close of the tour the officer in whose department this instruction fell passed through the dynamo room.

"Are there any breaches of conduct to be reported, Whittam?" inquired the officer, halting.

"Nothing worth mentioning, sir," replied the chief electrician.

"I asked you, Whittam, whether there had been any breaches of conduct," retorted the officer with some asperity.

"One midshipman, sir, after having been instructed to touch nothing, rested his hand on one of the brass rods."

"His name?"

"I don't know the names of many of the young gentlemen yet, sir, so I don't know the particular midshipman's name, sir."

"Then point him out to me," insisted the officer.

There was hardly any need to do so. Pennington's face, flushed with mortification, was sufficient identification. But the chief electrician stepped over, halting in front of the hapless one, and said:

"This is the young gentleman, sir."

"Your name, sir?" demanded the officer.

"Pennington, sir."

"Mr. Pennington, you will place yourself on the report, sir, for disobedience of orders," commanded the officer. "Is this the only case, Whittam?"

"The only case, sir."

The officer passed out of the dynamo room, leaving the unlucky one more than ever angry with Darrin, whom he incorrectly charged with his present trouble.

The recall sounding, Dave turned to Whittam, saying crisply but pleasantly:

"Thank you for our instruction."

"He's thanking the fellow for my new scrape," growled Pennington inwardly.

Dave marched his section back to deck and dismissed it. Dan Dalzell, as section leader in steam instruction, immediately re-formed it.

"You will report in the engine-room, Mr. Dalzell, to Lieutenant-Commander Forman, who is chief engineer of this ship. He will assign you to an instructor."

"Aye, aye, sir," Dan replied, saluting. "Section, right wheel -- march!"

Dan already knew where, down in the bowels of the great battleship, to find the engine room.

Reaching that department, Dan halted his section.

"Section all present, sir," reported Dan, saluting a strange officer, who, however, wore the insignia of a lieutenant-commander.

"Your name, sir?" inquired the officer.

"Dalzell, sir."

"Let your section break ranks. Then you may all follow me, and keep your eyes open, for you will go through one or two dark places."

"Aye, aye, sir. Section break ranks."

Lieutenant-Commander Forman led the way, with all the members of the section wondering what was to be the nature of their first day's work in the engineer department.

Descending lower into the ship, the chief engineer led the young middies over a grating, and paused at the head of an iron ladder.

"Pass down in orderly fashion, single file," directed the chief engineer, halting. "When at the foot of this ladder, cross a grating to port side, and then descend a second ladder, which you will find."

All the midshipmen went down the first ladder in silence. Dan, who had preceded the others, crossed the grating and found the second ladder.

Once more these youngsters descended. Pennington, as though by mere accident, succeeded in following Dave Darrin down the ladder.

Just as they were near the bottom Dave felt a foot descend upon his shoulder, almost with a kick, and then rest there with a crushing pressure.

It hurt keenly until Darrin was able to dodge out from under and hurriedly reach the bottom.

"Pardon, whoever you are," came a gruff voice.

Dave, with his shoulder crippled a good deal, and paining keenly, halted as soon as his foot had touched bottom. It was dark down there, though some reflected light came from an incandescent light at a distance.

Dave waited, to peer into the face of the man who had stepped on his shoulder.

It was Pennington, of course!

"I'll take pains not to go down ahead of you again, or to follow you up a ladder," grunted Darrin suspiciously.

"Oh, are you the man on whose shoulder my foot rested?" asked Pennington, with apparent curiosity.

"Didn't you know it!" questioned Darrin, looking straight into the other's eyes.

Instead of answering intelligibly, Pennington turned and walked away a few feet.

"Perhaps that fellow thinks he's going to vent his spite on me in a lot of petty ways," murmured Dave. "If that is the idea he has in his head, he's going to wake up one of these days!"

Following the last midshipman came Lieutenant-Commander Forman.

"After me, gentlemen," directed the chief engineer. He turned down a narrow passage, only a few feet long, and came out in the furnace room.

Here huge fires glowed through the furnace doors. Four of the Navy's firemen stood resting on their shovels. Instantly, on perceiving the chief engineer, however, the men stood at attention.

"Pass the word for the chief water tender," ordered the engineer, turning to one of the firemen.

The messenger soon came back with a pleasant-faced, stalwart man of forty.

"Heistand," ordered the chief engineer, "give these members of the first section, third: class, steam instruction, a thorough drill in firing."

"Aye, aye, sir," replied the chief water tender, saluting.

"Heistand's orders are mine, Mr. Dalzell," continued the lieutenant-commander, facing Dan. "Preserve order in your section."

"Aye, aye, sir," replied Dan, saluting. Acknowledging this courtesy in kind, the chief engineer turned and left the furnace room.

Heistand was presumably of German parentage, though he had no accent. He struck the midshipmen as being a pleasant, wholesome fellow, though the water tenders and firemen of the "Massachusetts" knew that he could be extremely strict and grim at need.

"You will now, young gentlemen," began Heistand, "proceed to learn all about priming a furnace, lighting, building, cleaning and generally taking care of a fire. Two furnaces have been left idle for this instruction."

But two of the regular firemen now remained in the room. These were ordered to hustle out coal before boilers B and D. Then Heistand taught the members of the section how to swing a shovel to the best advantage so as to get in a maximum of coal with the least effort. He also illustrated two or three incorrect ways of shoveling coal.

"The idea of making coal heavers out of us!" growled a much-disgusted voice.

Dan did not see who the speaker was, but his eyes flashed as he turned and rasped out:

"Silence in the section! Speak only to ask for information, and then at the proper time."

"Another young autocrat!" muttered a voice.

"Wait one moment, please, Heistand," begged Dan. Then, wheeling squarely about, and facing all the members of the section, he declared with emphasis:

"If there's any more unauthorized talking I shall feel obliged to pass the word above that discipline is in a bad way in this section."

Then he wheeled about once more, facing the chief water tender.

"Now, young gentlemen," resumed the chief water tender, "take your shovels and fill in lively under boilers B and D."

Three or four times Heistand checked one or another of the midshipmen, to show him a more correct way of handling the shovel. Yet, in good time, both furnaces were primed.

"Now, Mr. Dalzell, please detail four members of the section to follow me with their shovels and bring red coals from under another boiler."

Dan appointed himself, Darrin, Farley and Pennington.

Burning coals were brought and thrown into each furnace, and in a little while roaring fires were going. These, though not needed for the handling of the battleship, were permitted to burn for a while, Heistand explaining to the section practically the uses of the water gauges and the test cocks. By this time the midshipmen's white working clothes were liberally sprinkled with coal dust and somewhat smeared with oils.

"And now, young gentlemen, as we have no further use for these fires, you will next learn how to haul them," announced Heistand.

This was interesting work, but hot and fast. The implements with which the middies worked soon became red-hot at the end. Yet, as all entered into this novel work with zest, the fires had soon been hauled out on to the floor plates.

Just as the last of this work was being done Pennington, as an apparent accident due to excess of zeal, dropped the red-hot end of his implement across the toe of Darrin's left shoe.

In an instant the leather began to blaze. With swift presence of mind Dave stepped his right foot on the flame, smothering it at once.

But he was "mad clean through."

"See here, Pen," he muttered, in a low voice, his eyes blazing fiercely into the other midshipman's, "that is the last piece of impudence that will be tolerated from you."

Midshipman Pennington's lip curled disdainfully.

Dan had not seen the "accident," but he was near enough to hear the talking, and he caught Dave at it. So Dan ordered, impartially:

"Mr. Darrin, you will place yourself on report for unauthorized talking in section!"

Dave flushed still more hotly, but said nothing.

Midshipman Dalzell now marched the section from the furnace room, and dismissed it. It was near noon, and would soon be time for the middies to eat.

Dave hurried away, washed, changed his uniform, and then stepped away swiftly to place himself on the report.

"I was sorry to do that, old chum," murmured Dan, as he met Dave returning. "But of course I couldn't play favorites. What made you so far forget yourself?"

"A something that would have had the same effect on you," retorted Dave grimly. Thereupon he described Pennington's two underhanded assaults that morning.

"Humph!" muttered Dalzell. "That fellow Pen is bound to go the whole limit with you."

"He won't go much further," declared Dave, his eyes flashing.

"And the chump ought to know it, too," mused Dan. "The class history of the last year should have taught him that. But see here, Dave, I don't believe Pen will do anything openly. He will construct a series of plausible accidents."

"There will be one thing about him that will be open, if he goes any further," retorted Dave, "and that will be his face when he collides with my fist."

"I hope I see that when it happens," grinned Dalzell. "It's bound to be entertaining!"

"Wait a second, then. Here comes Pennington now," murmured Dave Darrin in an undertone.

Pennington, in his immaculate blue uniform, like the chums, came strolling along the passageway between decks.

He affected not to see the chums, and would have passed by. But Dave, eyeing him closely, waited until Pen was barely three feet away. Then Darrin said tersely:

"Mr. Pennington, I wish an understanding with you."

"I don't want any with you," replied Pennington insolently, as he stared at Dave from under much-raised eyebrows. He would have gone by, but Dave sprang squarely in front of him.

"Just wait a moment!" warned Dave rather imperiously, for he was aglow with justifiable indignation.

"Well?" demanded Pennington halting. "Out with it, whatever you may think you have to say."

"I have two things to speak about," replied Dave, trying to control his voice. "In the first place, while going down the ladders to the furnaces this morning, you stepped on my shoulder."

"Well!" insisted Pennington coldly.

"The second thing you did was, when hauling the fires, to drop red-hot metal across one of my shoes, setting it on fire."

"Well?" insisted Pennington more coldly.

"If you mean to contend that either one was an accident," resumed Dave, "then -- "

But he found himself obliged to pause for a moment in order to steady his voice.

"Well?" asked Pennington with more insolence than ever.

"If you make such pretense in either case," tittered Dave Darrin, "then you're a liar!"

"Fellow!" sputtered Pennington, turning white with anger.

"I mean what I say, and I can back it up," muttered Darrin.

"Then I'll make you eat your words!" roared Pennington.

Clenching his fists and with the boxer's attitude, Pen aimed two swift blows at Darrin.

Neither blow reached, however, for Dave dodged out of the way. Then Darrin struck back, a straight, true, forceful blow that landed on the other midshipman's nose, knocking him down.

Pennington staggered somewhat when he rose, but he was quickly up, none the less, and ready for anything that might happen.

All of a sudden Dan Dalzell felt his own heart going down into his shoes. One of the ship's officers had just entered the passageway, in time to see what was going on.



Chapter IV


A Little Meeting Ashore

"Stop it, both of you," whispered Dan.

"Stand at attention, ready to salute the officer."

Pennington, with the blood flowing from his damaged nose, would have made a most ludicrous figure saluting!

The instant that he saw such evidence as Pen's nose presented the officer would be bound to make inquiries.

Then, just as surely, his next step must be to Border the three before the commandant of midshipmen.

Fighting carries with it a severe penalty. Even Dan was certain to be reported, through the mere fact of his presence there, as aiding in a fight. And those who aid are punished as severely as the principals themselves.

It was a tense, fearsome instant, for midshipmen have been dismissed from the Naval Academy for this very offense.

The passage was not brilliantly lighted.

The on-coming officer, a lieutenant, junior grade, was looking at the floor as he came along.

Suddenly he paused, seemed lost in thought, then wheeled and walked back whence he had come.

Dan breathed more easily. Dave heaved a sigh of relief.

As for Pennington, that midshipman had wheeled and was stealing rapidly down the passageway, intent only on escape.

"That was the closest squeak we'll ever have without being ragged cold," murmured Dalzell tremulously.

"Where is Pennington?" demanded Dave, wheeling about after he had watched the Naval lieutenant out of sight.

"Ducked out of sight, like a submarine," chuckled Dan.

At that moment the call for midshipmen's dinner formation sounded. Dave and Dan were ready.

Pennington showed up just after the line had started to march into the midshipmen's mess tables.

To the inquiry of the officer in charge, Pen lamely explained that he had bumped his nose into something hard in a poorly lighted passageway.

Though the officer accepted the excuse, he smiled within himself.

"It wasn't iron or steel that bumped that young man's nose," thought the officer.

"Oh, the middies haven't changed a lot since I boned at Annapolis!"

Pennington's nose was no very lovely member of his face at that moment. It had been struck hard, mashed rather flat, and now looked like a red bulb.

"Meet with an accident, Pen?" asked Hallam curiously at table.

"Quit your kidding, please," requested Pennington sulkily.

That directed the curious glances of other middies at Pennington's new bulbous nose.

The young man was so brusque about it, however, that other table mates ceased quizzing him.

Yet, as soon as the meal was over, many a youngster asked others of his class for news regarding Pen. But none possessed it.

During the brief rest that followed the meal, however, Midshipman Pennington made it his business to try to meet Dave Darrin alone. He succeeded, finding Dave staring off across the water at the port rail.

"Of course, Mr. Darrin," began the other midshipman, in a voice suggestive of ice, "you are aware that the incident of an hour ago cannot be allowed to pass unnoticed."

"I don't believe there's any danger of that," retorted Darrin, with an ironical glance at Pennington's damaged-looking nose.

"Confound you, sir," hissed the other midshipman, "don't you dare to be insolent with me."

"Why, I had thought," observed Dave, "that, of your own choice, the period of courtesies between us had passed."

"I shall call you out, Mr. Darrin!"

"You'll find my hearing excellent," smiled Dave. "I shall make but one stipulation."

"I'll do you the favor of asking what that stipulation is," sneered Pennington.

"Why, after the narrow escape we had from being caught and reported, an hour or so ago, I shall ask that the fight be held where we are not so likely to be caught at it. I don't care about being dropped from the Naval Academy, nor do I believe you do."

"It would be a good thing for the service, if one of us were to be dropped," sneered Pennington.

"Yes! Oh, well, you can easily procure writing materials from the captain's clerk," volunteered Dave generously. "On a cruise, I believe, a resignation is sent direct to the commandant of midshipmen."

This ridicule served only to fan the flame of Pennington's wrath.

"Darrin," he hissed, "the Academy isn't big enough to hold us both!"

"But I've already told you how to get out," protested Dave coolly.

"I don't intend to get out!"

"No more do I," rejoined Dave. "I won't even toss pennies with you to find out who quits the service."

"Mr. Darrin, you are merely seeking to divert my mind from what I have said."

"What did you say -- particularly?"

"That you would have to fight me."

"I have already signified my entire willingness, Mr. Pennington. To that I really can add nothing."

Fourth classmen are always addressed as "mister," and they must use the same "handle to the name" when addressing upper classmen. But members of the three upper classes resort to the use of "mister," in addressing classmates, only when they wish to be offensive or nearly so.

"I will send a friend to meet you," Pennington continued.

"Why, I thought," bantered Darrin ironically, "that you were going to fight me yourself."

"So I am -- be sure of it. I will amend my statement by saying that I will send a second to see you."

"Save time by sending him to Dalzell."

"Very good, Mr. Darrin."

"Is that all you wished to say to me?"

"Yes."

"Very good, Mr. Pennington."

With two very stiff nods the midshipmen parted.

Pennington hastened at once in search of Hallam.

"Will you serve me, old man?" queried Pennington.

"Sorry, but --  -- "

"Well, you see, Pen, not knowing all the facts of the case, I must admit that all my sympathies are with Darrin."

"All your sympathies?" echoed Pen, frowning.

"Well, nearly all, anyway. You see, I've known and observed Darrin for a full year now, and I don't believe patient old Darry is the one to start any trouble."

"He called me a liar," protested Pennington.

"Did he?" gasped Hallam.

"Well, he qualified the statement, but his way of saying it was as offensive as the direct lie could have been."

"So you're bent on fighting Darry?"

"I am."

"Too bad!" muttered Hallam, shaking his head.

"Are you anxious for your idol?" asked Pen in a disagreeable tone.

"No, Penny; it's you that I'm concerned about in my own mind. You're going next to a very hard proposition. Darry is patient -- almost as patient as the proverbial camel -- but when he fights he fights! You'll be hammered to a pulp, Pen."

"Pooh!"

"No one has yet beaten Darrin at a fist fight."

"There always has to be a first time, you know."

"And you think you're It?"

"As far as Darrin is concerned -- yes."

"Too bad -- too bad!" sighed Hallam. "I'm afraid, Penny, that the heat in the furnace room was too much for you this morning."

"Then you won't serve as one of my seconds?"

"The honor is most regretfully declined," replied Hallam in a tone of mock sadness.

"You want to see Darrin win?"

"If there has to be a fight, I do," replied Midshipman Hallam.

"Don't bet your money on him, anyway."

"I'm not a gambler, Penny, and I don't bet," replied Hallam, with a dignity that, somehow, ended the conversation.

Pennington had considerable difficulty, at first, in finding a second. At last, however, he induced Decker and Briggs to represent him.

These two midshipmen went to see Dan Dalzell.

"Wait until I send for Mr. Farley," proposed Dalzell. He soon had that midshipman, who was wholly willing to serve Darrin in any capacity.

"We're ready to have the fight this evening," proposed Midshipman Decker.

"We're not," retorted Dan, with vigor.

"Why not?"

"This forenoon Pennington deliberately stepped on Darrin's shoulder, with such force as to lame it a good deal," replied Dan. "Our man insists that he has a right to rest his shoulder, and to wait until to-morrow."

"But to-morrow we have a short shore liberty at Hampton Roads," remonstrated Briggs.

"Yes; and during that shore liberty we can have the fight more safely than on board ship," insisted Dalzell.

"But we intended to devote our shore leave to pleasure," objected Decker.

"You'll find plenty of pleasure, if you accept our proposition," urged Dan dryly. "At any rate, we won't hear of Darrin fighting before to-morrow. He must have to-night to rest that shoulder."

"All right; so be it," growled Decker, after a side glance at Briggs.

"On shore, at some point to be selected by the seconds?" asked Dan Dalzell.

"Yes; that's agreed."

Details as to whom to invite as referee and time-keeper were also arranged.

"I suppose we'll have to use up our shore leave that way, then," grunted Pennington, when told of the arrangement.

"There's one way you can save the day," grinned Decker.

"How?"

"Put Darrin to sleep in the first round, then hurriedly dress and leave, and enjoy your time on shore."

"But Darrin is a very able man with his fists," observed Pennington.

"Yes; but you're a mile bigger and heavier, and you're spry, too. You ought to handle him with all the ease in the world."

"I don't know," muttered Pennington, who didn't intend to make the mistake of bragging in advance. "I'll do my best, of course."

"Oh, you'll win out, if you're awake," predicted Midshipman Briggs confidently.

When the cadets were called, the following morning, they found the battleship fleet at anchor in Hampton Roads.



Chapter V


When The Seconds Wondered

One after another the launches sped ashore, carrying their swarms of distinguished looking young midshipmen.

The fight party managed to get off all in the same boat, and on one of the earliest trips.

Pennington was to have ordinary shore leave on the cruise, his fifty demerits to be paid for by loss of privileges on his return to the Naval Academy.

"Decker," proposed Dan, "you and I can skip away and find a good place in no time. Then we can come back after the others."

"That's agreeable to me," nodded Midshipman Decker.

In twenty minutes the two seconds were back.

"We've found just the place," announced Decker. "And it isn't more than three minutes' walk from here. Will you all hurry along?"

"The place" turned out to be a barn that had not been used for a year or more. The floor was almost immaculately clean. In consideration of two dollars handed him, the owner had agreed to display no curiosity, and not to mention the affair to any one.

"How do you like it, Darry?" asked Dan anxiously.

"It will suit me as well as any other place," responded Dave, slipping off his blouse, folding it neatly and putting it aside, his uniform cap following.

"And you?" asked Decker of his man.

"The floor's hard, but I don't expect to be the man to hit it," replied Pennington.

In five minutes both midshipmen were attired for their "affair." Between them the different members of the party had smuggled ashore shoes, old trousers and belts for the fighters.

It being a class affair, Remington, of the third class, had come along as referee, while Dawley; was to be the time-keeper.

"If the principals are ready, let them step forward," ordered Midshipman Remington, going to the middle of the floor. "Now, I understand that this is to be a finish fight; rounds, two minutes; rests, two minutes. I also understand that the principals do not care to shake hands before the call to mix up."

Darrin and Pennington nodded their assent.

"Take your places, gentlemen," ordered the referee quickly. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"

"Yes," came from both principals.

"Time!"

Both men had their guards up. As the word left the referee's lips each tried two or three passes which the other blocked. Midshipman Pennington was trying to take his opponent's "measure."

Then Dave ducked, darted, dodged and wheeled about. Pennington had to follow him, and it made the latter angry.

"Stand up and fight, can't you," hissed Pen.

"Silence during the rounds, Mr. Pennington," admonished the referee quietly. "Let the officials do all the talking that may be necessary."

Dave, as he dodged again, and came up unscathed, grinned broadly over this rebuke. That grin made Pen angrier than anything else could have done.

"I'll wipe that grin off his face!" muttered Pennington angrily.

And this very thing Pennington tried hard to do. He was quick on his own feet, and for a few seconds he followed the dodging Darrin about, raining in blows that required all of Dave's adroitness to escape.

Dave's very success, however, made his opponent all the angrier. From annoyance, followed by excessive irritation, Pennington went into almost blind rage -- and the man who does that, anywhere in life, must always pay for it.

Suddenly Dave swung his right in on the point of Pen's chin with a force that jolted the larger midshipman. As part of the same movement, Darrin's left crashed against Pennington's nose.

Then, out of chivalry, Dave dropped back, to give Pen a few moments, in case he needed them, to get his wits back.

"Time!" roared Dawley, and Pennington's seconds pounced upon him and bore him away to his corner.

"Now I know how that fellow Darrin wins his fights," growled Pennington in an undertone. "He keeps on running away until he has the other man gasping for breath. Then Darrin jumps in and wins."

"The method doesn't much matter," commented Briggs dryly, as he and Decker worked over their man. "It's the result that counts. Rush Darry into a tight corner, Pen, and then slam him hard and sufficiently."

"Thanks, fellows; now I'm all right for the second round." muttered Midshipman Pennington.

In a few seconds more Dave and his opponent were hard at work.

Dave still used his footwork, and most cleverly. Yet, wherever he went, Pen followed him nimbly. It didn't look so one sided now.

Then Pennington, at last, managed to deliver one blow on Darrin's right short ribs. It took a lot of Dave's spare wind; he raced about, seeking to regain his wind before allowing close quarters. But at last Pennington closed in again, and, after a swift feint, tried to land the same short-rib blow.

Darrin was watching, and blocked. Then, his temples reddening with anger, Dave swung in a huge one that crashed in under Pennington's right ear.

"Time!" shouted Dawley, just as Pen went to the floor in a heap. That saved the larger midshipman from having to take the count. His seconds had him ready at the call for the third round.

Now, suddenly, Darrin seemed to change not only his tactics, but his whole personality. To his opponent Dave seemed suddenly transformed into a dancing demon.

It was about the same old footwork, but it was aggressive now, instead of being defensive.

First, Dave landed a light tap on the already suffering nose. A few seconds later he landed on the point of Pen's chin, though not hard enough to send his man down. Then a rather light blow on the jaw, just under Pen's right ear again. The larger midshipman was now thoroughly alarmed. He feared that Darrin could do whatever he willed, and shivered with wonder as to when the knockout blow would come.

The truth was, Pennington was still putting up a better battle than he himself realized, and Darrin was not disposed to take any foolish chances through rushing the affair. Thus, the third round ended.

By the time that they came up for the fourth round, after both men had undergone some vigorous handling by their respective seconds, Pennington was a good deal revived and far more confident.

Dave's tactics were the same in the fourth round. Pennington didn't find time to develop much in the way of tactics for himself, save to defend himself.

During the first minute no important blows were landed on either side. Then, suddenly, Dave darted in and under, and brought a right-arm hook against Pen's nose in a way that started that member to bleeding again, and with a steady flow.

That jarred the larger midshipman. He plunged in, heavily and blindly, blocking one of Darrin's blows by wrapping both arms around him.

"None of that, Mr. Pennington! Break away fast!" ordered Midshipman Remington quickly.

Dave took a fair get away, not attempting to strike as the clinch was broken. But an instant later Dave came back, dancing all around his dazed opponent, landing on the short ribs, on the breast bone, under either ear and finally on the tip of the chin.

Pen was sure that none of these blows had been delivered with the force that Darrin could have sent in.

"Time!" shouted Midshipman Dawley.

The principals retired to their corners, Pennington almost wholly afraid from the conviction that his antagonist was now merely playing with him to keep the interest going.

So Pennington was still rather badly scared when the two came together for the fifth round.

"Get lively, now, gentlemen, if you can," begged Referee Remington. "Finish this one way or the other, and let us get some of the benefits of our shore leave."

Pen started by putting more steam behind every blow. Dave, who had used up so much of his wind by his brilliant footwork, began to find it harder to keep the upper hand.

Twice, however, he managed to land body blows. He was trying to drive in a third when Pennington blocked, following this with a left-arm jab on Darrin's left jaw that sent the lighter man to the floor.

Instantly Dawley began to count off the seconds.

" -- seven, eight, nine, te --  -- "

Dave was up on his feet. Pen tried to make a quick rush, but Darrin dodged cleverly, them wheeled and faced his opponent as the latter wheeled about.

After that there was less footwork. Both men stood up to it, as keenly alert as they could be, each trying to drive home heavy blows. While they were still at it the call of time sounded.

"Don't let him put it over you, David, little giant!" warned Dan, as the latter and Farley vigorously massaged Darrin's muscles. "He all but had you, and there isn't any need of making Pen a present of the meeting."

"I tried to get him," muttered Dave in an undertone, "and I shall go on trying to the last. But Pennington is pretty nearly superior to anyone in my class."

"Just waltz in and show him," whispered Dalzell, as the call sounded.

Pennington entered the sixth round with more confidence. He began, at the outset, to drive in heavy blows, nor did Dave do much dodging.

Bump! Twenty-five seconds only of this round had gone when Darrin landed his right fist with fearful force upon the high point of Pennington's jaw.

Down went the larger midshipman again. This time he moaned. His eyes were open, though they had a somewhat glassy look in them.

Dawley was counting off the seconds in measured tones.

" -- seven, eight, nine -- ten!"

Pen had struggled to rise to his feet, but sank back with a gasp of despair and rage.

"Mr. Pennington loses the count and the fight," announced Referee Remington coolly. "I don't believe we're needed here, Dawley. The seconds can handle the wreck. Come along."

As the two officials of the meeting hustled out of the barn, Dalzell gave his attention to helping his chum, while Farley went over to offer his services in getting the vanquished midshipman into shape.

"There were times when I could have closed both of Pennington's eyes," murmured Dave to Dan. "But I didn't want to give him any disfiguring marks that would start questions on board ship."

"You had him whipped from the start," murmured Dan confidently, as he sprayed, then rubbed Dave's chest and arms.

"Maybe, but I'm not so sure of that," rejoined Darrin. "That fellow isn't so easy a prize for any one in my class. There were times when I was all but convinced that he had me."

"Oh, fairy tales!" grunted Dan.

"Have it your own way, then, Danny boy!"

When Darrin and his seconds left the barn they went off to enjoy what remained of the shore leave. Pennington's seconds finally, at his own request, left him at an ice cream parlor, where he proposed to remain until he could return to the big, steel "Massachusetts" without exciting any wonder over the little time he had remained ashore. Pennington had strength to walk about, but he was far from being in really good shape, and preferred to keep quiet.



Chapter VI


In Trouble On Foreign Soil

From Hampton Roads the Battleship Squadron, with the midshipmen on board, sailed directly for Plymouth, England.

During most of the voyage over slow cruising speed was used. By the time that England's coast was sighted the third-class middies found they knew much more about a battleship than they had believed to be possible at the start of the voyage.

They had served as firemen; they had mastered many of the electrical details of a battleship; they had received instruction and had "stood trick" by the engines; there had been some drill with the smaller, rapid-fire guns, and finally, they had learned at least the rudiments of "wig-wagging," as signaling by means of signal flags is termed.

It was just before the call to supper formation when England's coast loomed up. Most of the midshipmen stood at the rail, watching eagerly for a better glimpse at the coast.

Some of the midshipmen, especially those who came from wealthier families, had been in England before entering the Naval Academy. These fortunate ones were questioned eagerly by their comrades.

The battleships were well in sight of Eastern King Point when the midshipmen's call for supper formation sounded. Feeling that they would much have preferred to wait for their supper, the young men hastened below.

After the line was formed it seemed to the impatient young men as though it had never taken so long to read the orders.

Yet there came one welcome order, to the effect that, immediately after the morning meal, all midshipmen might go to the pay officer and draw ten dollars, to be charged against their pay accounts.

"That ten dollars apiece looms up large David, little giant," murmured Dan Dalzell, while the evening meal was in progress.

"We ought to have a lot of fun on it," replied Darrin, who was looking forward with greatest eagerness to his first visit to any foreign soil. "But how much shore leave are we to have?"

"Two days, the word is. We'll get it straight in the morning, at breakfast formation."

In defiance of regulations, Midshipman Pennington, whose father was wealthy, had several hundred dollars concealed in his baggage. He had already invited Hallam, Mossworth and Dickey to keep in his wake on shore, and these young men had gladly enough agreed.

"Say, but we're slackening speed!" quivered Dalzell, when the meal was nearly finished.

"Headway has stopped," declared Darrin a few moments later.

"Listen, everyone!" called Farley. "Don't you hear the rattle of the anchor chains?"

"Gentlemen, as we're forbidden to make too much racket," proposed irrepressible Dan, "let us give three silent cheers for Old England!"

Rising in his place, Dan raised his hand aloft, and brought it down, as his lips silently formed a "hurrah!"

Three times this was done, each time the lips of the midshipmen forming a silent cheer.

Then Dan, with a mighty swoop of his right arm, let his lips form the word that everyone knew to be "tiger!"

"Ugh-h-h!" groaned Midshipman Reilly.

"Throw that irresponsible Fenian out!" directed Dan, grinning.

Then the midshipmen turned their attention to the remnants of the meal.

Boom! sounded sharply overhead.

"There goes the twenty-one-gunner," announced Darrin.

When a foreign battleship enters a fortified port the visiting fleet, or rather, its flagship, fires a national salute of twenty-one guns. After a short interval following the discharge of the last gun, one of the forts on shore answers with twenty-one guns. This is one of the methods of observing the courtesies between nations by their respective fleets.

Ere all the guns had been fired from the flagship, the third classmen received the rising signal; the class marched out and was dismissed. Instantly a break was made for deck.

The midshipmen were in good time to see the smoke and hear the roar of guns from one of the forts on shore.

In the morning the commandant of cadets, as commanding officer of the squadron, would go ashore with his aide and pay a formal call to the senior military officer. Later in the day that English officer and one or two of his staff officers would return the call by coming out to the flagship. That accomplished, all the required courtesies would have been observed.

It was still broad daylight, for in summer the English twilight is a long one, and darkness does not settle down until late.

"Oh, if we were only going ashore to-night!" murmured Hallam. There were many others to echo the thought, but all knew that it could not be done.

"Couldn't we find a trick for slipping ashore after lights out?" eagerly queried Dickey, who was not noted as a "greaser."

"Could we?" quivered Hallam, who, with few demerits against him, felt inclined to take a chance.

But Pennington, to whom he appealed, shook his head.

"Too big a risk, Hally," replied Pen. "And trebly dangerous, with that greaser, Darrin, in the class."

"Oh, stow that," growled Hallam. "Darrin is no greaser. You've got him on your black books -- that's all."

"He is a greaser, I tell you," cried Pennington fiercely.

There were a score of midshipmen in this group, and many of them nodded approvingly at Pennington's statement. Though still a class leader, Dave had lost some of his popularity since his report to the police of Annapolis.

So the middies turned in, that night, with unsatisfied dreams of shore life in England.

Soon after breakfast the next morning, however, every midshipman had drawn his ten dollars, even to Pennington, who had no use for such a trifling amount.

As fast as possible the launches ranged alongside at the side gangway, taking off groups of midshipmen, everyone of whom had been cautioned to be at dock in time to board a launch in season for supper formation.

Pennington and his party were among the first to land. They hurried away.

It was on the second trip of one of the launches that Dave, Dan and Farley made their get away. These three chums had agreed to stick together during the day. They landed at the Great Western Docks, to find themselves surrounded by eager British cabbies.

"Are we going to take a cab and get more quickly and intelligently to the best part of the town to see?" asked Farley.

"I don't vote for it," replied Darrin. "We have only five dollars apiece for each of the two days we're to be ashore. I move that we put in the forenoon, anyway, in prowling about the town for ourselves. We'll learn more than we would by riding."

"Come on, then," approved Dan.

Plymouth is an old-fashioned English seaport that has been rather famous ever since the thirteenth century. Many parts of the town, including whole streets, look as though the houses had been built since that time. This is especially true of many of the streets near the water front.

For two hours the three middies roamed through the streets, often meeting fellow classmen. Wherever the young midshipmen went many of the English workmen and shopkeepers raised their hats in friendly salute of the American uniform.

"We don't seem to run across Pen's gang anywhere," remarked Farley at last.

"Oh, no," smiled Dave. "That's a capitalistic crowd. They'll hit only the high spots."

Nevertheless, these three poor-in-purse midshipmen enjoyed themselves hugely in seeing the quaint old town. At noon they found a real old English chop house, where they enjoyed a famous meal.

"I wish we could slip some of these little mutton pies back with us!" sighed Dan wistfully.

In the afternoon the three chums saw the newer market place, where all three bought small souvenirs for their mothers at home. Darrin also secured a little remembrance present for his sweetheart, Belle Meade.

The guild hall and some of the other famous buildings were visited.

Later in the afternoon Dave began to inspect his watch every two or three minutes.

"No need for us to worry, with Dave's eye glued to his watch," laughed Dan.

"Come on, fellows," summoned Darrin finally. "We haven't more than time now to make the dock and get back to supper formation."

"Take a cab?" asked Farley. "You know, we've found that they're vastly cheaper than American cabs."

"No-o-o, not for me," decided Dave. "We'll need the rest of our shore money to-morrow, and our legs are good and sturdy."

Yet even careful Dave, as it turned out, had allowed no more than time. The chums reached the dock in time to see the launches half way between the fleet and shore. Some forty other midshipmen stood waiting on the dock.

Among these were Pennington and his party, all looking highly satisfied with their day's sport, as indeed they were.

Pennington's eyes gleamed when he caught sight of Darrin, Dalzell and Farley -- for Pen had a scheme of his own in mind.

Not far from Pennington stood a little Englishman with keen eyes and a jovial face. Pen stepped over to him.

"There are the three midshipmen I was telling you about," whispered Pennington, slipping a half sovereign into the Englishman's hand. "You thoroughly understand your part in the joke, don't you?"

"Don't h'I, though -- just, sir!" laughed the undersized Englishman, and strolled away.

Darrin and his friends were soon informed by classmates that the launches now making shore-ward were coming in on their last trip for midshipmen.

"Well, we're here in plenty of time," sighed Dave contentedly.

"Oh, I knew we'd be, with you holding the watch," laughed Dan in his satisfied way.

As the three stood apart they were joined by the undersized Englishman, who touched his hat to them with a show of great respect.

"Young gentlemen," he inquired, "h'I suppose, h'of course, you've 'ad a look h'at the anchor h'of Sir Francis Drake's flagship, the time 'e went h'out h'and sank the great Spanish h'Armada?"

"Why, no, my friend," replied Dave, looking at the man with interest. "Is that here at Plymouth?"

"H'assuredly, sir. H'and h'only a minute's walk h'over to that shed yonder, sir. H'if you'll come with me, young gentlemen, h'I'll show h'it to you. H'it's one of h'our biggest sights, h'and it's in me own custody, at present. Come this way, young gentlemen."

"That sounds like something worth seeing," declared Dave to his comrades. "Come along. It'll take the launches at least six minutes to get in, and then they'll stay tied up here for another five minutes."

With only a single backward glance at the young midshipmen, the undersized Englishman was already leading the way.

At quickened pace the young midshipmen reached the shed that had been indicated. Their guide had already drawn a key from a pocket, and had unsnapped the heavy padlock.

"Step right in, young gentlemen, h'and h'I'll follow h'and show h'it to you."

Unsuspecting, the three middies stepped inside the darkened shed. Suddenly the door banged, and a padlock clicked outside.

"Here, stop that, you rascally joker!" roared Dalzell, wheeling about. "What does this mean?"

"Big trouble!" spoke Dave Darrin seriously and with a face from which the color was fast receding.



Chapter VII


Pennington Gets His Wish

"The scoundrel!" gasped Farley, his face whiter than any of the others.

Dave was already at the door, trying to force it open. But he might almost as well have tried to lift one of the twelve-inch guns of the battleship "Massachusetts."

"We're locked in -- that's sure!" gasped Dalzell, almost dazed by the catastrophe.

"And what's more, we won't get out in a hurry, unless we can make some of our classmates hear," declared Dave.

For the next half minute they yelled themselves nearly hoarse, but no response came.

"What could have been that little cockney's purpose in playing this shabby trick on us?" demanded Farley.

"Perhaps the cockney thinks we're admirals, with our pockets lined with gold. Perhaps he and some of his pals intend to rob us, later in the evening," proposed Dan, with a ghastly grin.

"Any gang would find something of a fight on their hands, then," muttered Dave Darrin grimly.

All three were equally at a loss to think of any explanation for such a "joke" as this. Equally improbable did it seem that any thugs of the town would expect to reap any harvest from robbing three midshipmen.

Desperately they turned to survey their surroundings. The shed was an old one, yet strongly built. There were no windows, no other door save that at which the three middies now stood baffled.

"Another good old yell," proposed Darrin.

It was given with a lusty will, but proved as fruitless as the former one.

"We don't take the last launch back to ship," declared Farley, wild with rage.

"Which means a long string of demerits," said Dan.

"No shore leave to-morrow, either," groaned Darrin. "Fellows, this mishap will affect our shore leave throughout all the cruise."

"We can explain it," suggested Farley with a hopefulness that he did not feel at all.

"Of course we can," jeered Dave Darrin. "But what officer is fool enough to believe such a cock-and-bull story as this one will seem? At the very least, the commandant would believe that we had been playing some pretty stiff prank ourselves, in order to get treated in this fashion. No, no, fellows! We may just as well undeceive ourselves, and prepare to take the full soaking of discipline that we're bound to get. If we attempted this sort of explanation, we'd be lucky indeed to get through the affair without being tried by general court-martial for lying."

"Drake's anchor, indeed!" exclaimed Dan in deep self disgust.

"We ought to have known better," grunted Farley, equally enraged with himself. "What on earth made us so absent-minded as to believe that a priceless relic would be kept in an old shed like this?"

"We're sure enough idiots!" groaned Dan.

"Hold on there, fellows," interrupted Dave Darrin. "Vent all your anger right on me. I'm the great and only cause of this misfortune. It was I who proposed that we take up that cockney's invitation. I'm the real and only offender against decent good sense, and yet you both have to suffer with me."

"Let's give another yell, bigger than before," suggested Dan weakly.

They did, but with no better result than before.

"The launches are away now, anyway, I guess," groaned Farley, after consulting his watch.

"Yes, and we're up the tree with the commandant," grunted Dalzell bitterly.

"Yell again?" asked Farley.

"No," retorted Dave, shaking his head. "We've seen the uselessness of asking help from outside. Let's supply our own help. Now, then -- altogether! Shoulder the door!"

A savage assault they hurled upon the door. But they merely caused it to vibrate.

"We can't do it," gasped Dan, after the third trial.

Considerable daylight filtered in through the cracks at top, bottom and one side of the door. Further back in the shed there was less light.

"Let's explore this old place in search of hope," begged Dave.

Together they started back, looking about keenly in what appeared to be an empty room.

"Say! Look at that!" cried Dave suddenly.

He pointed to a solid looking, not very heavy ship's spar.

"What good will that thing do us?" asked Farley rather dubiously.

"Let's see if we can raise it to our shoulders," proposed Dave Darrin radiantly. "Then well find out!"

"Hurrah!" quivered Dan Dalzell, bending over the spar at the middle.

"Up with it!" commanded Darrin, placing himself at the head of the spar. Farley took hold at the further end.

"Up with it!" heaved Midshipman Darrin.

Right up the spar went. It would have been a heavy job for three young men of their size in civil life, but midshipmen are constantly undergoing the best sort of physical training.

"Now, then -- a fast run and a hard bump!" called Darrin.

At the door they rushed, bearing the spar as a battering ram.

Bump! The door shook and shivered.

"Once more may do it!" cheered Darrin. "Back."

Again they dashed the head of their battering ram against the door. It gave way, and, climbing through, they raced back to the pier.

But Dan, who had secured the lead, stopped with a groan, pointing out over the water.

"Not a bit of good, fellows! There go the launches, and we're the only fellows left! It's all up with our summer's fun!"

"Is it, though?" shouted Dave, spurting ahead. "Come on and find out!"

As they reached the front of the piers, down at the edge of a landing stage they espied a little steam tender.

"That boat has to take us out to the 'Massachusetts'!" cried Darrin desperately, as he plunged down the steps to the landing stage, followed by his two chums.

"Who's the captain here?" called Dave, racing across the landing stage to the tender's gangplank.

"I am, sir," replied a portly, red-faced Englishman, leaning out of the wheel-house window.

"What'll you charge to land us in haste aboard the American battleship 'Massachusetts'?" asked Darrin eagerly.

"Half a sov. will be about right, sir," replied the tender's skipper, touching his cap at sight of the American Naval uniform.

"Good enough," glowed Dave, leaping aboard. "Cast off as quickly as you can, captain, or we'll be in a heap of trouble with our discipline officers."

The English skipper was quick to act. He routed out two deckhands, who quickly cast off. Almost while the deckhands were doing this the skipper rang the engineer's bell.

"Come into the wheel-'ouse with me," invited the skipper pleasantly, which invitation the three middies accepted. "Now, then, young gentlemen, 'ow did it 'appen that you missed your own launches."

"It was a mean trick -- a scoundrelly one!" cried Darrin resentfully. Then he described just what had happened.

The skipper's own bronzed cheeks burned to a deeper color.

"I can 'ardly believe that an Englishman would play such a trick on young h'officers of a friendly power," he declared. "But I told you, sir, the fare out to your ship would be half a sov. I lied. If a nasty little cockney played such a trick on you, it's my place, as a decent Englishman, to take you out for nothing -- and that's the fare."

"Oh, we'll gladly pay the half sov." protested Darrin.

"Not on this craft you can't, sir," replied the skipper firmly.

Looking eagerly ahead, the three middies saw two of the launches go along side of the "Massachusetts" and discharge passengers. As the second left the side gangway the Briton, who had been crowding on steam well, ranged in along side.

"What craft is that, and what do you want?" hailed the officer of the deck, from above.

"The tender 'Lurline,' sir, with three of your gentlemen to put h'aboard of you, sir," the Briton bellowed through a window of the wheel-house.

"Very good, then. Come alongside," directed the officer of the deck.

In his most seamanlike style the Briton ranged alongside. Dave tried to press the fare upon the skipper, but he would have none of that. So the three shook hands swiftly but heartily with him, then sprang across to the side gangway, where they paused long enough to lift their caps to this stranger and friend. The Briton lifted his own cap, waving it heartily, ere he fell off and turned about.

"You didn't get aboard any too soon, gentlemen," remarked the officer of the deck, eyeing the three middies keenly as they came up over the side, doffing their uniform caps to the colors. "Hustle for the formation."

Midshipman Pennington was chuckling deeply over the supposed fact that he had at last succeeded in bringing Darrin in for as many demerits as Darrin had helped heap upon him.

"That'll break his heart as an avowed greaser," Pen told himself. "With all the demerits Darrin will get, he'll have no heart for greasing the rest of this year. It's rough on Farley, but I'm not quite as sorry for Dalzell, who, in his way, is almost as bad as Darrin. He's Darrin's cuckoo and shadow, anyway. Oh, I wish I could see Darrin's face now!"

This last was uttered just as Midshipman Pennington stepped into line at the supper formation.

"I wish I could see Darrin's face now!" Pen repeated to himself.

Seldom has a wish been more quickly gratified. For, just in the nick of time to avoid being reported, Midshipmen Darrin, Dalzell and Farley came into sight, falling into their respective places.

At that instant it was Midshipman Pennington's face, not Dave Darrin's, that was really worth studying.

"Now how did the shameless greaser work this!" Pennington pondered uneasily.

But, of course, he couldn't ask. He could only hope that, presently, he would hear the whole story from some other man in the class.



Chapter VIII


The Tragedy Of The Gale

There is altogether too much to the summer practice cruise for it to be related in detail.

Nor would the telling of it prove interesting to the reader. When at sea, save on Sundays, the midshipman's day is one of hard toil.

It is no life for the indolent young man. He is routed out early in the morning and put at hard work.

On a midshipman's first summer cruise what he learns is largely the work that is done by the seamen, stokers, water tenders, electricians, the signal men and others.

Yet he must learn every phase of all this work thoroughly, for some day, before he becomes an officer, he must be examined as to his knowledge of all this great mass of detail.

It is only when in port that some relaxation comes into the midshipman's life. He has shore leave, and a large measure of liberty. Yet he must, at all times, show all possible respect for the uniform that he wears and the great nation that he represents. If a midshipman permits himself to be led into scrapes that many college boys regard as merely "larks," he is considered a disgrace to the Naval service.

Always, at home and abroad, the "middy" must maintain his own dignity and that of his country and service. Should he fail seriously, he is regarded by his superiors and by the Navy Department as being unfit to defend the honor of his flag.

The wildest group from the summer practice fleet was that made up of Pennington and his friends. Pen received more money in France from his fond but foolish father. Wherever Pennington's group went, they cut a wide swath of "sport," though they did nothing actually dishonorable. Yet they were guilty of many pranks which, had the midshipmen been caught, would have resulted in demerits.

Ports in France, Spain, Portugal and Italy were touched briefly. At some of these ports the midshipmen received much attention.

But at last the fleet turned back past Gibraltar, and stood on for the Azores, the last landing point before reaching home.

When two nights out from Gibraltar a sharp summer gale overtook the fleet. Even the huge battleships labored heavily in the seas, the "Massachusetts" bringing up the rear.

She was in the same position when the morning broke. The midshipmen, after breakfast, enjoyed a few minutes on the deck before going below for duty in the engine rooms, the dynamo room, the "stoke hole" and other stations.

Suddenly, from the stern rail, there went up the startled cry:

"Man overboard!"

In an instant the marine sentry had tumbled two life-preservers over into the water.

With almost the swiftness of telegraphy the cry had reached the bridge. Without stopping to back the engine the big battleship's helm was thrown hard over, and the great steel fighting craft endeavored to find her own wake in the angry waters with a view to going back over it.

Signal men broke out the news to the flagship. The other two great battleships turned and headed back in the interests of humanity.

It seemed almost as though the entire fleet had been swung out of its course by pressure on an electric button.

Officers who were not on duty poured out. The captain was the first to reach the quarter-deck. He strode into the midst of a group of stricken-looking midshipmen.

"Who's overboard!" demanded the commanding officer.

"Hallam, sir --  -- "

"And Darrin, sir --  -- "

"And Dalzell, sir --  -- "

"How many?" demanded the captain sharply.

"Three, sir."

"How did so many fall overboard?"

"Mr. Hallam was frolicking, sir," reported Midshipman Farley, "and lost his footing."

"But Mr. Darrin and Mr. Dalzell?" inquired the captain sharply.

"As soon as they realized it, sir, Darrin and Dalzell leaped overboard to go to Hallam's rescue, sir."

"It's a wonder," muttered the captain, glancing shrewdly at the bronzed, fine young fellows around him, "that not more of you went overboard as well."

"Many of them would, sir," replied Farley, "but an officer forward shouted: 'No more midshipmen go overboard,' So we stopped, sir."

Modest Mr. Farley did not mention the fact that he was running toward the stern, intent on following his chums into the rough sea at the very instant when the order reached him.

The captain, however, paused for no more information. He was now running forward to take the bridge beside the watch officer.

The midshipmen, too, hurried forward, mingling with the crew, as the big battleship swung around and tried to find her wake.

The flagship had crowded on extra steam, and was fast coming over the seas.

With such a sea running, it was well nigh impossible to make out so small a thing as a head or a life-preserver, unless it could be observed at the instant when it crested a wave.

Marine glasses were in use by every officer who had brought his pair to the deck. Others rushed back to their cabins to get them.

A lieutenant of the marine corps stood forward, close to a big group of sorrowing midshipmen.

"There are certain to be three vacancies in the Naval Academy," remarked the lieutenant.

"Don't say that, sir," begged Farley, in a choking voice. "The three overboard are among the finest fellows in the brigade!"

"I don't want to discourage any of you young gentlemen," continued the marine corps lieutenant. "But there's just about one chance in a thousand that we shall be able to sight and pick up any one of the unlucky three. In the first place, it would take a wonderful swimmer to live long in such a furious sea. In the second place, if all three are still swimming, it will be almost out of the question to make out their heads among the huge waves. You've none of you seen a man overboard before in a big sea?"

Several of the mute, anxious midshipmen shook their heads.

"You'll realize the difficulties of the situation within the next few minutes," remarked the lieutenant. "I am sorry to crush your hopes for your classmates, but this is all a part of the day's work in the Navy."

The largest steam launches from all three of the battleships were being swiftly lowered. Officers and men were lowered with the launches. As the launch shoved off from each battleship tremendous cheers followed them.

"Stop all unnecessary noise!" bellowed the watch officer from the bridge of the "Massachusetts." "You may drown out calls for help with your racket."

While the three battleships went back over their courses in more stately fashion, the launches darted here and there, until it seemed as though they must cover every foot within a square mile.

"I don't see how they can help finding the three," Farley declared hopefully.

"That is," put in another third classman, "if any of the three are still afloat."

"Stow all talk of that sort," ordered Farley angrily.

Other midshipmen joined in with their protests. When a man is overboard in an angry sea all hands left behind try to be optimists.

When fifteen minutes had been spent in the search the onlooking but helpless middies began to look worried.

At the end of half an hour some of them looked haggard. Farley's face was pitiable to see.

At the end of an hour of constant but fruitless searching hardly any one felt any hope of a rescue now.

All three midshipmen, the "man overboard" and his two willing, would-be rescuers, were silently conceded to be drowned.

Yet the hardest blow of all came when, at the end of an hour and a quarter, the flagship signaled the recall of the small boats.

Then, indeed, all hope was given up. In an utter human silence, save for the husky voicing of the necessary orders, the launches were hoisted on board. Then the flagship flew the signal for resuming the voyage.

There were few dry eyes among the third class midshipmen when the battleships fell in formation again and proceeded on their way.

As a result of more signals flown from the flagship, all unnecessary duties of midshipmen for the day were ordered suspended.

In the afternoon the chaplain on each battleship held funeral services over the three lost midshipmen. Officers, middies and crew attended on board each vessel.



Chapter IX


The Despair Of The "Recall"

Dave Darrin stood within ten feet of Hallam when that latter midshipman had lost his balance and fallen into the boiling sea.

Dave's spring to the stern rail was all but instantaneous. He was overboard, after his classmate, ere the marine had had time to leap to the life buoys.

Out of the corner of one eye Dan Dalzell saw the marine start on the jump, but Dan was overboard, also, too soon to see exactly what the marine sentry was doing.

Both daring midshipmen sank beneath the surface as they struck.

As Dan came up, however, his hand struck something solid and he clutched at it. It was one of the life buoys.

As he grasped it, and drew his head up a trifle, Dan saw another floating within thirty feet of him. Swimming hard, and pushing, Dan succeeded in reaching the other buoy. He now rested, holding on to both buoys.

"Now, where's David, that little giant?" muttered Dalzell, striving hard to see through the seething waters and over the tops of foam-crested waves.

After a few minutes Dan began to feel decidedly nervous.

"Yet Dave can't have gone down, for he's a better swimmer than I am," was Dan's consoling thought.

At last Dalzell caught sight of another head. He could have cheered, but he expended his breath on something more sensible.

"Dave!" he shouted. "Old Darry! This way! I have the life buoys."

At the same time, holding to both of them, but kicking frantically with his feet, Dalzell managed slowly to push the buoys toward Dave.

Soon after he had started, Dan did utter a cheer, even though it was checked by an inrush of salt water that nearly strangled him.

He saw two heads. Dave Darrin was coming toward him, helping Hallam.

The wind carried the cheer faintly to Dave. He raised his head a little in the water, and caught sight of Dan and the buoys.

Some three minutes it took the two chums to meet. Dave Darrin was all but exhausted, for Hallam was now unconscious.

As Darrin clutched at the buoy he tried to shout, though the voice came weakly:

"Catch hold of Hallam. I'm down and --  -- "

But Dan understood, even before he heard. While Dave clutched at one of the life buoys Dalzell shot out an arm, dragging Hallam in to safety.

Now, it was Darrin who, with both arms, contrived to link the buoys together.

At last the youngsters had a chance to observe the fact that the battleships had put about and were coming back.

"We'll soon be all right," sighed Dave contentedly, as soon as he could speak. "There are thirty-five hundred officers, middies and sailors of the American Navy to look after our safety."

From where they lay as they hung to the buoys the chums could even see the launches lowered.

Dan, with some of the emergency lashing about the buoy, succeeded, after a good deal of effort, and with some aid from Dave, in passing a cord about Hallam and under the latter's armpits that secured that midshipman to one of the buoys. The next move of the chums was to lash the buoys together.

"Now," declared Dave, "we can't lose. We can hang on and be safe here for hours, if need be."

"But what a thundering long time it takes them to bring the battleships around to get to us!" murmured Midshipman Dalzell in wonder.

"Be sure not an unnecessary second has been lost," rejoined Dave. "We're learning something practical now about the handling of big craft."

"I wonder if Hally's a goner?" murmured Dan in an awe-struck voice.

"I don't believe it," Dave answered promptly. "Once we get him back aboard ship the medicos will do a little work over him and he'll sit up and want to know if dinner's ready."

Then they fell silent, for, with the roar of wind and waters, it was necessary for them to shout when they talked.

As the minutes went by slowly, the two conscious midshipmen found themselves filled with amazement.

A dozen times the launches darted by, not far away. It seemed impossible that the keen, restless eyes of the seekers should not discover the imperiled ones.

At such times Dave and Dan shouted with all the power of their lusty young lungs.

Alternately Dan and Dave tried the effect of rising as far as they could and frantically waving an arm. There was not a cap to wave among the three of them.

"I'm beginning to feel discouraged," grunted Dave in disgust at last. "They must have spent a full half day already looking for us."

"Merciful powers!" gasped Dan at last, as they rode half way up the slope of a big wave. "I just caught sight of the 'recall of boats' flying from the flagship!"

"No!" gasped Dave incredulously.

"Yes, I did!"

"But -- "

"They've failed and have given up the search," spoke Dan rather despairingly.

"But -- "

"We may as well face it," muttered Dan brokenly. "They don't believe that any of us has survived, and we've been abandoned."

"Then," spoke Dave Darrin very coolly, "there's nothing left for us but to die like men of the American Navy."

"It seems heartless, needless," protested Dan.

"No," broke in Darrin. "They've done their best. They're convinced that we're lost. And I should think they would be, after all the time they've searched for us -- half a day, at least."

Dan said nothing, but tugged until he succeeded in bringing his watch up to the light.

"The blamed thing is water-logged," he uttered disgustedly.

"Why?"

"The hands point to less than half past nine!"

Darrin managed to get at his own watch.

"My timepiece doesn't call for half past nine, either," he announced.

"Can it be possible -- "

"Yes; the time has only seemed longer, I reckon," observed Dalzell.

"Well, we'll face it like men," proposed Dave.

"Of course," nodded Dan. "At least, we're going down in the ocean, and we wear the American Naval uniform. If there's any choice in deaths, I guess that's as good and manly a one as we could choose."

"Poor old Hally won't know much about it, anyway, I guess," remarked Darrin, who seemed unnaturally cool. Possibly he was a bit dazed by the stunning nature of the fate that seemed about to overtake them.

"Maybe the ships will go by us in their final get-away," proposed Dan Dalzell very soberly.

"Not if I'm seaman enough to read the compass by what's visible of the sun," returned Midshipman Darrin.

"Then there's no help for it," answered Dan, choking slightly. "I wonder if we could do anything for Hallam?"

"We won't do anything to bring him to, anyway," muttered Darrin. "Under these circumstances I wouldn't do anything as mean as that to a dog!"

"Maybe he's dead already, anyway," proposed Dan, now hopefully.

"I hope so," came from Darrin.

Now they saw the not very distant battleships alter their courses and steam slowly away.

All was now desolation over the angry sea, as the battleships gradually vanished. The two conscious midshipmen were now resolved to face the end bravely. That was all they could do for themselves and their flag.



Chapter X


The Grim Watch From The Waves

By the time that little more than the mastheads of the departing battleships were visible, Hallam opened his eyes.

It would have seemed a vastly kinder fate had he been allowed to remain unconscious to the last.

Hallam had not been strangled by the inrush of water. In going overboard, this midshipman had struck the water with the back of his head and had been stunned. In the absence of attention he had remained a long time unconscious.

Even now the hapless midshipman whose frollicking had been the cause of the disaster, did not immediately regain his full senses.

"Why, we're all in the water," he remarked after a while.

"Yes," assented Darrin, trying to speak cheerfully.

Midshipman Hallam remained silent for some moments before he next asked:

"How did it happen?"

"Fell overboard," replied Dan laconically, failing to mention who it was who had fallen over the stern.

Again a rather long silence on Hallam's part. Then, at last, he observed:

"Funny how we all fell over at the same time."

To this neither of his classmates made any rejoinder.

"See here," shouted Hallam, after a considerable period of silent wondering, "I remember it all now. I was fooling at the stern rail and I toppled overboard."

Dan nodded without words.

"And you fellows jumped in after me," roared Hallam, both his mental and bodily powers now beginning to return. "Didn't you?"

"Of course," assented Darrin rather reluctantly.

"And what became of the fleet!"

Dave and Dan looked at each other before the former replied:

"Oh, well, Hally, brace up! The ships searched for us a long time, and some launches were put out after us. But they couldn't see our little heads above the big waves, and so --  -- "

"They've gone away and left us?" queried Hallam, guessing at once. "Now, fellows, I don't mind so much for myself, but it's fearful to think that I've dragged you into the same fate. It's awful! Why couldn't you have left me to my fate?"

"Would you have done a thing like that?" demanded Dave dryly.

"Oh, well, I suppose not, but -- but -- well, I wish I had been left to pay the price of my tomfoolery all alone. It would have served me right. But to drag you two into it -- "

Hallam could go no further. He was choking up with honest emotion.

"Don't bother about it, Hally," urged Dave. "It's all in the day's work for a sailor. We'll just take it as it comes, old fellow."

To not one of the trio did it occur to let go of the life buoys and sink as a means of ending misery. In the first place, human instinct holds to hope. In the second place, suicide is the resort of cowards.

"None of you happened to hide any food in his pockets at breakfast, I take it?" asked Dan grimly, at last.

Of course they hadn't.

"Too bad," sighed Dan. "I'm growing terribly hungry."

"Catch a fish," smiled back Darrin.

"And eat it raw?" gasped Dalzell. "Darry, you know my tastes better than that."

"Then wait a few hours longer," proposed Dave, "until even raw fish will be a delicacy."

Hallam took no part in the chaffing. He was miserably conscious, all the while, that his own folly had been solely responsible for the present plight of these noble messmates.

Thus the time passed on. None kept any track of it; they realized only that it was still daylight.

Then suddenly Dave gave a gasp and raised one hand to point.

His two classmates turned and were able to make out the mastheads of a craft in the distance.

How they strained their eyes! All three stared and stared, until they felt tolerably certain that the craft was headed their way.

"They may see us!" cried Hallam eagerly.

"Three battleships and as many launches failed to find us," retorted Dan. "And they were looking for us, too."

As the vessel came nearer and the hull became visible, it took on the appearance of a liner.

"Why, it looks as though she'd run right over us when she gets nearer," cried Dave, his eyes kindling with hope.

"Don't get too excited over it," urged Dan. "For my part, I'm growing almost accustomed to disappointments."

As the minutes passed and the liner came on and on, it looked still more as though she would run down the three middies.

At last, however, the craft was passing, showing her port side, not very far distant, to be sure.

Uniting their voices, the three midshipmen yelled with all their power, even though they knew that their desperate call for help could not carry the distance over the subsiding gale.

Boom! That shot came from the liner, and now her port rail was black with people.

"They see us!" cried Hallam joyously. "Look! That craft is slowing up!"

Once more came the cheers of encouragement, as the liner, now some distance ahead, put off a heavy launch. A masthead lookout, who had first seen the midshipmen, was now signaling the way to the officer in command of the launch.

Unable to see for himself, the officer in the launch depended wholly on those masthead signals. So the launch steamed a somewhat zig-zag course over the waves. Yet, at last, it bore down straight upon the midshipmen.

Darrin, Dalzell and Hallam now came very near to closing their eyes, to lessen the suspense.

A short time more and all three were dragged in over the sides of the launch.

"Get those life buoys in, if you can," begged Dave, as he sank in the bottom of the launch. "They are United States property entrusted to our care."

From officer and seamen alike a laugh went up at this request, but the life buoys were caught with a boathook and drawn aboard.

What rousing cheers greeted the returning launch, from the decks of the liner, "Princess Irene"! When the three midshipmen reached deck and it was learned that they were midshipmen of the United States Navy, the cheering and interest were redoubled.

But the captain and the ship's doctor cut short any attempt at lionizing by rushing the midshipmen to a stateroom containing three berths. Here, under the doctor's orders, the trio were stripped and rubbed down. Then they were rolled into blankets, and hot coffee brought to them in their berths, while their wet clothing was sent below to one of the furnace rooms for hurried drying.

As soon as the medical man had examined them, the steamship's captain began to question them.

"Headed for the Azores, eh?" demanded the ship's master. "We ought to be able to sight your squadron before long."

He hastened out, to give orders to the deck officer.

By the time that the young midshipmen had been satisfactorily warmed, and their clothing had been dried, the ship's surgeon consented to their dressing. After this they were led to a private cabin where a satisfying meal was served them.

"Oh, I don't know," murmured Dan, leaning back, with a contented sigh, after the meal was over; "there are worse things than what happened to us to-day!"

The greater speed of the liner enabled her to sight the battleship squadron something more than two hours afterward. Then the nearest vessel of the fleet was steered for directly.

The deck officers of the liner sent their heavy overcoats for the use of the midshipmen, who, enveloped in these roomy garments, went out on deck to watch the pursuit of their own comrades.

Within another hour it was possible to signal, and from the "Princess Irene's" masthead the signal flags were broken out.

"Now, watch for excitement on board your own craft," smiled the liner's commander, an Englishman.

As soon as the liner's signal had been read by the vessels of the squadron a wild display of signal bunting swiftly broke out.

"Heaven be thanked!" read one set of signal flags.

"We have officially buried the young men, but ask them to go on living," read another.

While the most practical signal of all was:

"The 'Massachusetts' will fall astern of the squadron. Kindly stand by to receive her launch."

In a few minutes more the two vessels were close enough. Both stopped headway. One of the big battleship's launches put off and steamed over, rolling and pitching on the waves.

Most carefully indeed the three midshipmen climbed down a rope ladder and were received by an ensign from the "Massachusetts," who next gave the American Navy's profound thanks to the rescuers of the middies.

"Kindly lower that United States property that was in our care, sir!" Dave Darrin called up.

There was good-humored laughter above, and a look of amazement on Ensign White's face until the two buoys, attached to lines, were thrown down over the side.

"When your time comes you will make a very capable officer, I believe, Mr. Darrin, judging by your care of government property," remarked Ensign White, working hard to keep down the laughter.

"I hope to do so, sir," Dave replied, saluting.

Then away to the "Massachusetts" the launch bore, while the whole battleship squadron cheered itself hoarse over the happy outcome of the day.

Dave, Dan and Hallam all had to do a tremendous amount of handshaking among their classmates when they had reached deck. Pennington was the only one who did not come forward to hold his hand out to Darrin -- a fact that was noted at the time by many of the youngsters.

To the captain the trio recounted what had befallen them, as matter for official record.

"Mr. Darrin and Mr. Dalzell," announced the battleship's captain, "I must commend you both for wholly heroic conduct in going to the aid of your classmate. And, Mr. Darrin, I am particularly interested in your incidental determination to preserve government property -- the life buoys that you brought back with you."

"It's possible I may need them again, sir," returned Dave, with a smile, though he had no notion of prophetic utterance.



Chapter XI


Midshipman Pennington's Accident

The stop at the Azores was uneventful. It remained in the minds of the midshipmen only as a pleasant recollection of a quaint and pretty place.

Once more the squadron set sail, and now the homeward-bound pennant was flying. The course lay straight across the Atlantic to the entrance of Chesapeake Bay.

On the second night out the wind was blowing a little less than half a gale.

Darkness had fallen when Dave, Dan, Farley and several other midshipmen gathered to talk in low tones at the stern rail.

Presently all of them wandered away but Dave. He stood close to the rail, enjoying the bumping motion every time the descending stern hit one of the rolling waves.

Presently, thinking he saw a light astern, he raised himself, peering astern.

Another group of restless middies had sauntered up. Pennington, after a swift look at the pacing officer in charge here, and discovering that the officer's back was turned, executed a series of swift cartwheels.

"Look out, Pen!" called Midshipman Dwight, in a low, though sharp voice.

Just too late the warning came.

As Pen leaped to his feet after the last turn, one of his hands struck Darrin forcefully.

Dave swayed, tried to clutch at something, then -- 

"O-o-o-oh!" rang the first startled chorus.

Then, instantly, on top of it, came the rousing hail:

"Man overboard -- astern!"

Farley and Hallam were the first to reach the rail. But Lieutenant Burton was there almost as quickly.

"Haul back!" commanded the lieutenant sternly. "No one go overboard!"

That held the middies in check, for in no place, more than in the Navy, are orders orders.

Clack! was the sound that followed the first cry. Like a flash the marine sentry had thrown his rifle to the deck. A single bound carried him to one of the night life buoys. This he released, and hurled far astern.

As the night buoy struck the water a long-burning red light was fused by contact. The glow shone out over the waters.

In the meantime, the "Massachusetts's" speed was being slowed rapidly, and a boat's crew stood at quarters.

The boat put off quickly, guided by the glow of the red signal light on the buoy. Ere the boat reached the buoy the coxswain made out the head and shoulders of a young man above the rim of the floating buoy.

Soon after the boat lay alongside. Dave, with the coxswain's aid, pulled himself into the small craft.

Recovering the buoy, the coxswain flashed the red light three times. From the deck of the battleship came a cheering yell sent up from hundreds of throats.

In the meantime, however, while the boat was on its way to the buoy, a pulsing scene had been enacted on board.

Farley went straight up to Midshipman Pennington.

"Sir," demanded Farley hotly, "why did you push Mr. Darrin over the rail."

Pennington looked at his questioner as one stunned.

"I -- I did push Darrin over," admitted Pennington, "but it was an accident."

"An easily contrived one, wasn't it?" demanded Midshipman Farley, rather cynically.

"It was pure accident," contended Pennington, paling. "Until it happened I hadn't the least idea in the world that I was going to send Mr. Darrin or anyone else overboard."

"Huh!" returned Farley dubiously.

"Huh!" quoth Hallam.

Dan Dalzell uttered not a word, but the gaze of his eyes was fixed angrily on Pennington.

That latter midshipman turned as white as a sheet. His hands worked as though he were attempting to clutch at something to hold himself up.

"Surely, you fellows don't believe, do you -- " he stammered weakly, then paused.

"One thing we did notice, the other day," continued Farley briskly, "was that, when Darrin was rescued from the sea and returned to us, you were about the only member of the class who didn't go up to him and congratulate him on his marvelous escape."

"How could -- "

"Mr. Pennington, I haven't the patience to talk with you now," rejoined Farley, turning on his heel.

At that moment the yell started among the midshipmen nearer the rail. Farley, Dan, Hallam and others joined in the yell and rushed to better points of vantage.

Pennington tried to join in the cheer, but his tongue seemed fixed to the roof of his mouth. He stood clenching and unclenching his hands, his face an ashen gray in his deep humiliation.

"I don't care what one or two fellows may say," groaned Pennington. "But I don't want the class to think such things of me."

He was the most miserable man on board as the small boat came alongside. The boat, occupants and all, was hoisted up to the davits and swung in-board. To the officer of the deck, who stood near-by, Dave turned, with a brisk salute.

"I beg to report that I've come aboard, sir," Darrin uttered.

"And very glad we are of it, Mr. Darrin," replied the officer. "You will go to your locker, change your clothing and then report to the captain, sir."

"Aye, aye, sir."

With another salute, Dave hastened below, followed by Dan Dalzell, who was intent on attending him.

Ten minutes later Dave appeared at the door of the captain's cabin. Just a few minutes after that he came out on deck.

A crowd gathered about him, expressing their congratulations.

"Thank you all," laughed Dave, "but don't make so much over a middy getting a bath outside of the schedule."

To the rear hung Pennington, waiting his chance. At last, as the crowd thinned, Pennington made his way up to Dave.

"Mr. Darrin, I have to apologize for my nonsense, which was the means of pushing you overboard. It was purely accidental, on my honor. I did not even know it was you at the stern, nor did I realize that my antics would result in pushing any one overboard. I trust you will do me the honor of believing my statement."

"Of course I believe it, Mr. Pennington," answered Darrin, opening his eyes.

"There are some," continued Pennington, "who have intimated to me their belief that I did it on purpose. There may be others who half believe or suspect that I might, or would, do such a thing."

"Nonsense!" retorted Dave promptly. "There may be differences, sometimes, between classmates, but there isn't a midshipman in the Navy who would deliberately try to drown a comrade. It's a preposterous insult against midshipman honor. If I hear any one make a charge like that, I'll call him out promptly."

"Some of your friends -- I won't name them -- insisted, or at least let me feel the force of their suspicions."

"If any of my friends hinted at such a thing, it was done in the heat of the moment," replied Dave heartily. "Why, Mr. Pennington, such an act of dishonor is impossible to a man bred at Annapolis."

Darrin fully believed what he said. On the spur of the moment he held out his hand to his enemy.

Pennington flushed deeply, for a moment, then put out his own hand, giving Dave's a hearty, straightforward grasp.

"I was the first to imply the charge," broke in Farley quickly. "I withdraw it, and apologize to both of you."

There was more handshaking.

During the next few days, while Darry and Pen did not become by any means intimate, they no longer made any effort to avoid each other, but spoke frankly when they met.

The remaining days of the voyage passed uneventfully enough, except for a great amount of hard work that the middies performed as usual.

On the twenty-second of August they entered Chesapeake Bay. Once well inside, they came to anchor. There was considerable practice with the sub-caliber and other smaller guns. On the twenty-ninth of August the battleship fleet returned to the familiar waters around Annapolis. The day after that the young men disembarked.

Then came a hurried skeltering, for the first, second and third classmen were entitled to leave during the month of September.



Chapter XII


Back In The Home Town

Back in the old, well-known streets of their home town, Gridley!

Dave and Dan, enjoying every minute of their month's leave, had already greeted their parents, and had told them much of their life as midshipmen.

What hurt was the fact that the skipper of the "Princess Irene" had already told the marine reporters in New York the thrilling story of how Dave and Dan had nearly come to their own deaths rescuing Midshipman Hallam.

Everyone in Gridley, it seemed, had read that newspaper story. Darrin and Dalzell, before they had been home twelve hours, were weary of hearing their praises sung.

"There go two of the smartest, finest boys that old Gridley ever turned out," citizens would say, pointing after Dave and Dan. "They're midshipmen at Annapolis; going to be officers of the Navy one of these days."

"But what's the matter with Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes? They're at West Point."

"Oh, they're all right, too, of course. But Darrin and Dalzell --  -- "

It was the old circumstance of being "the lions of the minute" and of being on the spot.

On the first morning of his arrival home Dave Darrin went frankly and openly to call on his old schoolgirl sweetheart, Belle Meade.

Dan, having no particular associations with the gentler sex, took a stroll around town to meet any old friends who might care to see him again.

Dave was shown into the parlor at the Meade home. Soon after Belle came swiftly in, her face beaming with delight.

"Oh, but you're not in uniform!" was her first disappointed comment.

"No," smiled Dave. "I'm allowed every possible chance, for one month, to forget every detail of the big grind which for a short time I've left behind."

"But you're the same old Dave," cried Belle, "only bigger and manlier. And that magnificent work you and Dan did in jumping over-bo --  -- "

"Stop!" begged Dave. "You're a friend of mine, aren't you! Then don't add to the pain that has been already inflicted on me. If I had had the newspapers in mind I wouldn't have the nerve to --  --  But please let's not talk about it anymore."

Then the two young people seated themselves and spent a delightful hour in talking over all that had befallen them both since they had last met.

Belle, too, through Laura Bentley, had some much later news of the old chums, Dick and Greg, now cadets at West Point.

This news, however, will be found in full in "DICK PRESCOTT'S SECOND YEAR AT WEST POINT."

"What are your plans for this afternoon?" Belle asked at last.

"That's what I want your help in making," Dave answered.

"Can you get hold of Dan?"

"No trouble about that. But keeping hold of him may be more difficult," laughed Dave.

"I was going to propose that you get Dan, call here and then we'll all go over to Laura Bentley's. I know she'll be anxious to see us."

"Nothing could be better in the way of a plan," assented Dave. "I'll pin Danny boy down to that. It would really seem like a slight on good old Dick if we didn't make Laura an early call."

"I'll go to the telephone, now, and tell her that we're coming," cried Belle, rising quickly.

"Laura is delighted," she reported, on her return to the room. "But Dave, didn't you at least bring along a uniform, so that we could see what it looks like?"

"I didn't," replied Dave, soberly, then added, quizzically:

"You've seen the district messenger boys on the street, haven't you?"

"Yes, of course; but what -- "

"Our uniforms look very much like theirs," declared Dave.

"I'm afraid I can't undertake to believe you," Belle pouted.

"Well, anyway, you girls will soon have a chance to see our uniforms. Just as soon as our hops start, this fall, you and Laura will come down and gladden our hearts by letting us drag you, won't you!"

"Drag us?" repeated Belle, much mystified.

"Oh, that's middies' slang for escorting a pretty girl to a midshipman hop."

"You have a lot of slang, then, I suppose."

"Considerable," admitted Dave readily.

"What, then, is your slang for a pretty girl?"

"Oh, we call her a queen."

"And a girl who is -- who isn't -- pretty?"

"A gold brick," answered Dave unblushingly.

"A gold brick?" gasped Belle. "Dear me! 'Dragging a gold brick' to a hop doesn't sound romantic, does it?"

"It isn't," Darrin admitted.

"Yet you have invited me -- "

"Our class hasn't started in with its course of social compliments yet," laughed Dave. "Please go look in the glass. Or, if you won't believe the glass, then just wait and see how proud Dan and I are if we can lead you and Laura out on the dancing floor."

"But what horrid slang!" protested Belle. "The idea of calling a homely girl a gold brick! And I thought you young men received more or less training in being gracious to the weaker sex."

"We do," Dave answered, "as soon as we can find any use for the accomplishment. Fourth classmen, you know, are considered too young to associate with girls. It's only now, when we've made a start in the third class, that we're to be allowed to attend the hops at all."

"But why must you have to have such horrid names for girls who have not been greatly favored in the way of looks? It doesn't sound exactly gallant."

"Oh, well, you know," laughed Dave, "we poor, despised, no-account middies must have some sort of sincere language to talk after we get our masks off for the day. I suppose we like the privilege, for a few minutes in each day, of being fresh, like other young folks."

"What is your name for 'fresh' down at Annapolis!" Belle wanted to know.

"Touge."

"And for being a bit worse than touge?"

"Ratey."

"Which did they call you?" demanded Belle.

Dave started, then sat up straight, staring at Miss Meade.

"I see that your tongue hasn't lost its old incisiveness," he laughed.

"Not among my friends," Belle replied lightly. "But I can't get my mind off that uniform of yours that you didn't bring home. What would have happened to you if you had been bold enough to do it?"

"I guess I'd have 'frapped the pap,'" hazarded Dave.

"And what on earth is 'frapping the pap'?" gasped Belle.

"Oh, that's a brief way of telling about it when a midshipman gets stuck on the conduct report."

"I'm going to buy a notebook," asserted Belle, "and write down and classify some of this jargon. I'd hate to visit a strange country, like Annapolis, and find I didn't know the language. And, Dave, what sort of place is Annapolis, anyway?"

"Oh, it's a suburb of the Naval Academy," Dave answered.

"Is it dreadfully hard to keep one's place in his class there?" asked Belle.

"Well, the average fellow is satisfied if he doesn't 'bust cold,'" Dave informed her.

"Gracious! What sort of explosion is 'busting cold'?"

"Why, that means getting down pretty close to absolute zero in all studies. When a fellow has the hard luck to bust cold the superintendent allows him all his time, thereafter, to go home and look up a more suitable job than one in the Navy. And when a fellow bilges --  -- "

"Stop!" begged Belle. "Wait!"

She fled from the room, to return presently bearing the prettiest hat that Dave ever remembered having seen on her shapely young head. In one hand she carried a dainty parasol that she turned over to him.

"What's the cruise?" asked Darrin, rising.

"I'm going out to get that notebook, now. Please don't talk any more 'midshipman' to me until I get a chance to set the jargon down."

As she stood there, such a pretty and wholesome picture, David Darrin thought he never before had seen such a pretty girl, nor one dressed in such exquisite taste. Being a boy, it did not occur to him that Belle Meade had been engaged for weeks in designing this gown and others that she meant to wear during his brief stay at home.

"What are you thinking of?" asked Belle.

"What a pity it is that I am doomed to a short life," sighed Darrin.

"A short life? What do you mean?" Belle asked.

"Why, I'm going to be assassinated, the first hop that you attend at the Naval Academy."

"So I'm a gold brick, am I?" frowned Belle.

"You -- a -- gold brick?" stammered Dave. "Why, you -- oh, go look in the glass!"

"Who will assassinate you?"

"A committee made up from among the fellows whose names I don't write down on your dance card. And there are hundreds of them at Annapolis. You can't dance with them all."

"I don't intend to," replied Belle, with a toss of her head. "I'll accept, as partners, only those who appear to me the handsomest and most distinguished looking of the midshipmen. No one else can write his name on my card."

"Dear girl, I'm afraid you don't understand our way of making up dance cards at Crabtown."

"Where?"

"Crabtown. That's our local name for Annapolis."

"Gracious! Let me get out quickly and get that notebook!"

"At midshipmen's hops the fellow who drags the --  -- "

"Gold brick," supplied Belle, resignedly.

"No -- not for worlds! You're no gold brick, Belle, and you know it, even though you do refuse to go to the mirror. But the fellow who drags any femme -- "

"Please -- ?"

"'Femme' stands for girl. The fellow who drags any femme makes up her dance card for her."

"And she hasn't a word to say about it?"

"Not as a rule."

"Oh!" cried Belle, dramatically.

She moved toward the door. Dave, who could not take his eyes from her pretty face, managed, somehow, to delay her.

"Belle, there's something -- " he began.

"Good gracious! Where? What?" she cried, looking about her keenly.

"It's something I want to say -- must say," Dave went on with more of an effort than anyone but himself could guess.

"Tell me, as we're going down the street," invited Belle.

"Wha-a-at?" choked Dave. "Well, I guess not!"

He faced her, resting both hands lightly on her shoulders.

"Belle, we were pretty near sweethearts in the High School, I think," he went on, huskily, but looking her straight in the eyes. "At least, that was my hope, and I hope, most earnestly, that it's going to continue. Belle, I am a long way from my real career, yet. It will be five years, yet, before I have any right to marry. But I want to look forward, all the time, to the sweet belief that my schoolgirl sweetheart is going to become my wife one of these days. I want that as a goal to work for, along with my commission in the Navy. But to this much I agree: if you say 'yes' now, and find later that you have made a mistake, you will tell me so frankly."

"Poor boy!" murmured Belle, looking at him fully. "You've been a plebe until lately, and you haven't been allowed to see any girls. I'm not going to take advantage of you as heartlessly as that."

Yet something in her eyes gave the midshipman hope.

"Belle," he continued eagerly, "don't trifle with me. Tell me -- will you marry me some day?"

Then there was a little more talk and -- well, it's no one's business.

"But we're not so formally engaged," Belle warned him, "that you can't write me and draw out of the snare if you wish when you're older. And I'm not going to wear any ring until you've graduated from the Naval Academy. Do you understand that, Mr. David Darrin?"

"It shall be as you say, either way," Dave replied happily.

"And now, let us get started, or we shan't get out on the street to-day," urged Belle.

Then they passed out on the street, and no ordinarily observant person would have suspected them of being anything more than school friends.

Being very matter-of-fact in some respects, Belle's first move was to go to a stationer's, where she bought a little notebook bound in red leather.

Dave tried to pay for that purchase, but Belle forestalled him.

"Why didn't you allow me to make you that little gift?" he asked in a low tone, when they had reached the street.

"Wait," replied Belle archly. "Some day you may find your hands full in that line."

"One of my instructors at Annapolis complimented me on having very capable hands," Dave told her dryly.

"The instructor in boxing?" asked Belle.

It was a wonderfully delightful stroll that the middy and his sweetheart enjoyed that September forenoon.

Once Dave sighed, so pronouncedly that Belle shot a quick look of questioning at him.

"Tired of our understanding already?" she demanded.

"No; I was thinking how sorry I am for Danny boy! He doesn't know the happiness of having a real sweetheart."

"How do you know he doesn't?" asked Belle quickly. "Does he tell you everything?"

"No; but I know Danny's sea-going lines pretty well. I'd suspect, at least, if he had a sweetheart."

"Are you sure that you would?"

"Oh, yes! By gracious! There's Danny going around the corner above at this very moment."

Belle had looked in the same instant.

"Yes; and a skirt swished around the corner with him," declared Belle impressively. "It would be funny, wouldn't it, if you didn't happen to know all about Dan Dalzell?"

In the early afternoon, however, the mystery was cleared up.

On the street Dalzell had encountered Laura Bentley. Both were full of talk and questions concerning Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, at West Point, for which reason Dan had strolled home with Miss Bentley without any other thought, on the midshipman's part, than playing substitute gallant for his chum, Cadet Richard Prescott, U.S. Military Academy.

A most delightful afternoon the four young people spent together at the Bentley home.

These were the forerunners of other afternoons.

Belle and Laura, however, were not able to keep their midshipmen to themselves.

Other girls, former students at the High School, arranged a series of affairs to which the four young people were invited.

Dave's happiest moments were when he had Belle to himself, for a stroll or chat.

Dan's happiest moments, on the other hand, were when he was engaged in hunting the old High School fellows, or such of them as were now at home. For many of them had entered colleges or technical schools. Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, of the famous old Dick & Co., of High School days, were now in the far southwest, under circumstances fully narrated in "THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA," the second volume of "THE YOUNG ENGINEERS' SERIES.'"

Day by day Belle jotted down in her notebook more specimens of midshipman slang.

"I shall soon feel that I can reel off the language like a native of Crabtown," she confided laughingly to Dare.

"It won't be very long before you have an opportunity to try," Dave declared, "if you and Laura embrace your first opportunity to come to a middy hop."

Dan had a happy enough time of it, even though Dave's suspicion was true in that Dan had no sweetheart. That, however, was Dan's fault entirely, as several of the former High School girls would have been willing to assure him.

Since even the happiest times must all end so the latter part of September drew near.

Then came the day when Dave and Dan met at the railway station. A host of others were there to see them off, for the midshipmen still had crowds of friends in the good old home town.

A ringing of bells, signaling brakesmen, a rolling of steel wheels and the two young midshipmen swung aboard the train, to wave their hats from the platform.

Gridley was gone -- lost to sight for another year. Dan was exuberant during the first hour of the journey, Dave unusually silent.

"You need a vast amount of cheering up, David, little giant!" exclaimed Dalzell.

"Oh, I guess not," smiled Dave Darrin quietly, adding to himself, under his breath:

"I carry my own good cheer with me, now."

Lightly his hand touched a breast pocket that carried the latest, sweetest likeness of Miss Belle Meade.

One journey by rail is much like another to the traveler who pays little heed to the scenery.

At the journey's end two well-rested midshipmen joined the throng of others at Crabtown.



Chapter XIII


Dan Receives A Fearful Facer

"Oh, you heap!" sighed Dan Dalzell dismally.

He sat in his chair, in their new quarters in Bancroft Hall, United States Naval Academy, gazing in mock despair at the pile of new books that he had just drawn.

These text-books contained the subjects in which a midshipman is required to qualify in his second academic year.

"Been through the books for a first look?" called Dave from behind his own study table.

"Some of 'em," admitted Dalzell. "I'm afraid to glance into the others."

"I've looked in all of my books," continued Darrin, "and I've just come to a startling conclusion."

"What?"

"I'm inclined to believe that I have received a complete set of text-books for the first and second classes."

"No such luck!" grunted Dan, getting up and going over to his chum. "Let me see if you got all the books I did."

Before Dave could prevent it, Dan started a determined over-tossing of the book pile. As he did so, Dan suddenly uncovered a photograph from which a fair, sweet, laughing face gazed up at him.

"Oh, I beg a million pardons, Dave, old boy!" cried Dalzell.

"You needn't," came Dave's frank answer. "I'm proud of that treasure and of all it means to me."

"And I'm glad for you, David, little giant."

Their hands met in hearty clasp, and that was all that was said on that subject at the time.

"But, seriously," Dan grumbled on, after a while, "I'm aghast at what an exacting government expects and demands that we shall know. Just look over the list -- mechanical drawing and mechanical processes, analytical geometry, calculus, physics, chemistry, English literature, French and Spanish, integral calculus, spherical trigonometry, stereographic projection and United States Naval history! David, my boy, by the end of this year we'll know more than college professors do."

"Aren't you getting a big head, Danny?" queried Darrin, looking up with a smile.

"I am," assented Dalzell, "and I admit it. Why, man alive, one has to have a big head here. No small head would contain all that the Academic Board insists on crowding into it."

By the time that the chums had attended the first section recitations on the following day, their despair was increased.

"Davy, I don't see how we are ever going to make it, this year," Dalzell gasped, while they were making ready for supper formation. "We'll bilge this year without a doubt."

"There's only one reason I see for hoping that we can get through the year with fair credit," murmured Darrin.

"And what's that?"

"Others have done it, before us, and many more are going to do it this year," replied Dave slowly, as he laid comb and brush away and drew on his uniform blouse.

"I know men have gotten through the Naval Academy in years gone by," Dalzell agreed. "But, the first chance that I have, I'm going to look the matter up and see whether the middies of old had any such fearful grind as we have our noses held to."

"Oh, we'll do it," declared Darrin confidently. "I shall, anyway -- for I've got to!"

As he spoke he was thinking of Belle Meade, and of her prospects in life as well as his own.

As the days went by, however, Dave and Dan became more and more dull of spirits. The grind was a fearful one. A few very bright youngsters went along all right, but to most of the third classmen graduation began to look a thousand years away.

The football squad was out now and training in deadly earnest. There were many big games to be played, but most of all the middies longed to tow West Point's Army eleven into the port of defeat.

In their first year Dave and Dan had looked forward longingly to joining the gridiron squad. They had even practised somewhat. But now they realized that playing football in the second year at Annapolis must be, for them, merely a foolish dream.

"I'm thankful enough if I can study day and night and keep myself up to 2.5," confessed Darrin, as he and Dan chatted over their gridiron longings.

Two-and-five tenths is the lowest marking, on a scale of four, that will suffice to keep a midshipman in the Naval Academy.

"I'm not going to reach 2.5 in some studies this month," groaned Dan. "I know that much by way of advance information. The fates be thanked that we're allowed until the semi-ans to pick up. But the question is, are we ever going to pick up? As I look through my books it seems to me that every succeeding lesson is twice as hard as the one before it."

"Other men have gone through, every year."

"And still other men have been dropped every year," Dalzell dolefully reminded him.

"We're among those who are going to stay," Dave contended stubbornly.

"Then I'm afraid we'll be among those who are dropped after Christmas and come back, next year, as bilgers," Dalzell groaned.

"Now, drop that!" commanded Darrin, almost roughly. "Remember one thing, Daniel little lion slayer! My congressman and your senator won't appoint us again, if we fail now. No talk of that kind, remember. We've got to make our standing secure within the next few weeks."

Before the month was over the football games began in earnest on the athletic field. Darrin and Dalzell, however, missed every game. They were too busy poring over their text-books. Fortunately for them their drills, parades and gym. work furnished them enough exercise.

The end of October found Darrin at or above 2.5 in only three studies. Dan was above 2.5 in two studies -- below that mark in all others.

"It's a pity my father never taught me to swear," grumbled Dalzell, in the privacy of their room.

"Stow that talk," ordered Darrin, "and shove off into the deeper waters of greater effort."

"Greater effort?" demanded Dan, in a rage. "Why I study, now, every possible moment of the time allowed for such foolishness. And we can't run a light. Right after taps the electric light is turned off at the master switch."

"We're wasting ninety seconds of precious time, now, in grumbling," uttered Dave, seating himself doggedly at his study table.

"Got any money, Darry?" asked Dalzell suddenly.

"Yes; are you broke?"

"I am, and the next time I go into Annapolis I mean to buy some candles."

"Don't try that, Danny. Running a light is dangerous, and doubly so with candles. The grease is bound to drip, and to be found in some little corner by one of the discipline officers. It would be no use to study if you are going to get frapped on the pap continuously."

Immediately after supper both midshipmen forfeited their few minutes of recreation, going at once back to their study tables. There they remained, boning hard until the brief release sounded before taps was due.

Almost at the sound of the release there came a knock at the door. Farley and his roommate, Page, came bounding in.

"I've got to say something, or I'll go daffy," cried Farley, rubbing his eyes. "Fellows, did you ever hear of such downright abuse as the second year course of studies means?"

"It is tough," agreed Dave. "But what can we do about it, except fight it out?"

"Can you make head or tail out of calculus?" demanded Farley.

"No," admitted Darrin, "but I hope to, one of these days."

Just then Freeman, of the first class, poked his head in, after a soft knock.

"What is this -- a despair meeting?" he called cheerily.

"Yes," groaned Page. "We're in a blue funk over the way recitations are going."

"Oh, buck up, kiddies!" called Freeman cheerily, as he crossed the floor. "Youngsters always get in the doldrums at the beginning of the year."

"You're a first classman. When you were in the third class did you have all the studies that we have now?"

"Every one of them, sir," affirmed Midshipman Freeman gravely, though there was a twinkle in his eyes.

"And did you come through the course easily?" asked Page.

"Not easily," admitted the first classman. "There isn't anything at Annapolis that is easy, except the dancing. In fact, during the first two months very few of our class came along like anything at all. After that, we began to do better. By the time that semi-ans came around nearly all of us managed to pull through. But what seems to be the worst grind of all -- the real blue paint?"

"Calculus!" cried the four youngsters in unison.

"Why, once you begin to see daylight in calculus it's just as easy as taking a nap," declared the first classman.

"At present it seems more like suffering from delirium," sighed Dave.

"What's the hard one for to-morrow?" asked Freeman.

"Here it is, right here," continued Dave, opening his text-book. "Here's the very proposition."

The others crowded about, nodding.

"I remember that one," laughed Freeman lightly. "Our class named it 'sticky fly paper.'"

"It was rightly named," grumbled Farley.

"None of you four youngsters see through it?" demanded Midshipman Freeman.

"Do you mean to claim, sir, that you ever did?" insisted Dan Dalzell.

"Not only once, but now," grinned Mr. Freeman. "You haven't been looking at this torturing proposition from the right angle -- that's all. Now, listen, while I read it."

"Oh, we all know how it runs, Mr. Freeman," protested Page.

"Nevertheless, listen, while I read it."

As the first classman read through the proposition that was torturing them he threw an emphasis upon certain words that opened their eyes better as to the meaning.

"Now, it works out this way," continued the first classman, bending over the disk and drawing paper and pencil toward him. "In the first place."

Freeman seemed to these youngsters like a born demonstrator. Within five minutes he had made the "sticky fly paper" problem so plain to them all that they glanced from one to another in astonishment.

"Why, it does seem easy," confessed Farley.

"It sounds foolish, now," grinned Darrin. "I'm beginning to feel ashamed of myself."

"Mr. Freeman," protested Page, "you've saved us from suicide, or some other gruesome fate."

"Then I'll drop in once in a while again," promised the first classman.

"But that will take time from your own studies," remonstrated Darrin generously.

"Not in the least. I won't come around before release. By the time a fellow reaches the first class, if he's going to graduate anyway, he doesn't have to study as hard as a youngster does. The man who reaches the first class has had all the habits of true study ground into him."

Darrin, Dalzell, Farley and Page were all in different sections in mathematics. When they recited, next day, it so happened that each was the man to have the "sticky fly paper" problem assigned to him by the instructor. Each of the quartette received a full "4" for the day's marking.

"Did you have any assistance with this problem, Mr. Darrin?" asked Dave's instructor.

"Yes, sir; a member of the first class tried to make it plain to me last night."

"He appears to have succeeded," remarked the instructor dryly.

There was, however, no discredit attached to having received proper assistance before coming into section.

True to his promise Freeman dropped in every fourth or fifth evening, to see if he could be of any help to the four youngsters. Always he found that he could be.

Even when Thanksgiving came, Dave Darrin did not go to Philadelphia, but remained at the Academy, devoting his time to study.

Dan, in sheer desperation, took in the trip to Philadelphia. He hoped to meet Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, but they did not come down from West Point.

On the first day of December, Dan Dalzell's name was formally reported by the Academic Board in a report to the superintendent which recommended that Midshipman Dalzell be dropped from the rolls for "inaptitude in his studies."

Poor Dan. It was a staggering blow. Yet it struck Dave Darrin just about as hard.



Chapter XIV


The First Hop With The Home Girls

That report was allowed to reach Dan's ears on a Friday.

On the evening of the day following there was to be a midshipman hop on the floor of the great gym.

Moreover, it was the very hop that Belle Meade and Laura Bentley had finally selected to attend. Mrs. Meade was coming with the girls as chaperon.

"Oh, but I shall feel fine and light hearted for going to the dance!" muttered Dan miserably. "Facing the kick-off from the Academy, and doing the light hearted and the fantastic toe with the girls."

"I shan't feel a whole lot more merry myself," sighed Dave, as he gazed affectionately, wistfully at his chum. "Danny, this has hit me about as hard as it has you. And it warns me, too, that my turn will probably come next. I don't stand an awful lot higher in my markings than you do."

"Doesn't it feel fine to be a bilger?" gulped Dalzell, staring at the floor.

A "bilger," as has been already explained, is a midshipman who has failed and has been dropped.

"Oh, but you're not a bilger, yet!" cried Darrin, leaping up and resting both hands on his chum's shoulder.

"What's the odds?" demanded Dan grimly. "I shall be, after I've been before the Board next Monday forenoon at ten o'clock."

"Nonsense! Not if you make a good fight!"

"Fight -- nothing!" sighed Dan wearily. "In a fight there's some one else that you can hit back at. But I won't have a blessed soul to fight. I'm up against a gang who are all referees, and all down on me at the outset."

"Nonsense," combatted Dave. "You --  -- "

"Oh, that's all right, David, little giant," returned Dalzell with an attempt at cheeriness. "You mean well, but a fellow isn't reported deficient unless he's so far behind that the Board has his case settled in advance. From all I can hear it isn't once in a camel's age that a fellow so reported, and ordered before the Board, gets off with anything less than a hard, wet bilge. What I'm thinking of now is, what am I going to pick up as a career when I go home from here as a failure."

If it hadn't been for the pride he felt in still having the uniform on, Dalzell might not have been able to check the tears that tried to flow.

"Come on," commanded Dave, leaping up, "we'll run up to the deck above, and see if we can't find Mr. Freeman in."

"What good will that do?" demanded Dan. "Freeman is a first classman, but he hasn't any particular drag with the Board."

"It won't do any harm, anyway, for us to have a talk with an older classman," argued Dave. "Button your blouse, straighten your hair and come along."

"So it's as bad as that, is it!" asked Freeman sympathetically, after his cheery "come in" had admitted the unhappy youngsters.

"Yes," replied Dave incisively. "Now, the question is, what can be done about it?"

"I wish you had asked me an easier one," sighed the first classman. "You're mighty well liked, all through the Academy, Dalzell, and every one of us will hate to see you go."

"But what can be done to ward off that fate?" insisted Darrin as impatiently as a third classman might speak to a venerable first classman.

"Well, now, I want to think over that," confessed Freeman frankly. "Of course, Dalzell's record, this term, is in black and white, and can't be gainsaid. It's just possible our young friend can put up some line of talk that will extend his time here, and perhaps enable him to pull through. It's a mighty important question, so I'll tell you what we'll do. Of course, the hop comes on for to-morrow night. Let me have until Sunday evening. Meanwhile I'll talk with some of the other fellows of my class. You both come in here Sunday evening, and I'll have the answer for you -- if there's any possible way of finding one."

With that the chums had to be content. Expressing their gratitude to this friendly first classman, they withdrew.

That Saturday forenoon Dan did considerably better with the two recitations that he had in hand.

"I got easier questions than usual, I guess," he said to Dave, with a mournful smile.

After Saturday dinner, Dave and Dan, having secured permission to visit in Annapolis, steered their course through the gate, straight up Maryland Avenue, through State Circle and around into Main Street, to the Maryland House.

At the desk they sent up their cards to Mrs. Meade, then stepped into the parlor.

Barely two minutes had passed when Belle and Laura flew downstairs.

"Mother says she'll be down as soon as she fancies you'll care about seeing her," laughed Belle.

"And how are you getting on in your classes?" asked Laura Bentley, glancing straight at unhappy Dan.

Both midshipmen had agreed not to mention a word of Dan's heartache to either of the girls.

Dan gulped hard, though he managed to conceal the fact.

Darrin, however, was ready with the answer:

"Oh, we're having pretty rough sailing, but we're both still in our class."

Which statement was wholly truthful.

"Up at West Point," Laura continued, "Dick told us that the first two years were the hardest for a man to keep his place. I fancy it's just about the same here, isn't it?"

"Just about," Dave nodded. "The first two years are hardest because it takes all that time for a fellow to get himself keyed up to the gait of study that is required in the government academies. But won't you let us talk about something that's really pleasant, girls?" Dave asked, with his charming smile. "Suppose we talk about yourselves. My, but you girls are good to look at!"

After that, the conversation was shifted to lighter subjects.

Even Dan, in the joy of meeting two girl friends from home, began to be less conscious of his load of misery.

Presently Mrs. Meade came down. She chatted with the two fine-looking young midshipmen for a few moments. Then Dave proposed:

"Wouldn't you like us to escort you through the Academy grounds, so that you can get a good idea of the place in daylight?"

"We've been waiting only for you to invite us," rejoined Belle.

For the next two hours the time was passed pleasantly.

But Belle, behind all her light chatter, was unusually keen and observing.

"Is anything wrong with either of you?" she asked Dave suddenly, when this pair were out of easy hearing of the others.

"Why do you ask that?" inquired Dave, looking at her in his direct fashion.

"Why, I may be unnecessarily sensitive, but I can't help feeling that some sort of disaster is hanging over either you or Dan."

"I hope not," replied Darrin evasively.

"Dave, that isn't a direct answer," warned Belle, raising her eyebrows. "Do you consider me entitled to one?"

"Yes. What's the question?"

"Are you in any trouble here?"

"No, I'm thankful to say."

"Then is Dan?"

"Belle, I'd rather not answer that."

"Why --  -- "

"Well, because, if he is, I'd rather not discuss it."

"Has Dan been caught in any scrape?"

"No. His conduct record is fine."

"Then it must be failure in his studies."

Dave did not answer.

"Why don't you tell me?" insisted Belle.

"If anything were in the wind, Belle, we'd rather not tell you and spoil your visit. And don't ask Dan anything about it."

"I think I know enough," went on Belle thoughtfully and sympathetically. "Poor Dan! He's one of the finest of fellows."

"There are no better made," retorted Dave promptly.

"If anything happens to Dan here, dear, I know you will feel just as unhappy about it as if it happened to yourself."

"Mighty close to it," nodded Darrin. "But it would be a double heartbreak for me, if I had to leave."

"Why?"

"On account of the future I've planned for you, Belle."

"Oh, you silly boy, then!" Belle answered, smiling into his eyes. "I believe I have half committed myself to the idea of marrying you when you've made your place in life. But it was Dave Darrin to whom I gave that half promise -- not a uniform of any sort. Dave, if anything ever happens that you have to quit here, don't imagine that it's going to make a particle of difference in our understanding."

"You're the real kind of sweetheart, Belle!" murmured Dave, gazing admiringly at her flushed face.

"Did you ever suspect that I wasn't?" asked Miss Meade demurely.

"Never!" declared Midshipman Darrin devoutly. "Nevertheless, it's fine to be reassured once in a while."

"What a great fellow Dan is!" exclaimed Belle a few minutes later. "See how gayly he is chatting with Laura. I don't believe Laura guesses for a moment that Dan Dalzell is just as game a fellow as the Spartan boy of olden times."



Chapter XV


A Disagreeable First Classman

The hop that night was one of the happiest occasions Dave had ever known, yet it was destined to result in trouble for him.

Midshipman Treadwell, of the first class, caught sight of Belle as she entered the gym at Dave Darrin's side.

With Treadwell it happened to be one of those violent though unusually silly affairs known as "love at first sight."

As for Belle, she was not likely to have eyes for anyone in particular, save Dave.

Treadwell, who had come alone, and who was not to be overburdened with dances, went after Dave as soon as that youngster left Belle for the first time.

"Mighty sweet looking girl you have with you, Darry," observed the first classman, though he took pains not to betray too much enthusiasm.

"Right!" nodded Dave.

"You'll present me, won't you?"

"Assuredly, as soon as I come back. I have a little commission to attend to."

"And you might be extremely kind, Darry, and write me down for a couple of numbers on Miss --  -- "

"Miss Meade is the young lady's name."

"Then delight me by writing down a couple of reservations for me on Miss Meade's card."

Darrin's face clouded slightly.

"I'd like to, Treadwell, but the card is pretty crowded, and some other fellows -- "

"One dance, anyway, then."

"I will, then, if there's a space to be left, and if Miss Meade is agreeable," promised Dave, as he hurried away.

Two minutes later, when he returned, looking very handsome, indeed, in his short-waisted, gold-laced dress coat, Dave felt his arm touched.

"I'm waiting for you to keep your engagement with me," Midshipman Treadwell murmured.

"Come along; I shall be delighted to present you to Miss Meade."

Since every midshipman is granted to be a gentleman, midshipman etiquette does not require that the lady be consulted about the introduction.

"Miss Meade," began Dave, bowing before his sweetheart, "I wish to present Mr. Treadwell"

Belle's greeting was easy. Treadwell, gazing intensely into her eyes, exchanged a few commonplaces. Belle, entirely at her ease, did not appear to be affected by the battery of Mr. Treadwell's gaze. Then good breeding required that the first classman make another bow and stroll away.

As he left, Treadwell murmured in Dave's ear:

"Don't forget that dance, Darry! Two if there is any show."

Midshipman Darrin nodded slightly. As he turned to Belle, that young lady demanded lightly:

"Is that pirate one of your friends, Dave?"

"Not more so than any other comrades in the brigade," Darrin answered. "Why?"

"Nothing, only I saw you two speaking together a little while ago --  -- "

"That was when he was asking me to present him."

"Then, after you left him," continued Belle, in a low voice, "Mr. Treadwell scowled after you as though he could have demolished you."

"Why, I've no doubt Mr. Treadwell is very jealous of me," laughed Damn happily. "Why shouldn't he be? By the way, will you let me see your dance card? Mr. Treadwell asked me to write his name down for one or two dances."

"Please don't," begged Belle suddenly, gripping her dance card tightly. "I hope you don't mind, Dave," she added in a whisper, "but I've taken just a shadow of a dislike to Mr. Treadwell, after the way that he scowled after you. I -- I really don't want to dance with him."

Dave could only bow, which he did. Then other midshipmen were presented. Belle's card was quickly filled, without the appearance of Midshipman Treadwell's name on it.

The orchestra struck up. Dave danced the first two numbers with Belle, moving through a dream of happiness as he felt her waist against his arm, one of her hands resting on his shoulder.

The second dance was a repetition of Dave's pleasure. Then Dave and Dan exchanged partners for two more dances.

After their first dance, a waltz, Dave led Laura to a seat.

"Will you get me a glass of water, Dave?" Laura asked, fanning herself.

As Dave hastened away he felt, once more, a light, detaining touch.

"Darry, did you save those two dances for me with Miss Meade?" asked Treadwell.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dave replied. "But there had been many other applicants. By the time that Miss Meade's card was filled there were many disappointed ones."

"And I'm one of them?" demanded Mr. Treadwell.

"Very sorry," replied Darrin regretfully, "but you were one of the left-over ones."

"Very good, sir," replied Treadwell coldly, and moved away.

"Now, I'll wager anything that Treadwell is sore with me," murmured Dave to himself. "However, Belle is the one to be pleased."

It was a particularly gay and pleasant hop. When it was over Dave and Dan escorted the girls and Mrs. Meade back to the hotel. The little room in Bancroft Hall seemed especially small and dingy to the returning midshipmen.

Especially was Dan Dalzell in the blues. Though he had been outwardly gay with the girls, he now suffered a re-action. Dave, too, shivered for his friend.

Mrs. Meade and the girls returned by an early morning train, so the two chums did not see the girls again during that visit.

On Sunday, Dave went at his books with a dogged air, after morning chapel and dinner.

"I suppose this is the last day of study for me here," grimaced Dan, "so I mean to make the most of the pleasure."

"Nonsense," retorted Darrin heartily; "you'll finish out this year, and then have two more solid years of study here ahead of you."

"Cut it!" begged Dan dolefully. "Don't try to jolly me along like that."

"You're down in the dumps, just now, Danny boy," smiled Darrin wistfully. "Just bombard the Board with rapid-fire talk to-morrow, and you'll pull through all right."

Dan sighed, then went on with his half-hearted study.

Later in the afternoon Dave, feeling the need of fresh air, closed his books.

"Come for a walk, Danny boy?"

"Don't dare to," replied Dalzell morosely.

So, though Darrin went out, he resolved not to remain long away from his moody chum.

Outside, on one of the cement walks, Dave turned toward Flirtation Walk. It seemed the best surrounding in which to think of Belle.

"Mr. Darrin!" called a voice.

Dave turned, to behold Mr. Treadwell coming at a fast stride with a scowl on his face.

"That was a dirty trick you played me last night, Mr. Darrin!" cried the first classman angrily.

"What?" gasped Dave, astonished, for this was not in line with the usual conversation of midshipmen.

"You know well enough what I mean," cried Treadwell angrily. "You spiked my only chance to dance with Miss Meade."

"You're wrong there," retorted Dave coldly and truthfully "I didn't."

"Then how did it happen?"

"I can't discuss that with you," Darrin rejoined. "I didn't make any effort, though, to spoil your chance of a dance with the young lady."

"Mr. Darrin, I don't choose to believe you, sir!"

Dave's face went crimson, then pale.

"Do you realize what you're saying, Mr. Treadwell?"

"Of course" -- sneeringly.

"Are you trying to pick trouble with me?" demanded Dave, his eyes flashing with spirit.

"I repeat that I don't choose to believe your explanation, sir."

"Then you pass me the lie?"

"As you prefer to consider it," jeered the first classman.

"Oh, very good, then, Mr. Treadwell," retorted Dave, eyeing the first classman and sizing him up.

Treadwell was one of the biggest men, physically, in the brigade. He was also one of the noted fighters of his class. Beside Treadwell, Midshipman Darrin did not size up at all advantageously.

"If you do not retract what you just said," pursued Dave Darrin, growing cooler now that he realized the deliberate nature of the affront that had been put upon him, "I shall have no choice but to send my friends to you."

"Delighted to see them, at any time," replied the first classman, turning disdainfully upon his heel and strolling away.

"Now, why on earth does that fellow deliberately pick a fight with me?" wondered Darrin, as he strolled along by himself. "Treadwell can thump me. He can knock me clean down the Bay and into the Atlantic Ocean, but what credit is there in it for a first classman to thrash a youngster?"

It was too big a puzzle. After thinking it over for some time Dave turned and strolled back to Bancroft Hall.

"You didn't stay out long!" remarked Dan, looking up with a weary smile as his chum re-entered their room.

"No," admitted Dave. "There wasn't much fun in being out alone."

With a sigh, Dan turned back to his book, while Dave seated himself at his own study table, in a brown daze.

Things were happening fast -- Dan's impending "bilge" from the Naval Academy, and his own coming fight with the first classman who would be sure to make it a "blood fight"!



Chapter XVI


How Dan Faced The Board

"We trust, Mr. Dalzell, that you can make some statement or explanation that will show that we shall be justified in retaining you as a midshipman in the Naval Academy."

It was the superintendent of the United States Naval Academy who was speaking.

Dan's hour of great ordeal had come upon him. That young midshipman found himself in the Board Room, facing the entire Academic Board, trying to remember what Freeman had told him the night before.

The time was 10.30 a.m. on that fateful Monday.

Midshipman Dalzell appeared to be collected, but he was also very certainly white-faced.

Many a young man, doomed to be sent forth from a Naval career, back into the busy, unheeding world, had faced this Board in times past. So it was hardly to be expected that Dan would inspire any unusual interest in the members of the Board.

Dan swallowed at something hard in his throat, then opened his lips to speak.

"I am aware, sir, and gentlemen, that I am at present sufficiently deficient in my studies to warrant my being dropped," Dan began rather slowly. "Yet I would call attention to the fact that I was nearly as badly off, in the matter of markings, at this time last year. It is also a matter of record that I pulled myself together, later on, and contrived to get through the first year with a considerable margin of credits to spare. If I am permitted to finish the present term here I believe I can almost positively promise that I will round out this year with as good a showing as I did last year."

"You have thought the matter carefully out in making this statement, have you, Mr. Dalzell?" asked the superintendent.

"I have, sir."

"Have you any explanation to offer for falling below the standards so far this year, Mr. Dalzell?"

"I believe, sir, that I make a much slower start, with new studies, than most of my classmates," Dan continued, speaking more rapidly now, but in a most respectful manner. "Once I begin to catch the full drift of new studies I believe that I will overtake some of my classmates who showed a keener comprehension at the first. I think, sir, and gentlemen, that my record, as contrasted with the records of some of my classmates who achieved about the same standing I did for last year will bear my statement out."

The superintendent turned to a printed pamphlet in which were set forth the records of the midshipmen for the year before.

"Mr. Dalzell," asked another member of the Board, "do you feel that you are really suited for the life of the Navy? Is it your highest ambition to become an officer of the Navy?"

"It's my only ambition, sir, in the way of a career," Dan answered solemnly. "As to my being suited for the Navy, sir, I can't make a good answer to that. But I most earnestly hope that I shall have an opportunity, for the present, to try to keep myself in the service."

"And you feel convinced that you need only to be carried for the balance of the term to enable you to make good, and to justify any action that we may take looking to that end?" asked another member of the Board.

"That is my firm conviction, sir."

The superintendent, who had been silently examining and marking some statements in the pamphlet, now passed it to the nearest member of the Board, who, after a glance or two, passed the pamphlet on to another member.

Silence fell upon the room while Dan's printed record was being read.

"Have you anything else that you wish to say, Mr. Dalzell?" asked the superintendent at last.

"Only this, sir and gentlemen," replied Dan promptly. "If I am permitted to go on with the brigade, I promise, as far as any human being may promise, that I will not only be found to have passed at the end of this term, but that I will also have a higher marking after the annual examinations than after the semi-annuals."

These last few words Dan spoke with his whole soul thrown into the words. How he longed to remain in the Navy, now that he stood at the threshold of the life, uncertain whether he was about to be kicked across it into the outer world!

After glancing around the table, the superintendent turned once more to the young man.

"That will be all, at present, Mr. Dalzell."

Saluting briskly, crisply, Dan wheeled about, marching from the room.

He was in time to make a section recitation before dinner.

"How did you come out, Danny boy?" anxiously inquired Dave Darrin as the two, in their room, hastily prepared to answer the coming call for dinner formation.

"I wish I knew," replied Dalzell wistfully. "I said all that I could say without being everlastingly fresh."

After the brigade had been formed for dinner, and the brigade adjutant had reported the fact, the command was given:

"Publish the orders!"

This the brigade adjutant did rapidly, and in perfunctory tones.

Dalzell jumped, however, when he heard his own name pronounced. He strained his ears as the brigade adjutant read:

"In the matter of Daniel Dalzell, summoned before the Academic Board to determine his fitness and aptitude for continuing in the brigade, the Board has granted Midshipman Dalzell's urgent request that he be continued as a midshipman for the present."

There was a great lump, instantly, in Dan's throat. It was a reprieve, a chance for official life -- but that was all.

"I'll make good -- I'll make good!" he told himself, with a violent gulp.

The orders were ringing out sharply now. The midshipmen were being marched in to dinner.

Hardly a word did Dalzell speak as he ate. As for Dave Darrin, he was too happy over his chum's respite to want to talk.

Yet, when they strolled together in the open air during the brief recreation period following the meal, Dalzell suddenly asked:

"Dave when do you fight with Treadwell?"

"To-night, I hope," replied Darrin.

"Oh, then I must get busy!"

"Why?"

"Why, I'm to represent you, Darry. Who are Treadwell's -- "

"Danny boy, don't make a fuss about it," replied Dave quietly, "but just for this once you are not to be my second."

"Why -- "

"Danny boy, you have just gotten by the Board by a hair's breadth. What kind of an act of gratitude would it be for you to make your first act a breach of discipline? For a fight, though often necessary here, is in defiance of the regulations."

"But Dave, I've never been out of your fights!"

"You will be this time, Danny. Don't worry about it, either. Farley and Page are going to stand by me. In fact, I think that even now they are talking with Treadwell's friends."

"You're wrong," murmured Dalzell, looking very solemn. "Here come Farley and Page right now."

In another moment the seconds had reached Darrin and his chum.

"To-night?" asked Dave quietly.

"Yes," nodded Page.

"Time?"

"Just after recall."

"Good," murmured Darrin. "You two come for me, and I'll be ready. And I thank both of you fellows for taking up the matter for me."

"We'll be mighty glad to be there, Darry," grinned Farley, "for we look to see you finish off that first classman."

"Maybe," smiled Dave quietly. "I'll do all I can, anyway."

"And to think," almost moaned Dan Dalzell, "that you're to be in a scrap, David, little giant, and I'm not to be there to see!"

"There'll be other fights, I'm afraid," sighed Darry. "I seem destined to displease quite a few of the fellows here at Annapolis."

Dan tried to study, that night, after Darrin had left the room in the company of his seconds. Certainly Dan, in the light of his promise made to the Board that morning, had need to study. Yet he found it woefully hard to settle his mind on mathematics while Dave was fighting the fight of his Naval Academy career.

"Oh, well," muttered Dan, picking up a pencil for the third time, "Dave and I each have our own styles of fights, just now. Here goes for a knockout blow at math!"



Chapter XVII


Losing The Time-Keeper's Count

Conners and Brayton were Treadwell's seconds.

Since it is not considered fair to have the referee or time-keeper from either class represented in a fight, Edgerton and Wheeler, of the second class, were referee and time-keeper respectively.

All of the young men were early at the usual fighting ground. The fall air was cool and crisp, but it was not yet considered cold enough to justify the extra risk of holding a fight in-doors.

Dave was quickly stripped and made ready by his seconds. His well-developed chest bespoke fine powers in the way of "wind" and endurance. His smooth, hard, trim muscles stood out distinctly.

Treadwell took more time in getting himself ready for the ring. When at last, however, the first classman stood bared to the waist, he looked like a giant beside Dave Darrin.

"It looks like a shame to take the money, Tread," murmured referee Edgerton.

"I don't want to pound the youngster hard," explained Midshipman Treadwell, in an undertone. "Yet I've got to teach him both to respect my class and myself."

On this point, as an official of the fight, Referee Edgerton did not feel called upon to express an opinion.

Farley, at his first glimpse of the waiting first classman, felt a chill of coming disaster.

"Page," he growled, "that huge top-classman makes our Darry look like a creeping infant."

"Darry will take care of himself," retorted Midshipman Page in an undertone.

"Do you believe it?"

"I surely do."

"But Treadwell looks a whole lot more vast now that he's stripped."

"Darry is much smaller, I know; But Darrin is one of those rare fellows who don't know what it means to be whipped. He can't be put out of business by anything smaller than a twelve-inch gun!"

"I hope you're right," sighed Farley.

Dave, in the meantime, to keep himself from being chilled by the frosty air, was running lightly about, swinging his arms.

"Are you both ready, gentlemen?" inquired Midshipman Edgerton, while Time-keeper Wheeler drew out his stop watch.

Both stepped to toe the scratch.

"Yes." nodded Dave.

"Ready!" rumbled Treadwell.

The referee briefly made the usual announcement about it being a fight to the finish, with two-minute rounds and two minutes between rounds.

"Time!"

As Treadwell leaped forward, both fists in battery, Dave took a swift, nimble sidestep. He felt that he had to study this big fellow carefully before doing more than keep on the defensive.

Now footwork was one of the fighting tricks for which Darry was famous. Yet he had too much courage to rely wholly upon it.

Five times Treadwell swung at his smaller opponent, but each time Dave was somewhere else.

Despite his greater size, Treadwell was himself nimble and an adept at footwork.

Finding it hard, however, to get about as quickly as his smaller opponent, the first classman soon went in for close, in-body fighting, following Dave, half-cornering him, and forcing him to stand and take it.

Two or three body blows Dave succeeded in parrying so that they glanced, doing him little harm.

Then there came an almost crunching sound. Treadwell's right fist had landed, almost dazing the youngster with its weight against his nose.

There was a swift, free rush of the red. Darrin had yielded up "first blood" in the fight.

"I've got to dodge more, and not let myself be cornered," Darrin told himself, keeping his fists busy in warding off blows.

Then, of a sudden, Dave turned on the aggressive. He struck fast and furiously, but Treadwell, with a grin, beat down his attack, then soon landed a swinging hook on Dave's neck that sent him spinning briefly.

"He expects to finish this fight for his own amusement," flashed angrily through Darrin's mind. "I'll get in something that hurts before I toss the sponge."

"Time!"

Two minutes were up. To Dave it seemed more like half an hour.

"Steady, now!" murmured Page, in his principal's ear, as the two seconds leaped at the task of rubbing down their men. "Unless you let yourself get rattled, Darry, that big fellow isn't going to get you. Whenever you're on the defensive, and being crowded hard, change like lightning and drive in for the top classer's solar plexus."

"I tried that three times in this last round," murmured Dave. "But the fellow is too big and powerful for me. He simply pounds me down when I go for him."

"Work for more strategy," whispered Page, as he held a sponge to Dave's battered nose, while Farley rubbed the muscles of his right arm.

"I haven't given up the fight," muttered Dave, "But, of course, I've known from the start that Treadwell is a pretty big fighter for one of my weight."

"Oh, you'll get him yet," spoke Page confidently.

The fighters were being called for the second round.

In this Dave received considerable punishment, though he landed three or four times on Treadwell's body.

Then twice in succession the champion of the third class was knocked down.

Neither, however, was a knockout blow.

Dave took plenty of time, within his rights, about leaping to his feet, and in each instance got away from Treadwell's leaping assault.

Just after the second knock-down, time was called for the end of the round.

"You'll get him yet, Darry," was Page's prediction, but he did not speak as hopefully as before.

Farley, too, was full of loyalty for his friend and fellow-classman, but he did not allow this to blind his judgment. Farley's opinion was that Dave was done for, unless he could land some lucky fluke in a knockout blow.

"Go right in and land that youngster," Treadwell's own seconds were advising him. "Don't let him have the satisfaction of standing up to you for three whole rounds or more."

"Do you think that little teaser is as easy as he looks?" growled Treadwell.

"Oh, Darrin is all right at his own weight," admitted Midshipman Conners. "But he has no business with you, Tread. You're quick enough, too, when you exert yourself. So jump right in and finish it before this round is over."

"I'll try it, then," nodded Treadwell.

Though he had not the slightest notion that he was to be defeated, this big top classman was learning a new respect for Darrin's prowess. He could thrash Dave, of course, but Treadwell did not expect to do it easily.

For the first twenty seconds of the third round the two men sparred cautiously. Dave had no relish for standing the full force of those sledge-hammer blows, while Treadwell knew that he must look out for the unexpected from his still nimble opponent.

"Lie down when you've had enough," jeered Treadwell, as he landed a jolt on one of the youngster's shoulders and sent him reeling slightly.

Dave, however, used his feet well enough to get away from the follow-up.

"Are you getting tired?" Darrin shot back at his opponent.

"Silence, both of you," commanded Referee Edgerton. "Do all your talking with your fists!"

Just then Treadwell saw an opening, and followed the referee's advice by aiming a blow at Dave's left jaw. It landed just back of the ear, instead, yet with such force that Dave sank dizzily to the ground, while Treadwell drew back from the intended follow-up.

Farley and Page looked on anxiously from their corner. Midshipman Wheeler, scanning his watch, was counting off the seconds.

" -- five, six, seven, eight, nine -- ten!"

At the sound of eight Dave Darrin had made a strenuous effort to rise.

Yet he had swayed, fallen back slightly, then forced himself with a rush to his feet.

But Midshipman Treadwell drew back, both fists hanging at his sides, for the "ten" had been spoken, and Dave Darrin had lost the count.

While Dave stood there, looking half-dizzily at his opponent, Referee Edgerton's voice broke in crisply:

"Mr. Darrin required more than the full count to come back. The fight is therefore awarded to Mr. Treadwell."



Chapter XVIII


Fighting The Famous Double Battle

"It wasn't fair," hissed Midshipman Page hotly.

"It was by a mighty small margin, anyway," quivered Farley.

"I don't feel whipped yet," remarked Dave quietly.

"Oh, well, Darry," urged Farley, "don't feel humiliated over being thrashed by such a human mountain of a top classer."

Dave, whose chest had been heaving, and whose lungs had been taking in great gulps of air, suddenly pushed his second gently away.

"Mr. Treadwell, sir, will you come over here a moment?" he called. "And also the officials of the fight?"

Treadwell, with a self-satisfied leer on his face, stepped away from his seconds coming jauntily over.

Midshipman Edgerton and Wheeler followed in some wonder.

"Mr. Treadwell," began Dave, looking full into the eyes of his late antagonist, "I have no fault, sir, to find with your style of fighting. You behaved fairly at every point."

"Thank you, sir," interjected the big midshipman grimly.

"The verdict was also fair enough," Dave continued, "for I am aware that I took a hair's-breadth more than the count. Still, I do not feel, Mr. Treadwell, that the result was decisive. Therefore I have to ask of you the favor of another early meeting, for a more definite try-out."

Treadwell gasped. So did his recent seconds and the late officials of the fight. Even Farley's jaw dropped just a trifle, but Page's face flushed with new-found pleasure.

"Another fight, sir?" demanded Midshipman Treadwell.

"Yes, sir," replied Darrin quietly.

"Oh, very well," agreed Treadwell, nonchalantly. "At any time that you wish, Mr. Darrin -- any time."

"How would fifteen minutes from now do?" demanded Dave, smiling coolly.

Treadwell fairly gasped, though only from sheer astonishment.

"Why, if your seconds and the officials think that fair to you, Mr. Darrin," replied Treadwell in another moment, "I am sure that I have no objection to remaining around here a little longer."

"Do you insist on calling for the second fight within fifteen minutes, Mr. Darrin?" asked Second Classman Edgerton.

"For my own part, I do," replied Dave quietly; "I leave the decision to Mr. Treadwell's courtesy."

"Well, of all the freaks!" muttered Mr. Wheeler, as the two fight officials walked aside to discuss the matter.

"Darry," demanded the agitated Farley, "are you plumb, clean crazy?"

"Do you know what we're fighting about, Farley, old man?" asked Dave very quietly.

"No; of course not."

"It's a personal matter."

"O-oh!"

"It's a matter in which I can't accept an imitation whipping."

"But surely you don't expect to whip Treadwell in your present condition?"

"I very likely shall get a thorough trouncing," smiled Darrin.

"It's madness," broke in Page worriedly.

"I told you it was a personal matter," laughed Dave softly. "I shan't mind getting whacked if it is done up in good shape. It's only this near-whipping to which I object."

"Well -- great Scott!" gasped Page.

"Hush!" warned Farley. "Here comes Edgerton."

Midshipman Edgerton, looking very much puzzled, stepped over to Dave Darrin's corner.

"Darrin," began the referee in a friendly tone, "Tread doesn't like the idea of fighting you again to-night."

"Didn't he say he would?" demanded Darrin.

"Yes; but of course, but -- "

"I hold him to his word, Mr. Edgerton."

"But of all the crazy -- "

"I have my own reasons, sir," Darrin interposed quietly. "I think it very likely, too, that Mr. Treadwell will comprehend my reasons."

"But he doesn't like the idea of fighting an already half-whipped man."

"Will it get on his nerves and unsteady him?" asked Dave ironically.

"Are you bound to fight to-night, Mr. Darrin?"

"I am, sir."

"Then I suppose it goes -- it has to," assented Midshipman Edgerton moodily. "But of all the irrational -- "

"Just what I said, sir," nodded Page.

"I shall be ready, sir, when the fifteen minutes are up," continued Dave. "But I am certain that I shall need all the time until then for getting myself into first-class condition."

"Darry is a fool -- and a wonder!" ejaculated Edgerton under his breath, as he walked away.

"I'm sorry, Darry," murmured Farley mournfully, "but -- well, beat your way to it!"

"I intend to," retorted Dave doggedly.

Rubbed down by his seconds, Dave drew on his blouse, without a shirt.

Quitting the others, Dave walked briskly back and forth. At last he broke into a jog-trot.

At last he halted, inflating and emptying his lungs with vigorous breathing.

"I feel just about as good as ever," he declared, nodding cheerily to his seconds.

"Get off that blouse, then," ordered Midshipman Farley, after a glance at his watch. "We've two minutes left out of the fifteen."

"I'll go forward at the scratch, then," nodded Dave.

Treadwell, in the meantime, had pulled on his outer clothing and had stood moodily by, watching Dave's more workmanlike preparations with a disdainful smile.

"I'll get the fellow going quickly this time," Mr. Treadwell told Conners. "As soon as I get him going I'll dive in with a punch that will wind up the matter in short order. I've planned to do considerable reviewing of navigation to-night."

"I hope you have your wish," murmured Conners.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said."

"Do you think I'm going to have any trouble whatever about finishing up that touge youngster!" demanded Tread well sarcastically.

"No; I don't imagine you will. But at the same time, Tread, I tell you I don't care about having enemies among fellows who come back as swiftly, strongly and as much like a bulldog as Darry does."

Seeing Dave pull off his blouse, Treadwell slowly removed his own clothing above the waist.

"Rub me down along the arms a bit," said Midshipman Treadwell, after he had exercised his arms a moment.

"I reckon we'd better," nodded Conners. "You must have got stiff from standing still after the late mix-up."

"No kinks but what will iron out at once," chuckled Treadwell. "I'll show you as soon as I get in action."

His two seconds rubbed him down loyally.

"Are you ready, gentlemen?" called Midshipman Edgerton.

Both men stepped quickly forward, but all of the onlookers thought they saw rather more spring in Dave Darrin than in his more bulky opponent.

The preliminaries were announced in a few words.

Of course, there was no handshaking.

"Time!" sounded the call.

Dave Darrin quickly proved to be so full of vigor that Treadwell lay back on the defensive after the first two or three passes. Dave followed him right up with vim.

Yet, for the first forty seconds of the round no real damage was done on either side. Then:

Bump!

"O-o-oh!"

That cry came simultaneously from Treadwell and from all the spectators.

Dave's right fist had landed crushingly on the top classman's left eye, almost instantly closing that organ.

Darrin leaped nimbly back, both from a chivalrous impulse to give Treadwell a chance to recover his steadiness and to save himself from any sudden rush and clinch by his big opponent.

But Treadwell, standing with his guard up, showed no inclination to follow the one who had just given him such punishment.

"Mix it up, gentlemen -- mix it!" called Midshipman Edgerton impatiently.

At that command from the referee Dave Darrin sprang forward.

Treadwell seemed wholly on the defensive now, though he struck as heavily as ever. Toward the end of the round Treadwell, having gotten over the worst of the stinging from his eye, once more tried to rush matters.

Whenever the big fellow's undamaged eye caught sight of the cool, hostile smile on Darrin's face, Treadwell muttered savage words.

Some hard body blows were parried and others exchanged.

Both men were panting somewhat when the call of time closed the first round.

"Darry, you nervy little rascal, waltz in and put that other eye up in black clothes!" begged Page ecstatically, as he and Farley worked over their principal.

Dave was ready quite twenty seconds before the call of time for the second round.

Treadwell, however, took his full time in responding. At the last moment he took another dab with the wet sponge against his swollen left eye.

"Time!"

With a suppressed yell Treadwell rushed at his opponent. Dave had to sidestep to his own right, out of range of Treadwell, to save himself.

Then at it they went, all around the ring. Darrin had determined to keep himself out of the way of those sledge-hammer fists until he saw his own clear opening.

Four or five times Treadwell landed heavily on Darrin's ribs. The younger, smaller midshipman was getting seriously winded, but all the time he fought to save himself and to get that one opening.

It came.

Pound!

Darrin's hard-clenched left fist dropped in on Treadwell's right eye.

This time there was no exclamation from the bruised one.

Alert Dave was careful to give him no chance. Within a second after that eye-closer landed Darrin struck with his right, landing on the jaw bone under Treadwell's ear.

Down in a heap sank the top classman. He was unconscious before his body struck the ground.

Wheeler counted off the seconds.

" -- ten!"

Still Mr. Treadwell lay motionless.

"Do your best for him, gentlemen," begged Referee Edgerton, turning to the first classman's seconds. "Mr. Darrin wins the second fight."

Dave, a satisfied look on his face, stepped back to his seconds.

This time he did not require as much attention. Within five minutes he was dressed.

By this time Mr. Treadwell, under the ministrations of his seconds and of the late officials, was just coming back to consciousness.

"Something happened, eh?" asked the top classman drowsily.

"Rather!" murmured Mr. Edgerton dryly.

"Did I -- did I -- lose the fight?"

"You did," Edgerton assented. "But don't let that disturb you. You went down before the best man in the Naval Academy."

Treadwell sighed gloomily. It was a hard blow to his pride -- much harder than any that Dave had landed on his head.

"Mr. Treadwell," inquired Dave, stepping over, "we are comrades, even if we had a slight disagreement. Do you care to shake hands?"

"Help me to my feet," urged the first classman, who was sitting up.

His seconds complied. Then Midshipman Treadwell held out his hand.

"Here's my hand," he said rather thickly. "And I apologize, too, Mr. Darrin."

"Then say no more about it, please," begged Dave, as their hands met in a strong clasp.

None of the others present had the least idea of the provocation of this strange, spirited double fight. All, however, were glad to see the difficulty mended.

Then Dave and his seconds, leaving the field first, made their way back to Bancroft Hall. Farley and Page went straight to their own room.

"How did it come out?" demanded Dan Dalzell eagerly, as soon as his chum entered their quarters.

Dropping into a chair, Dave told the story of the double fight briefly. He told it modestly, too, but Dan could imagine what his chum omitted.

"David, little giant," exclaimed Dalzell, leaping about him, "that fight will become historic here! Oh, how I regret having missed it. Don't you ever dare to leave me out again!"

"It wasn't such a much," smiled Dave rather wearily, as he went over to his study desk.

"Perhaps it's indiscreet, even of a chum," rambled on Dalzell, "but what -- "

"What was the fight all about?" laughed Dave softly. "Yes; I suppose you have a right to know that, Danny boy. But you must never repeat it to any one. Treadwell wanted to dance with Belle at the hop, but she had already noticed him, and declared she didn't want to dance with him. Of course that settled it. But Treadwell accused me of not having asked Belle."

"The nerve!" ejaculated Dan in disgust.

"And then he accused me of lying when I declared I had done my best for him," continued Dave.

"I feel that I'd like to fight the fellow myself!" declared Dan Dalzell hotly.

"Oh, no, you don't; for Treadwell apologized to-night, and we have shaken hands. We're all comrades, you know, Danny boy."

*    *    *    *    *

Unknown to any of the parties to the fight, there had been spectators of the spirited double battle.

Two men, a sailor and a marine, noting groups of midshipmen going toward the historic battle ground of midshipmen, had hidden themselves near-by in order "to see the fun."

These two enlisted men of the Navy had been spectators and auditors of all that had taken place.

Not until the last midshipman had left the ground did the sailor and marine emerge from their hiding place.

"Well, of all the game fights!" muttered the marine.

"Me? I'm hoping that some day I fight under that gallant middy," cried the sailor.

"Who is this Mr. Darrin?" asked the marine, as the pair strolled away.

"He's a youngster -- third classman. But he's one of the chaps who, on the cruise, last summer, went over into a gale after another middy -- Darrin and his chum did it."

"There must be fine stuff in Mr. Darrin," murmured the marine.

"Couldn't you see that much just now?" demanded the sailor, who took the remark as almost a personal affront, "My hat's off to Mr. Darrin. He's one of our future admirals. If I round out my days in the service it will be the height of my ambition to have him for my admiral. And a mighty sea-going officer he'll be, at that!"

In their enthusiasm over the spectacle they had seen, the sailor and the marine talked rather too much.

They were still talking over the battle as they strolled slowly past one of the great, darkened buildings.

In the shadow of this building, not far away, stood an officer whom neither of the enlisted men of the Navy saw; else they would have saluted him.

That officer, Lieutenant Willow, U.S. Navy, listened with a good deal of interest.

Mr. Willow was one of those officers who are known as duty-mad. He gathered that there had been a fight, so he deemed it his duty to report the fact at once to the discipline officer in charge over at Bancroft Hall.

Regretting the necessity, yet full of the idea of doing his duty, Lieutenant Willow wended his way promptly towards the office of the officer in charge.



Chapter XIX


The Officer In Charge Is Shocked

Through the main entrance of Bancroft Hall, into the stately corridor, Lieutenant Willow picked his way.

He looked solemn -- unusually so, even for Lieutenant Willow, U.S.N. He had the air of a man who hates to do his duty, but who is convinced that the heavens would fall if he didn't.

To his left he turned, acknowledging smartly the crisp salute given him by the midshipman assistant officer of the day.

Into the outer office of the officer in charge stepped Mr. Willow, and thence on into the smaller room where Lieutenant-Commander Stearns sat reading.

"Oh, good evening, Willow," hailed Lieut. Stearns heartily.

"Good evening, Stearns," was the almost moody reply.

"Sit down and let's have a chat. I'm glad to see you," urged Lieutenant-Commander Stearns.

Mr. Stearns, he of the round, jovial face, gazed at his junior with twinkling eyes.

"Willow," he muttered, "I'm half inclined to believe that you've come to me to make an official report."

"I guess I have," nodded Lieutenant Willow.

"And against some unfortunate midshipman, at that!"

"Against two, at least," sighed Mr. Willow, "and there were others involved in the affair."

"It must be something fearful," said Mr. Stearns, who knew the junior officer's inclination to be duty-mad. "But, see here, if you make an official report you'll force me to take action, even though it's something that I'd secretly slap a midshipman on the shoulder for doing. No -- don't begin to talk yet, Willow. Try a cigar and then tell me, personally, what's worrying you. Then perhaps it won't be altogether needful to make an official report."

"I never was able to take you -- er -- somewhat jovial views of an officer's duty, Stearns," sighed Lieutenant Willow.

Nevertheless, he selected a cigar, bit off the end, lighted it and took a few whiffs, Lieutenant-Commander Stearns all the while regarding his comrade in arms with twinkling eyes.

"Now, fire ahead, Willow," urged the officer in charge, "but please don't make your communication an official one -- not at first. Fire ahead, now, Willow."

"Well -- er -- just between ourselves," continued Lieutenant Willow slowly, "there has been a fight to-night between two midshipmen."

"No!"

Lieutenant-Commander Stearns struck his fist rather heavily against the desk.

"A fight -- a real fight -- with fists?" continued the officer in charge, in a tone of mock incredulity. "No, no, no, Willow, you don't mean it -- you can't mean it!"

"Yes, I do," rejoined the junior officer rather stiffly.

"Oh, dear, what is the service coming to?" gasped Stearns ironically. "Why, Willow, we never heard of such things when we were midshipmen here. Now, did we?"

"I'm afraid we did -- sometimes," admitted the junior officer. "But duty is duty, you know, my dear Stearns. And this was an unusual fight, too. The man who was whipped insisted on another fight right then and there, and -- he won the second fight."

"Bully!" chuckled the officer in charge. "Whew, but I wish I had been there!"

"Stearns, you surely don't mean that?" gasped duty-mad Mr. Willow.

"You're quite right, Willow. No; I certainly don't want to be a spoilsport, and I'm glad I wasn't there -- in my official capacity. But I'd like to have been divested of my rank for just an hour so that I could have taken in such a scene as that."

"I'm -- I'm just a bit astonished at your saying it, Stearns," rejoined Lieutenant Willow. "But then, you're always joking."

"Perhaps I am joking," assented the officer in charge dryly, "but I never lose sight of the fact that our Navy has been built up, at huge expense, as a great fighting machine. Now, Willow, it takes fighting men to run a fighting machine. Of course, I'm terribly shocked to know that two midshipmen really had the grit to fight -- but who were they! Mind you, I'm not asking you in an official way. This question is purely personal -- just between ourselves. Who were the men? And, especially, who was the fellow who lost the decision, and then had the utter effrontery to demand a second chance at once, only to win the second fight?"

"Darrin was the man who lost the first fight and won the second," replied Lieutenant Willow.

"Mr. Darrin? One of our youngsters? Yes; I think I know him. And what man of his class did he whip, the second time he tried!"

"It wasn't a man of his own class. It was Mr. Treadwell, of the first class," rejoined Lieutenant Willow.

"What?" almost exploded the officer in charge. "Did you say that Mr. Darrin fought with Mr. Treadwell, that husky top classman, and, losing the decision on the count, insisted on fighting again the same evening? Oh, say, what a fellow misses by being cooped up in an office like this!"

"But -- but the breach of regulations!" stammered the duty-mad lieutenant.

"My dear fellow, neither you nor I know anything about this fight -- officially. The Navy, after all, is a fighting machine. Do you feel that the Navy can afford to lose a fighting man like that youngster?"

So Lieutenant Willow left Lieutenant-Commander Stearns' presence, not quite convinced he was performing his whole duty, but glad to bow to the decision of a ranking officer.

Two days later Dave and Dan were surprised at being halted by Lieutenant-Commander Stearns.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Darrin," came the pleasant greeting. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dalzell. Mrs. Stearns and I would be greatly pleased if you could take dinner with us. Couldn't you come next Sunday?"

The two midshipmen were astonished and delighted at this invitation. While it was not uncommon for officers to invite midshipmen to their homes, where there were so many midshipmen, it was as a rule only the young men who made themselves prominent socially who captured these coveted invitations. Darrin and Dalzell concealed their surprise, but expressed their pleasure in accepting the gracious invitation.

On entering Mrs. Stearns' drawing room the next Sunday Mr. Darrin and Mr. Dalzell were introduced to two pretty girls. Miss Flora Gentle was a cousin of their hostess. She had visited Annapolis before, and, being pretty and vivacious, at the same time kind and considerate, she had many friends among the midshipmen. Marian Stevens, who had accompanied her on this visit, was a direct contrast. Flora was blonde. Marian was the dark, flashing type. She was spoiled and imperious, yet she had a dashing, open way about her that made her a favorite among young people.

The two girls had heard of the double fight. Marian, therefore, was pleased when she found that Dave was to be her dinner partner.

"He's handsome," thought the girl, "and he's brave and dashing. He'll make his mark in the Navy. He doesn't know it yet, but he'll become mine, and mine alone."

Miss Stevens was a calculating young person, and had already decided that Navy life was the life for her and that she would marry into it. At seventeen, she looked upon the officers as old men, even the youngest of them, so was giving her time and her smiles to the midshipmen. That the Navy pay is small did not trouble Maid Marian, as she liked to be called, as on her twenty-first birthday she would come into a considerable fortune of her own.

She exerted herself all through the Stearns' dinner to captivate Dave Darrin. He, without diminution of love and loyalty to Belle Mead, was glad to be on friendly terms with this dashing and sprightly girl.

Coffee was served in the drawing room. Several officers dropped in. Marian, who wished no one to come between her and Dave for a while, turned to her host.

"Mr. Stearns, do the regulations make it improper for Flora and me to ask Mr. Darrin and Mr. Dalzell to take us for a stroll about the yard?" she asked with a pretty air of deference. The "yard" includes all the grounds belonging to the Naval Academy.

"They do not, Miss Marian," was the smiling response.

"With our hostess's approval we shall be charmed to grant any request the young ladies make," ventured Dave, as Marian smiled into his eyes.

But Marian, the wily and experienced, found herself baffled during this walk. Using all her cajoleries, she could bring him to a certain point beyond which he would not go. As a matter of fact, Dave Darrin, secure in his loyalty to Belle, did not perceive what Maid Marian was striving to lead up to, but saw in her only a lively and interesting girl.

"I'll get you yet, Midshipman Darrin," she vowed to herself after they had parted.

The gossip of a sweetheart in his home town which in time reached her ears only made the girl more determined to get her way. Looking in the mirror with satisfaction, she murmured:

"There'll be the added zest of making Midshipman Darrin forget the distant face of that home girl."

Not on that visit did Maid Marian succeed in leading Dave beyond the point of simple but sincere friendship. However, Miss Stevens could be charming to whomsoever she wished, and before she left Annapolis she had secured invitations to visit the wife of more than one of the officers.



Chapter XX


Conclusion

Christmas came and went, and soon after this the semi-annual examinations were on in earnest. Some of the midshipmen failed and sadly turned their faces homeward to make a place for themselves in some other lane of life. Dan Dalzell, however, made good his promise, and by a better margin than he had dared hope. Dave came through the examination somewhat better than his chum. Both felt assured now that they would round out the year with fair credit to themselves.

Marian Stevens came to Annapolis several times during the latter half of the year, and as it is expected that the future officer shall have social as well as Naval training, Dave Darrin met her often.

Exasperation that she could draw the young midshipman on only so far soon changed in Miss Stevens to anger and chagrin. Still Dave, giving prolonged thought to no girl except Belle Meade, saw in her only a lively companion. Sometimes he was her dinner partner. Always at a dance he danced with her more than once.

It was at one such dance that she looked up as they circled the room to say:

"I wonder if you know, Mr. Darrin, how much I enjoy dancing with you."

"Not as much as I enjoy dancing with you," he replied smilingly. Just then the music stopped suddenly and an officer called in a voice that carried over the great floor of the gymnasium and over all the chatter:

"Ladies and gentlemen, one moment's attention, please!"

In an instant all was still.

"Ladies and gentlemen," continued the officer, "official permission has been granted for taking a flashlight photograph of the scene to-night. Will everybody please remain where he is until after the exposure has been made?"

Dave and Marian had paused directly in front of the lens of the camera. Maid Marian looked up and made a light, jesting remark, gazing straight into the midshipman's eyes. Dave, smiling, bent forward to hear what she said.

Just then came the flash, and the photographer, his work finished for the time, gathered his paraphernalia together and left. The music recommenced and the dancing proceeded.

Three weeks later that photograph was reproduced as a double-page illustration in one of the prominent pictorial weeklies.

The day the magazine was on the newsstands Dan Dalzell bought a copy. Entering their quarters with it in his hand he opened it at the illustration and handed it to Dave.

"You and Miss Stevens show up better than any one else, Dave," remarked Dan.

"The photograph is a good piece of work," was Dave's only comment. He did not wish to express the annoyance he felt when he noted the appearance of intimacy between him and Marian, whose beauty showed, even in this reproduction. "I'd a bit rather Belle shouldn't see this paper," he admitted to himself.

"David, old boy, this picture would make a good exhibit in a breach-of-promise suit."

"That's an unkind remark to make about a fine girl like Miss Stevens," said Dave coldly.

Dan stared, then went off, pondering.

Belle Meade, in her Gridley home, received one day a large, square, thin package. She saw the mark of the Annapolis express office, and hastily snatched up scissors to cut the string. Out came a huge photograph.

"A picture of an Annapolis dance! How thoughtful of Dave to send it to me!" Then her eyes fell on two figures around which a ring had been drawn in ink. They were Dave Darrin and a pretty girl. On the margin of the card had been scrawled in bold letters:

"Your affair of the heart will bear close watching if you still cherish!"

This was signed, contemptibly and untruthfully, "A Friend."

"Uh!" murmured Belle in hurt pride and loyalty. Then she said resolutely to herself: "I will pay no attention to this. An anonymous communication is always meant to hurt and to give a false impression."

But there was the picture before her eyes of Dave and the pretty girl in seemingly great intimacy. So though she continued to write to the midshipman and tried hard to make her letters sound as usual, in spite of herself a coldness crept into them that Dave felt.

"She must have seen that pictorial weekly," thought the boy miserably. But as Belle said nothing of this, he could not write of it.

The season was well along. Dave and Dan sent Belle Meade and Laura Bentley invitations to one of the later spring dances.

"I wonder if she'll come or if she's tiring of me," thought Dave Darrin bitterly.

But Belle answered, accepting the invitation for Laura and herself.

When Saturday afternoon came both midshipmen hurried to the hotel in the town and sent up their cards. Mrs. Meade soon appeared, saying the girls would be down shortly.

"Are they both well?" asked Dave. His tone was as one giving a meaningless greeting, but in his heart he waited anxiously to hear what her mother should say of Belle.

"Well, yes. But Belle has been moping around the house a great deal, Dave, rather unlike her usual self," replied Mrs. Meade slowly.

If Mrs. Meade deplored this, Dave Darrin did not. It showed him at least that the girl's apparent coldness was not caused by her interest in some other young man.

But when the girls came in and Belle greeted him cordially, to be sure, but with something of restraint, his heart sank again.

"What's the matter, Belle? Has something gone wrong?" asked Dave when Dan was engaging the attention of Mrs. Meade and Laura.

"Nothing. Is all right with you?"

"Surely!"

"Dave, when we're alone I have something to show you. I fear you have an enemy here."

"An enemy! Oh, no. But I shall be glad to see what you have to show me."

It was not long before, at a word from Dave, Dan took Mrs. Meade and Laura out for a walk. It was then that Belle got the large photograph with the two figures ringed in ink and showed it to Dave.

"Why, what does this mean? Some one must have taken a good deal of trouble to secure this photograph. The picture was taken for a pictorial weekly. One can get a photograph from which the cut is made, but it is troublesome and possibly expensive!"

"You have an enemy, then; some one bent on hurting you?"

"I don't know who it could be. My, how angry Miss Stevens would be if she knew of this!"

"Miss Stevens? Is that the girl?"

"Yes. She's visited here often this year. She knows a number of the officers' wives. She's vivacious and always has a good time, but she's nothing to me, Belle. You know that, don't you?"

"I have never doubted you, Dave. Let us tear this up. I thought at first I'd not show it to you; then decided it was best not to begin concealing things from you. But let us not think of the thing again."

"Belle, you're a thoroughbred!" and here the matter dropped as far as it was between Dave Darrin and Belle Meade.

Miss Stevens was at the dance that evening. Though she tried hard to make that impossible, Dave did not dance with her, nor did he introduce her to Belle, though there again Marian tried to force this.

It would have been well for Marian if Dan Dalzell had been equally circumspect.

This time it was Belle who contrived and got the introduction to the other girl, but Marian was by no means reluctant, so it was that they managed to get a few moments alone together when they had sent their dance partners to get something for them.

"You are a friend of Dave's, aren't you?" asked Marian.

"Of Mr. Darrin's? Oh, yes, we've always known each other."

"Then you've been here to many of these dances?"

"Only two."

"Too bad you could not have been here oftener. This has been an unusually brilliant season. Really, many of the young people have lost their heads -- or their hearts. I often wonder if these midshipmen have sweethearts at home." This daring -- and impertinent -- remark was made musingly but smilingly.

"These Annapolis affairs are never very serious, I imagine," Belle observed calmly.

"On the contrary, most of the Navy marriages date back to an Annapolis first meeting."

"Then you think it well to come often?"

"Unless one has other ways of keeping in touch," was the brazen reply.

"I have," said Belle sweetly. "I receive a good many souvenirs in the course of a year. One last winter was a photograph." With the words Belle gazed intently into Miss Stevens' eyes. Then she went on: "There was an anonymous message written on it. It was a lying message, of course, as anonymous messages always are, written in a coarse hand. Did you ever study handwriting, Miss Stevens?"

Marian gasped, realizing she was out-maneuvered.

"This writing had all the characteristics of a woman whose instincts are coarse, that of a treacherous though not dangerous person -- "

"Here's Mr. Sanderson back. Will you excuse me, Miss Meade?" and Marian fairly fled.

Belle told Dave she had found out who had sent the photograph, but added:

"I wish you wouldn't ask me who it was, Dave. I can assure you that the person who did it will never trouble us again," and as Dave did not like to think evil of any one, he consented, and continued to think of Marian Stevens, when he thought of her at all, as a jolly girl.

The annual examinations were approaching. Dan Dalzell was buried deep in gloom. Dave Darrin kept cheerful outwardly, but doubts crept into his heart.

The examinations over, Dave felt reasonably safe. But Dan's gloom deepened, for he was sure he had failed in "skinny," as the boys termed chemistry and physics. So it was that when the grades were posted Dave scanned the D's in the list of third classmen who had passed. Dan, on the other hand, turned instantly to what he termed the "bust list."

"Why, why, I'm not there!" he muttered.

"Look at the passing list, Danny," laughed Dave.

Unbelieving, Dan turned his eyes on the list and to his utter astonishment found his name posted. True, in "skinny" he had a bare passing mark. But in other subjects he was somewhat above the minimum.

"So you see, old man, we'll both be here next year as second classmen," said Dave jubilantly.

This was as Dave Darrin said, and what happened during this time may be learned in a volume entitled, "DAVE DARRIN'S THIRD YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; or, Leaders of the Second Class Midshipmen."

<eob>

The Children's Book Of Christmas Stories

By

Various Authors



I. Christmas At Fezziwig's Warehouse

Charles Dickens

"Yo Ho! my boys," said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night! Christmas Eve, Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up!" cried old Fezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say Jack Robinson...."

"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Cheer-up, Ebenezer!"

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ballroom as you would desire to see on a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music book, and went up to the lofty desk and made an orchestra of it and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Misses Fezziwig, beaming and lovable. In came the six followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid with her cousin the baker. In came the cook with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master, trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping, old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them.

When this result was brought about the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been thrice as many -- oh, four times as many -- old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted at any given time what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance, advance and retire; both hands to your partner, bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig "cut" -- cut so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again with a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually, as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas!



II. The Fir-Tree

Hans Christian Andersen

Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir-tree. The place he had was a very good one; the sun shone on him; as to fresh air, there was enough of that, and round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well as firs. But the little Fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.

He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he did not care for the little cottage children that ran about and prattled when they were in the woods looking for wild strawberries. The children often came with a whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them threaded on a straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, "Oh, how pretty he is! what a nice little fir!" But this was what the Tree could not bear to hear.

At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another year he was another long bit taller; for with fir-trees one can always tell by the shoots how many years old they are.

"Oh, were I but such a high tree as the others are!" sighed he. "Then I should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look into the wide world! Then would the birds build nests among my branches; and when there was a breeze, I could bend with as much stateliness as the others!"

Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds, which morning and evening sailed above them, gave the little Tree any pleasure.

In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would often come leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh, that made him so angry! But two winters were past, and in the third the tree was so large that the hare was obliged to go round it. "To grow and grow, to get older and be tall," thought the Tree -- "that, after all, is the most delightful thing in the world!"

In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of the largest trees. This happened every year; and the young Fir-tree, that had now grown to a very comely size, trembled at the sight; for the magnificent great trees fell to the earth with noise and cracking, the branches were lopped off, and the trees looked long and bare; they were hardly to be recognized; and then they were laid in carts, and the horses dragged them out of the woods.

Where did they go to? What became of them?

In spring, when the Swallows and the Storks came, the Tree asked them, "Don't you know where they have been taken? Have you not met them anywhere?"

The Swallows did not know anything about it; but the Stork looked musing, nodded his head, and said: "Yes, I think I know; I met many ships as I was flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were magnificent masts, and I venture to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir. I may congratulate you, for they lifted themselves on high most majestically!"

"Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea! But how does the sea look in reality? What is it like?"

"That would take a long time to explain," said the Stork, and with these words off he went.

"Rejoice in thy growth!" said the Sunbeams, "rejoice in thy vigorous growth, and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!"

And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over him; but the Fir understood it not.

When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down; trees which often were not even as large or of the same age as this Fir-tree, who could never rest, but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and they were always the finest looking, retained their branches; they were laid on carts, and the horses drew them out of the woods.

"Where are they going to?" asked the Fir. "They are not taller than I; there was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and why do they retain all their branches? Whither are they taken?"

"We know! we know!" chirped the Sparrows. "We have peeped in at the windows in the town below! We know whither they are taken! The greatest splendour and the greatest magnificence one can imagine await them. We peeped through the windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the warm room, and ornamented with the most splendid things -- with gilded apples, with gingerbread, with toys, and many hundred lights!"

"And then?" asked the Fir-tree, trembling in every bough. "And then? What happens then?"

"We did not see anything more: it was incomparably beautiful."

"I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious a career," cried the Tree, rejoicing. "That is still better than to cross the sea! What a longing do I suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and my branches spread like the others that were carried off last year! Oh, were I but already on the cart. Were I in the warm room with all the splendour and magnificence! Yes; then something better, something still grander, will surely follow, or wherefore should they thus ornament me? Something better, something still grander, MUST follow -- but what? Oh, how I long, how I suffer! I do not know myself what is the matter with me!"

"Rejoice in our presence!" said the Air and the Sunlight; "rejoice in thy own fresh youth!"

But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and was green both winter and summer. People that saw him said, "What a fine tree!" and toward Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down. The axe struck deep into the very pith; the tree fell to the earth with a sigh: he felt a pang -- it was like a swoon; he could not think of happiness, for he was sorrowful at being separated from his home, from the place where he had sprung up. He knew well that he should never see his dear old comrades, the little bushes and flowers around him, any more; perhaps not even the birds! The departure was not at all agreeable.

The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a courtyard with the other trees, and heard a man say, "That one is splendid! we don't want the others." Then two servants came in rich livery and carried the Fir-tree into a large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hanging on the walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese vases with lions on the covers. There, too, were large easy chairs, silken sofas, large tables full of picture-books, and full of toys worth hundreds and hundreds of crowns -- at least the children said so. And the Fir-tree was stuck upright in a cask that was filled with sand: but no one could see that it was a cask, for green cloth was hung all around it, and it stood on a large gayly coloured carpet. Oh, how the Tree quivered! What was to happen? The servants, as well as the young ladies, decorated it. On one branch there hung little nets cut out of coloured paper, and each net was filled with sugar-plums; and among the other boughs gilded apples and walnuts were suspended, looking as though they had grown there, and little blue and white tapers were placed among the leaves. Dolls that looked for all the world like men -- the Tree had never beheld such before -- were seen among the foliage, and at the very top a large star of gold tinsel was fixed. It was really splendid -- beyond description splendid.

"This evening!" said they all; "how it will shine this evening!"

"Oh," thought the Tree, "if the evening were but come! If the tapers were but lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps the other trees from the forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the sparrows will beat against the window-panes! I wonder if I shall take root here, and winter and summer stand covered with ornaments!"

He knew very much about the matter! but he was so impatient that for sheer longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees is the same thing as a headache with us.

The candles were now lighted. What brightness! What splendour! The Tree trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire to the foliage. It blazed up splendidly.

"Help! Help!" cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the fire.

Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state he was in! He was so uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendour, that he was quite bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when suddenly both folding-doors opened, and a troop of children rushed in as if they would upset the Tree. The older persons followed quietly; the little ones stood quite still. But it was only for a moment; then they shouted so that the whole place reechoed with their rejoicing; they danced round the tree, and one present after the other was pulled off.

"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What is to happen now?" And the lights burned down to the very branches, and as they burned down they were put out, one after the other, and then the children had permission to plunder the tree. So they fell upon it with such violence that all its branches cracked; if it had not been fixed firmly in the cask, it would certainly have tumbled down.

The children danced about with their beautiful playthings: no one looked at the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the branches; but it was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that had been forgotten.

"A story! a story!" cried the children, drawing a little fat man toward the tree. He seated himself under it, and said: "Now we are in the shade, and the Tree can listen, too. But I shall tell only one story. Now which will you have: that about Ivedy-Avedy, or about Klumpy-Dumpy who tumbled downstairs, and yet after all came to the throne and married the princess?"

"Ivedy-Avedy!" cried some; "Klumpy-Dumpy" cried the others. There was such a bawling and screaming -- the Fir-tree alone was silent, and he thought to himself, "Am I not to bawl with the rest? -- am I to do nothing whatever?" for he was one of the company, and had done what he had to do.

And the man told about Klumpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who notwithstanding came to the throne, and at last married the princess. And the children clapped their hands, and cried out, "Oh, go on! Do go on!" They wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy, too, but the little man only told them about Klumpy-Dumpy. The Fir-tree stood quite still and absorbed in thought; the birds in the woods had never related the like of this. "Klumpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess! Yes! Yes! that's the way of the world!" thought the Fir-tree, and believed it all, because the man who told the story was so good-looking. "Well, well! who knows, perhaps I may fall downstairs, too, and get a princess as wife!" And he looked forward with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked out again with lights, playthings, fruits, and tinsel.

"I won't tremble to-morrow," thought the Fir-tree. "I will enjoy to the full all my splendour. To-morrow I shall hear again the story of Klumpy-Dumpy, and perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy, too." And the whole night the Tree stood still and in deep thought.

In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.

"Now, then, the splendour will begin again," thought the Fir. But they dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft; and here in a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him. "What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What shall I hear now, I wonder?" And he leaned against the wall, lost in reverie. Time enough had he, too, for his reflections; for days and nights passed on, and nobody came up; and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put some great trunks in a corner out of the way. There stood the Tree quite hidden; it seemed as if he had been entirely forgotten.

"'Tis now winter out of doors!" thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I have been put up here under shelter till the springtime comes! How thoughtful that is! How kind man is, after all! If it only were not so dark here, and so terribly lonely! Not even a hare. And out in the woods it was so pleasant, when the snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by; yes -- even when he jumped over me; but I did not like it then. It is really terribly lonely here!"

"Squeak! squeak!" said a little Mouse at the same moment, peeping out of his hole. And then another little one came. They sniffed about the Fir-tree, and rustled among the branches.

"It is dreadfully cold," said the Mouse. "But for that, it would be delightful here, old Fir, wouldn't it?"

"I am by no means old," said the Fir-tree. "There's many a one considerably older than I am."

"Where do you come from," asked the Mice; "and what can you do?" They were so extremely curious. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on the earth. Have you never been there? Were you never in the larder, where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances about on tallow-candles; that place where one enters lean, and comes out again fat and portly?"

"I know no such place," said the Tree, "but I know the woods, where the sun shines, and where the little birds sing." And then he told all about his youth; and the little Mice had never heard the like before; and they listened and said:

"Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you must have been!"

"I?" said the Fir-tree, thinking over what he had himself related. "Yes, in reality those were happy times." And then he told about Christmas Eve, when he was decked out with cakes and candles.

"Oh," said the little Mice, "how fortunate you have been, old Fir-tree!"

"I am by no means old," said he. "I came from the woods this winter; I am in my prime, and am only rather short for my age."

"What delightful stories you know!" said the Mice: and the next night they came with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the tree recounted; and the more he related, the more plainly he remembered all himself; and it appeared as if those times had really been happy times. "But they may still come -- they may still come. Klumpy-Dumpy fell downstairs and yet he got a princess," and he thought at the moment of a nice little Birch-tree growing out in the woods; to the Fir, that would be a real charming princess.

"Who is Klumpy-Dumpy?" asked the Mice. So then the Fir-tree told the whole fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and the little Mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next night two more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats, even; but they said the stories were not interesting, which vexed the little Mice; and they, too, now began to think them not so very amusing either.

"Do you know only one story?" asked the Rats.

"Only that one," answered the Tree. "I heard it on my happiest evening; but I did not then know how happy I was."

"It is a very stupid story. Don't you know one about bacon and tallow candles? Can't you tell any larder stories?"

"No," said the Tree.

"Then good-bye," said the Rats; and they went home.

At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree sighed: "After all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat around me and listened to what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take good care to enjoy myself when I am brought out again."

But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a quantity of people and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the Tree was pulled out and thrown -- rather hard, it is true -- down on the floor, but a man drew him toward the stairs, where the daylight shone.

"Now a merry life will begin again," thought the Tree. He felt the fresh air, the first sunbeam -- and now he was out in the courtyard. All passed so quickly, there was so much going on around him, that the Tree quite forgot to look to himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all was in flower; the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the lindens were in blossom, the Swallows flew by, and said, "Quirre-vit! my husband is come!" but it was not the Fir-tree that they meant.

"Now, then, I shall really enjoy life," said he, exultingly, and spread out his branches; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow. It was in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden star of tinsel was still on the top of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.

In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing who had danced at Christmas round the Fir-tree, and were so glad at the sight of him. One of the youngest ran and tore off the golden star.

"Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas tree!" said he, trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet. And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in the garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark corner in the loft; he thought of his first youth in the woods, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice who had listened with so much pleasure to the story of Klumpy-Dumpy.

"'Tis over -- 'tis past!" said the poor Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I had reason to do so! But now 'tis past, 'tis past!"

And the gardener's boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.

The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star on his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of his life. However, that was over now -- the Tree gone, the story at an end. All, all was over; every tale must end at last.



III. The Christmas Masquerade

Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

On Christmas Eve the Mayor's stately mansion presented a beautiful appearance. There were rows of different coloured wax candles burning in every window, and beyond them one could see the chandeliers of gold and crystal blazing with light. The fiddles were squeaking merrily, and lovely little forms flew past the windows in time to the music.

There were gorgeous carpets laid from the door to the street, and carriages were constantly arriving and fresh guests tripping over them. They were all children. The Mayor was giving a Christmas Masquerade tonight to all the children in the city, the poor as well as the rich. The preparation for this ball had been making an immense sensation for the last three months. Placards had been up in the most conspicuous points in the city, and all the daily newspapers had at least a column devoted to it, headed with "THE MAYOR'S CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE," in very large letters.

The Mayor had promised to defray the expenses of all the poor children whose parents were unable to do so, and the bills for their costumes were directed to be sent in to him.

Of course there was great excitement among the regular costumers of the city, and they all resolved to vie with one another in being the most popular, and the best patronized on this gala occasion. But the placards and the notices had not been out a week before a new Costumer appeared who cast all the others into the shade directly. He set up his shop on the corner of one of the principal streets, and hung up his beautiful costumes in the windows. He was a little fellow, not much bigger than a boy of ten. His cheeks were as red as roses, and he had on a long curling wig as white as snow. He wore a suit of crimson velvet knee-breeches, and a little swallow-tailed coat with beautiful golden buttons. Deep lace ruffles fell over his slender white hands, and he wore elegant knee buckles of glittering stones. He sat on a high stool behind his counter and served his customers himself; he kept no clerk.

It did not take the children long to discover what beautiful things he had, and how superior he was to the other costumers, and they begun to flock to his shop immediately, from the Mayor's daughter to the poor ragpicker's. The children were to select their own costumes; the Mayor had stipulated that. It was to be a children's ball in every sense of the word.

So they decided to be fairies and shepherdesses, and princesses according to their own fancies; and this new Costumer had charming costumes to suit them.

It was noticeable that, for the most part, the children of the rich, who had always had everything they desired, would choose the parts of goose-girls and peasants and such like; and the poor children jumped eagerly at the chance of being princesses or fairies for a few hours in their miserable lives.

When Christmas Eve came and the children flocked into the Mayor's mansion, whether it was owing to the Costumer's art, or their own adaptation to the characters they had chosen, it was wonderful how lifelike their representations were. Those little fairies in their short skirts of silken gauze, in which golden sparkles appeared as they moved with their little funny gossamer wings, like butterflies, looked like real fairies. It did not seem possible, when they floated around to the music, half supported on the tips of their dainty toes, half by their filmy purple wings, their delicate bodies swaying in time, that they could be anything but fairies. It seemed absurd to imagine that they were Johnny Mullens, the washerwoman's son, and Polly Flinders, the charwoman's little girl, and so on.

The Mayor's daughter, who had chosen the character of a goose-girl, looked so like a true one that one could hardly dream she ever was anything else. She was, ordinarily, a slender, dainty little lady rather tall for her age. She now looked very short and stubbed and brown, just as if she had been accustomed to tend geese in all sorts of weather. It was so with all the others -- the Red Riding-hoods, the princesses, the Bo-Peeps and with every one of the characters who came to the Mayor's ball; Red Riding-hood looked round, with big, frightened eyes, all ready to spy the wolf, and carried her little pat of butter and pot of honey gingerly in her basket; Bo-Peep's eyes looked red with weeping for the loss of her sheep; and the princesses swept about so grandly in their splendid brocaded trains, and held their crowned heads so high that people half-believed them to be true princesses.

But there never was anything like the fun at the Mayor's Christmas ball. The fiddlers fiddled and fiddled, and the children danced and danced on the beautiful waxed floors. The Mayor, with his family and a few grand guests, sat on a dais covered with blue velvet at one end of the dancing hall, and watched the sport. They were all delighted. The Mayor's eldest daughter sat in front and clapped her little soft white hands. She was a tall, beautiful young maiden, and wore a white dress, and a little cap woven of blue violets on her yellow hair. Her name was Violetta.

The supper was served at midnight -- and such a supper! The mountains of pink and white ices, and the cakes with sugar castles and flower gardens on the tops of them, and the charming shapes of gold and ruby-coloured jellies. There were wonderful bonbons which even the Mayor's daughter did not have every day; and all sorts of fruits, fresh and candied. They had cowslip wine in green glasses, and elderberry wine in red, and they drank each other's health. The glasses held a thimbleful each; the Mayor's wife thought that was all the wine they ought to have. Under each child's plate there was a pretty present and every one had a basket of bonbons and cake to carry home.

At four o'clock the fiddlers put up their fiddles and the children went home; fairies and shepherdesses and pages and princesses all jabbering gleefully about the splendid time they had had.

But in a short time what consternation there was throughout the city. When the proud and fond parents attempted to unbutton their children's dresses, in order to prepare them for bed, not a single costume would come off. The buttons buttoned again as fast as they were unbuttoned; even if they pulled out a pin, in it would slip again in a twinkling; and when a string was untied it tied itself up again into a bowknot. The parents were dreadfully frightened. But the children were so tired out they finally let them go to bed in their fancy costumes and thought perhaps they would come off better in the morning. So Red Riding-hood went to bed in her little red cloak holding fast to her basket full of dainties for her grandmother, and Bo-Peep slept with her crook in her hand.

The children all went to bed readily enough, they were so very tired, even though they had to go in this strange array. All but the fairies -- they danced and pirouetted and would not be still.

"We want to swing on the blades of grass," they kept saying, "and play hide and seek in the lily cups, and take a nap between the leaves of the roses."

The poor charwomen and coal-heavers, whose children the fairies were for the most part, stared at them in great distress. They did not know what to do with these radiant, frisky little creatures into which their Johnnys and their Pollys and Betseys were so suddenly transformed. But the fairies went to bed quietly enough when daylight came, and were soon fast asleep.

There was no further trouble till twelve o'clock, when all the children woke up. Then a great wave of alarm spread over the city. Not one of the costumes would come off then. The buttons buttoned as fast as they were unbuttoned; the pins quilted themselves in as fast as they were pulled out; and the strings flew round like lightning and twisted themselves into bow-knots as fast as they were untied.

And that was not the worst of it; every one of the children seemed to have become, in reality, the character which he or she had assumed.

The Mayor's daughter declared she was going to tend her geese out in the pasture, and the shepherdesses sprang out of their little beds of down, throwing aside their silken quilts, and cried that they must go out and watch their sheep. The princesses jumped up from their straw pallets, and wanted to go to court; and all the rest of them likewise. Poor little Red Riding-hood sobbed and sobbed because she couldn't go and carry her basket to her grandmother, and as she didn't have any grandmother she couldn't go, of course, and her parents were very much doubled. It was all so mysterious and dreadful. The news spread very rapidly over the city, and soon a great crowd gathered around the new Costumer's shop for every one thought he must be responsible for all this mischief.

The shop door was locked; but they soon battered it down with stones. When they rushed in the Costumer was not there; he had disappeared with all his wares. Then they did not know what to do. But it was evident that they must do something before long for the state of affairs was growing worse and worse.

The Mayor's little daughter braced her back up against the tapestried wall, and planted her two feet in their thick shoes firmly. "I will go and tend my geese," she kept crying. "I won't eat my breakfast. I won't go out in the park. I won't go to school. I'm going to tend my geese -- I will, I will, I will!"

And the princesses trailed their rich trains over the rough unpainted floors in their parents' poor little huts, and held their crowned heads very high and demanded to be taken to court. The princesses were mostly geese-girls when they were their proper selves, and their geese were suffering, and their poor parents did not know what they were going to do and they wrung their hands and wept as they gazed on their gorgeously apparelled children.

Finally the Mayor called a meeting of the Aldermen, and they all assembled in the City Hall. Nearly every one of them had a son or a daughter who was a chimney-sweep, or a little watch-girl, or a shepherdess. They appointed a chairman and they took a great many votes and contrary votes but they did not agree on anything, until every one proposed that they consult the Wise Woman. Then they all held up their hands, and voted to, unanimously.

So the whole board of Aldermen set out, walking by twos, with the Mayor at their head, to consult the Wise Woman. The Aldermen were all very fleshy, and carried gold-headed canes which they swung very high at every step. They held their heads well back, and their chins stiff, and whenever they met common people they sniffed gently. They were very imposing.

The Wise Woman lived in a little hut on the outskirts of the city. She kept a Black Cat, except for her, she was all alone. She was very old, and had brought up a great many children, and she was considered remarkably wise.

But when the Aldermen reached her hut and found her seated by the fire, holding her Black Cat, a new difficulty presented itself. She had always been quite deaf and people had been obliged to scream as loud as they could in order to make her hear; but lately she had grown much deafer, and when the Aldermen attempted to lay the case before her she could not hear a word. In fact, she was so very deaf that she could not distinguish a tone below G-sharp. The Aldermen screamed till they were quite red in the faces, but all to no purpose: none of them could get up to G-sharp of course.

So the Aldermen all went back, swinging their gold-headed canes, and they had another meeting in the City Hall. Then they decided to send the highest Soprano Singer in the church choir to the Wise Woman; she could sing up to G-sharp just as easy as not. So the high Soprano Singer set out for the Wise Woman's in the Mayor's coach, and the Aldermen marched behind, swinging their gold-headed canes.

The High Soprano Singer put her head down close to the Wise Woman's ear, and sung all about the Christmas Masquerade and the dreadful dilemma everybody was in, in G-sharp -- she even went higher, sometimes, and the Wise Woman heard every word.

She nodded three times, and every time she nodded she looked wiser.

"Go home, and give 'em a spoonful of castor-oil, all 'round," she piped up; then she took a pinch of snuff, and wouldn't say any more.

So the Aldermen went home, and every one took a district and marched through it, with a servant carrying an immense bowl and spoon, and every child had to take a dose of castor-oil.

But it didn't do a bit of good. The children cried and struggled when they were forced to take the castor-oil; but, two minutes afterward, the chimney-sweeps were crying for their brooms, and the princesses screaming because they couldn't go to court, and the Mayor's daughter, who had been given a double dose, cried louder and more sturdily: "I want to go and tend my geese. I will go and tend my geese."

So the Aldermen took the high Soprano Singer, and they consulted the Wise Woman again. She was taking a nap this time, and the Singer had to sing up to B-flat before she could wake her. Then she was very cross and the Black Cat put up his back and spit at the Aldermen.

"Give 'em a spanking all 'round," she snapped out, "and if that don't work put 'em to bed without their supper."

Then the Aldermen marched back to try that; and all the children in the city were spanked, and when that didn't do any good they were put to bed without any supper. But the next morning when they woke up they were worse than ever.

The Mayor and Aldermen were very indignant, and considered that they had been imposed upon and insulted. So they set out for the Wise Woman again, with the high Soprano Singer.

She sang in G-sharp how the Aldermen and the Mayor considered her an impostor, and did not think she was wise at all, and they wished her to take her Black Cat and move beyond the limits of the city.

She sang it beautifully; it sounded like the very finest Italian opera music.

"Deary me," piped the Wise Woman, when she had finished, "how very grand these gentlemen are." Her Black Cat put up his back and spit.

"Five times one Black Cat are five Black Cats," said the Wise Woman. And directly there were five Black Cats spitting and miauling.

"Five times five Black Cats are twenty-five Black Cats." And then there were twenty-five of the angry little beasts.

"Five times twenty-five Black Cats are one hundred and twenty-five Black Cats," added the Wise Woman with a chuckle.

Then the Mayor and the Aldermen and the high Soprano Singer fled precipitately out the door and back to the city. One hundred and twenty-five Black Cats had seemed to fill the Wise Woman's hut full, and when they all spit and miauled together it was dreadful. The visitors could not wait for her to multiply Black Cats any longer.

As winter wore on and spring came, the condition of things grew more intolerable. Physicians had been consulted, who advised that the children should be allowed to follow their own bents, for fear of injury to their constitutions. So the rich Aldermen's daughters were actually out in the fields herding sheep, and their sons sweeping chimneys or carrying newspapers; and while the poor charwomen's and coal-heavers, children spent their time like princesses and fairies. Such a topsy-turvy state of society was shocking. While the Mayor's little daughter was tending geese out in the meadow like any common goose-girl, her pretty elder sister, Violetta, felt very sad about it and used often to cast about in her mind for some way of relief.

When cherries were ripe in spring, Violetta thought she would ask the Cherry-man about it. She thought the Cherry-man quite wise. He was a very pretty young fellow, and he brought cherries to sell in graceful little straw baskets lined with moss. So she stood in the kitchen door one morning and told him all about the great trouble that had come upon the city. He listened in great astonishment; he had never heard of it before. He lived several miles out in the country.

"How did the Costumer look?" he asked respectfully; he thought Violetta the most beautiful lady on earth.

Then Violetta described the Costumer, and told him of the unavailing attempts that had been made to find him. There were a great many detectives out, constantly at work.

"I know where he is!" said the Cherry-man. "He's up in one of my cherry-trees. He's been living there ever since cherries were ripe, and he won't come down."

Then Violetta ran and told her father in great excitement, and he at once called a meeting of the Aldermen, and in a few hours half the city was on the road to the Cherry-man's.

He had a beautiful orchard of cherry-trees all laden with fruit. And, sure enough in one of the largest, way up amongst the topmost branches, sat the Costumer in his red velvet and short clothes and his diamond knee-buckles. He looked down between the green boughs. "Good-morning, friends!" he shouted.

The Aldermen shook their gold-headed canes at him, and the people danced round the tree in a rage. Then they began to climb. But they soon found that to be impossible. As fast as they touched a hand or foot to a tree, back it flew with a jerk exactly as if the tree pushed it. They tried a ladder, but the ladder fell back the moment it touched the tree, and lay sprawling upon the ground. Finally, they brought axes and thought they could chop the tree down, Costumer and all; but the wood resisted the axes as if it were iron, and only dented them, receiving no impression itself.

Meanwhile, the Costumer sat up in the tree, eating cherries and throwing the stones down. Finally he stood up on a stout branch, and, looking down, addressed the people.

"It's of no use, your trying to accomplish anything in this way," said he; "you'd better parley. I'm willing to come to terms with you, and make everything right on two conditions."

The people grew quiet then, and the Mayor stepped forward as spokesman, "Name your two conditions," said he rather testily. "You own, tacitly, that you are the cause of all this trouble."

"Well" said the Costumer, reaching out for a handful of cherries, "this Christmas Masquerade of yours was a beautiful idea; but you wouldn't do it every year, and your successors might not do it at all. I want those poor children to have a Christmas every year. My first condition is that every poor child in the city hangs its stocking for gifts in the City Hall on every Christmas Eve, and gets it filled, too. I want the resolution filed and put away in the city archives."

"We agree to the first condition!" cried the people with one voice, without waiting for the Mayor and Aldermen.

"The second condition," said the Costumer, "is that this good young Cherry-man here has the Mayor's daughter, Violetta, for his wife. He has been kind to me, letting me live in his cherry-tree and eat his cherries and I want to reward him."

"We consent," cried all the people; but the Mayor, though he was so generous, was a proud man. "I will not consent to the second condition," he cried angrily.

"Very well," replied the Costumer, picking some more cherries, "then your youngest daughter tends geese the rest of her life, that's all."

The Mayor was in great distress; but the thought of his youngest daughter being a goose-girl all her life was too much for him. He gave in at last.

"Now go home and take the costumes off your children," said the Costumer, "and leave me in peace to eat cherries."

Then the people hastened back to the city, and found, to their great delight, that the costumes would come off. The pins stayed out, the buttons stayed unbuttoned, and the strings stayed untied. The children were dressed in their own proper clothes and were their own proper selves once more. The shepherdesses and the chimney-sweeps came home, and were washed and dressed in silks and velvets, and went to embroidering and playing lawn-tennis. And the princesses and the fairies put on their own suitable dresses, and went about their useful employments. There was great rejoicing in every home. Violetta thought she had never been so happy, now that her dear little sister was no longer a goose-girl, but her own dainty little lady-self.

The resolution to provide every poor child in the city with a stocking full of gifts on Christmas was solemnly filed, and deposited in the city archives, and was never broken.

Violetta was married to the Cherry-man, and all the children came to the wedding, and strewed flowers in her path till her feet were quite hidden in them. The Costumer had mysteriously disappeared from the cherry-tree the night before, but he left at the foot some beautiful wedding presents for the bride -- a silver service with a pattern of cherries engraved on it, and a set of china with cherries on it, in hand painting, and a white satin robe, embroidered with cherries down the front.



IV. The Shepherds And The Angels

Adapted From The Bible

And there were shepherds in the same country abiding in the field, and keeping watch by night over their flock. And an angel of the Lord stood by them and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Be not afraid; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all the people: for there is born to you this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this is the sign unto you; ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying:

Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, Good will toward men.

And it came to pass, when the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing that is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us. And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph and the babe lying in the manger. And when they saw it, they made known concerning the saying which was spoken to them about this child. And all that heard it wondered at the things which were spoken unto them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these sayings, pondering them in her heart. And the shepherds returned glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, even as it was spoken unto them.

And when eight days were fulfilled his name was called JESUS.



V. The Telltale Tile

Olive Thorne Miller

It begins with a bit of gossip of a neighbour who had come in to see Miss Bennett, and was telling her about a family who had lately moved into the place and were in serious trouble. "And they do say she'll have to go to the poorhouse," she ended.

"To the poorhouse! how dreadful! And the children, too?" and Miss Bennett shuddered.

"Yes; unless somebody'll adopt them, and that's not very likely. Well, I must go," the visitor went on, rising. "I wish I could do something for her, but, with my houseful of children, I've got use for every penny I can rake and scrape."

"I'm sure I have, with only myself," said Miss Bennett, as she closed the door. "I'm sure I have," she repeated to herself as she resumed her knitting; "it's as much as I can do to make ends meet, scrimping as I do, not to speak of laying up a cent for sickness and old age."

"But the poorhouse!" she said again. "I wish I could help her!" and the needles flew in and out, in and out, faster than ever, as she turned this over in her mind. "I might give up something," she said at last, "though I don't know what, unless -- unless," she said slowly, thinking of her one luxury, "unless I give up my tea, and it don't seem as if I COULD do that."

Some time the thought worked in her mind, and finally she resolved to make the sacrifice of her only indulgence for six months, and send the money to her suffering neighbour, Mrs. Stanley, though she had never seen her, and she had only heard she was in want.

How much of a sacrifice that was you can hardly guess, you, Kristy, who have so many luxuries.

That evening Mrs. Stanley was surprised by a small gift of money "from a friend," as was said on the envelope containing it.

"Who sent it?" she asked, from the bed where she was lying.

"Miss Bennett told me not to tell," said the boy, unconscious that he had already told.

The next day Miss Bennett sat at the window knitting, as usual -- for her constant contribution to the poor fund of the church was a certain number of stockings and mittens -- when she saw a young girl coming up to the door of the cottage.

"Who can that be?" she said to herself. "I never saw her before. Come in!" she called; in answer to a knock. The girl entered, and walked up to Miss Bennett.

"Are you Miss Bennett?" she asked.

"Yes," said Miss Bennett with an amused smile.

"Well, I'm Hetty Stanley."

Miss Bennett started, and her colour grew a little brighter.

"I'm glad to see you, Hetty." she said, "won't you sit down?"

"Yes, if you please," said Hetty, taking a chair near her.

"I came to tell you how much we love you for -- "

"Oh, don't! don't say any more!" interrupted Miss Bennett; "never mind that! Tell me about your mother and your baby brother."

This was an interesting subject, and they talked earnestly about it. The time passed so quickly that, before she knew it, she had been in the house an hour. When she went away Miss Bennett asked her to come again, a thing she had never been known to do before, for she was not fond of young people in general.

"But, then, Hetty's different," she said to herself, when wondering at her own interest.

"Did you thank kind Miss Bennett?" was her mother's question as Hetty opened the door.

Hetty stopped as if struck, "Why, no! I don't think I did."

"And stayed so long, too? Whatever did you do? I've heard she isn't fond of people generally."

"We talked; and -- I think she's ever so nice. She asked me to come again; may I?"

"Of course you may, if she cares to have you. I should be glad to do something to please her."

That visit of Hetty's was the first of a long series. Almost every day she found her way to the lonely cottage, where a visitor rarely came, and a strange intimacy grew up between the old and the young. Hetty learned of her friend to knit, and many an hour they spent knitting while Miss Bennett ransacked her memory for stories to tell. And then, one day, she brought down from a big chest in the garret two of the books she used to have when she was young, and let Hetty look at them.

One was "Thaddeus of Warsaw," and the other "Scottish Chiefs." Poor Hetty had not the dozens of books you have, and these were treasures indeed. She read them to herself, and she read them aloud to Miss Bennett, who, much to her own surprise, found her interest almost as eager as Hetty's.

All this time Christmas was drawing near, and strange, unusual feelings began to stir in Miss Bennett's heart, though generally she did not think much about that happy time. She wanted to make Hetty a happy day. Money she had none, so she went into the garret, where her youthful treasures had long been hidden. From the chest from which she had taken the books she now took a small box of light-coloured wood, with a transferred engraving on the cover. With a sigh -- for the sight of it brought up old memories -- Miss Bennett lifted the cover by its loop of ribbon, took out a package of old letters, and went downstairs with the box, taking also a few bits of bright silk from a bundle in the chest.

"I can fit it up for a workbox," she said, "and I'm sure Hetty will like it."

For many days after this Miss Bennett had her secret work, which she carefully hid when she saw Hetty coming. Slowly, in this way, she made a pretty needle-book, a tiny pincushion, and an emery bag like a big strawberry. Then from her own scanty stock she added needles, pins, thread, and her only pair of small scissors, scoured to the last extreme of brightness.

One thing only she had to buy -- a thimble, and that she bought for a penny, of brass so bright it was quite as handsome as gold.

Very pretty the little box looked when full; in the bottom lay a quilted lining, which had always been there, and upon this the fittings she had made. Besides this, Miss Bennett knit a pair of mittens for each of Hetty's brothers and sisters.

The happiest girl in town on Christmas morning was Hetty Stanley. To begin with, she had the delight of giving the mittens to the children, and when she ran over to tell Miss Bennett how pleased they were, she was surprised by the present of the odd little workbox and its pretty contents.

Christmas was over all too soon, and New Year's, and it was about the middle of January that the time came which, all her life, Miss Bennett had dreaded -- the time when she should be helpless. She had not money enough to hire a girl, and so the only thing she could imagine when that day should come was her special horror -- the poorhouse.

But that good deed of hers had already borne fruit, and was still bearing. When Hetty came over one day, and found her dear friend lying on the floor as if dead, she was dreadfully frightened, of course, but she ran after the neighbours and the doctor, and bustled about the house as if she belonged to it.

Miss Bennett was not dead -- she had a slight stroke of paralysis; and though she was soon better, and would be able to talk, and probably to knit, and possibly to get about the house, she would never be able to live alone and do everything for herself, as she had done.

So the doctor told the neighbours who came in to help, and so Hetty heard, as she listened eagerly for news.

"Of course she can't live here any longer; she'll have to go to a hospital," said one woman.

"Or to the poorhouse, more likely," said another.

"She'll hate that," said the first speaker. "I've heard her shudder over the poorhouse."

"She shall never go there!" declared Hetty, with blazing eyes.

"Hoity-toity! who's to prevent?" asked the second speaker, turning a look of disdain on Hetty.

"I am," was the fearless answer. "I know all Miss Bennett's ways, and I can take care of her, and I will," went on Hetty indignantly; and turning suddenly, she was surprised to find Miss Bennett's eyes fixed on her with an eager, questioning look.

"There! she understands! she's better!" cried Hetty. "Mayn't I stay and take care of you, dear Miss Bennett?" she asked, running up to the bed.

"Yes, you may," interrupted the doctor, seeing the look in his patient's face; "but you mustn't agitate her now. And now, my good women" -- turning to the others -- "I think she can get along with her young friend here, whom I happen to know is a womanly young girl, and will be attentive and careful."

They took the hint and went away, and the doctor gave directions to Hetty what to do, telling her she must not leave Miss Bennett. So she was now regularly installed as nurse and housekeeper.

Days and weeks rolled by. Miss Bennett was able to be up in her chair, to talk and knit, and to walk about the house, but was not able to be left alone. Indeed, she had a horror of being left alone; she could not bear Hetty out of her sight, and Hetty's mother was very willing to spare her, for she had many mouths to fill.

To provide food for two out of what had been scrimping for one was a problem; but Miss Bennett ate very little, and she did not resume her tea so they managed to get along and not really suffer.

One day Hetty sat by the fire with her precious box on her knee, which she was putting to rights for the twentieth time. The box was empty, and her sharp young eyes noticed a little dust on the silk lining.

"I think I'll take this out and dust it," she said to Miss Bennett, "if you don't mind."

"Do as you like with it," answered Miss Bennett; "it is yours."

So she carefully lifted the silk, which stuck a little.

"Why, here's something under it," she said -- "an old paper, and it has writing on."

"Bring it to me," said Miss Bennett; "perhaps it's a letter I have forgotten."

Hetty brought it.

"Why, it's father's writing!" said Miss Bennett, looking closely at the faded paper; "and what can it mean? I never saw it before. It says, 'Look, and ye shall find' -- that's a Bible text. And what is this under it? 'A word to the wise is sufficient.' I don't understand -- he must have put it there himself, for I never took that lining out -- I thought it was fastened. What can it mean?" and she pondered over it long, and all day seemed absent-minded.

After tea, when they sat before the kitchen fire, as they always did, with only the firelight flickering and dancing on the walls while they knitted, or told stories, or talked, she told Hetty about her father: that they had lived comfortably in this house, which he built, and that everybody supposed that he had plenty of money, and would leave enough to take care of his only child, but that when he died suddenly nothing had been found, and nothing ever had been, from that day to this.

"Part of the place I let to John Thompson, Hetty, and that rent is all I have to live on. I don't know what makes me think of old times so to-night."

"I know," said Hetty; "it's that paper, and I know what it reminds me of," she suddenly shouted, in a way very unusual with her. "It's that tile over there," and she jumped up and ran to the side of the fireplace, and put her hand on the tile she meant.

On each side of the fireplace was a row of tiles. They were Bible subjects, and Miss Bennett had often told Hetty the story of each one, and also the stories she used to make up about them when she was young. The one Hetty had her hand on now bore the picture of a woman standing before a closed door, and below her the words of the yellow bit of paper: "Look, and ye shall find."

"I always felt there was something different about that," said Hetty eagerly, "and you know you told me your father talked to you about it -- about what to seek in the world when he was gone away, and other things."

"Yes, so he did," said Miss Bennett thoughtfully; "come to think of it, he said a great deal about it, and in a meaning way. I don't understand it," she said slowly, turning it over in her mind.

"I do!" cried Hetty, enthusiastically. "I believe you are to seek here! I believe it's loose!" and she tried to shake it. "It IS loose!" she cried excitedly. "Oh, Miss Bennett, may I take it out?"

Miss Bennett had turned deadly pale. "Yes," she gasped, hardly knowing what she expected, or dared to hope.

A sudden push from Hetty's strong fingers, and the tile slipped out at one side and fell to the floor. Behind it was an opening into the brickwork. Hetty thrust in her hand.

"There's something in there!" she said in an awed tone.

"A light!" said Miss Bennett hoarsely.

There was not a candle in the house, but Hetty seized a brand from the fire, and held it up and looked in.

"It looks like bags -- tied up," she cried. "Oh, come here yourself!"

The old woman hobbled over and thrust her hand into the hole, bringing out what was once a bag, but which crumpled to pieces in her hands, and with it -- oh, wonder! -- a handful of gold pieces, which fell with a jingle on the hearth, and rolled every way.

"My father's money! Oh, Hetty!" was all she could say, and she seized a chair to keep from falling, while Hetty was nearly wild, and talked like a crazy person.

"Oh, goody! goody! now you can have things to eat! and we can have a candle! and you won't have to go to the poorhouse!"

"No, indeed, you dear child!" cried Miss Bennett who had found her voice. "Thanks to you -- you blessing! -- I shall be comfortable now the rest of my days. And you! oh! I shall never forget you! Through you has everything good come to me."

"Oh, but you have been so good to me, dear Miss Bennett!"

"I should never have guessed it, you precious child! If it had not been for your quickness I should have died and never found it."

"And if you hadn't given me the box, it might have rusted away in that chest."

"Thank God for everything, child! Take money out of my purse and go buy a candle. We need not save it for bread now. Oh, child!" she interrupted herself, "do you know, we shall have everything we want to-morrow. Go! Go! I want to see how much there is."

The candle bought, the gold was taken out and counted, and proved to be more than enough to give Miss Bennett a comfortable income without touching the principal. It was put back, and the tile replaced, as the safest place to keep it till morning, when Miss Bennett intended to put it into a bank.

But though they went to bed, there was not a wink of sleep for Miss Bennett, for planning what she would do. There were a thousand things she wanted to do first. To get clothes for Hetty, to brighten up the old house, to hire a girl to relieve Hetty, so that the dear child should go to school, to train her into a noble woman -- all her old ambitions and wishes for herself sprang into life for Hetty. For not a thought of her future life was separate from Hetty.

In a very short time everything was changed in Miss Bennett's cottage. She had publicly adopted Hetty, and announced her as her heir. A girl had been installed in the kitchen, and Hetty, in pretty new clothes, had begun school. Fresh paint inside and out, with many new comforts, made the old house charming and bright. But nothing could change the pleasant and happy relations between the two friends, and a more contented and cheerful household could not be found anywhere.

Happiness is a wonderful doctor and Miss Bennett grew so much better, that she could travel, and when Hetty had finished school days, they saw a little of the world before they settled down to a quiet, useful life.

"Every comfort on earth I owe to you," said Hetty, one day, when Miss Bennett had proposed some new thing to add to her enjoyment.

"Ah, dear Hetty! how much do I owe to you! But for you, I should, no doubt, be at this moment a shivering pauper in that terrible poorhouse, while some one else would be living in this dear old house. And it all comes," she added softly, "of that one unselfish thought, of that one self-denial for others."



VI. Little Girl's Christmas

Winnifred E. Lincoln

It was Christmas Eve, and Little Girl had just hung up her stocking by the fireplace -- right where it would be all ready for Santa when he slipped down the chimney. She knew he was coming, because -- well, because it was Christmas Eve, and because he always had come to leave gifts for her on all the other Christmas Eves that she could remember, and because she had seen his pictures everywhere down town that afternoon when she was out with Mother.

Still, she wasn't JUST satisfied. 'Way down in her heart she was a little uncertain -- you see, when you have never really and truly seen a person with your very own eyes, it's hard to feel as if you exactly believed in him -- even though that person always has left beautiful gifts for you every time he has come.

"Oh, he'll come," said Little Girl; "I just know he will be here before morning, but somehow I wish -- "

"Well, what do you wish?" said a Tiny Voice close by her -- so close that Little Girl fairly jumped when she heard it.

"Why, I wish I could SEE Santa myself. I'd just like to go and see his house and his workshop, and ride in his sleigh, and know Mrs. Santa -- 'twould be such fun, and then I'd KNOW for sure."

"Why don't you go, then?" said Tiny Voice. "It's easy enough. Just try on these Shoes, and take this Light in your hand, and you'll find your way all right."

So Little Girl looked down on the hearth, and there were two cunning little Shoes side by side, and a little Spark of a Light close to them -- just as if they were all made out of one of the glowing coals of the wood-fire. Such cunning Shoes as they were -- Little Girl could hardly wait to pull off her slippers and try them on. They looked as if they were too small, but they weren't -- they fitted exactly right, and just as Little Girl had put them both on and had taken the Light in her hand, along came a little Breath of Wind, and away she went up the chimney, along with ever so many other little Sparks, past the Soot Fairies, and out into the Open Air, where Jack Frost and the Star Beams were all busy at work making the world look pretty for Christmas.

Away went Little Girl -- Two Shoes, Bright Light, and all -- higher and higher, until she looked like a wee bit of a star up in the sky. It was the funniest thing, but she seemed to know the way perfectly, and didn't have to stop to make inquiries anywhere. You see it was a straight road all the way, and when one doesn't have to think about turning to the right or the left, it makes things very much easier. Pretty soon Little Girl noticed that there was a bright light all around her -- oh, a very bright light -- and right away something down in her heart began to make her feel very happy indeed. She didn't know that the Christmas spirits and little Christmas fairies were all around her and even right inside her, because she couldn't see a single one of them, even though her eyes were very bright and could usually see a great deal.

But that was just it, and Little Girl felt as if she wanted to laugh and sing and be glad. It made her remember the Sick Boy who lived next door, and she said to herself that she would carry him one of her prettiest picture-books in the morning, so that he could have something to make him happy all day. By and by, when the bright light all around her had grown very, very much brighter, Little Girl saw a path right in front of her, all straight and trim, leading up a hill to a big, big house with ever and ever so many windows in it. When she had gone just a bit nearer, she saw candles in every window, red and green and yellow ones, and every one burning brightly, so Little Girl knew right away that these were Christmas candles to light her on her journey, and make the way dear for her, and something told her that this was Santa's house, and that pretty soon she would perhaps see Santa himself.

Just as she neared the steps and before she could possibly have had time to ring the bell, the door opened -- opened of itself as wide as could be -- and there stood -- not Santa himself -- don't think it -- but a funny Little Man with slender little legs and a roly-poly stomach which shook every now and then when he laughed. You would have known right away, just as Little Girl knew, that he was a very happy little man, and you would have guessed right away, too, that the reason he was so roly-poly was because he laughed and chuckled and smiled all the time -- for it's only sour, cross folks who are thin and skimpy. Quick as a wink, he pulled off his little peaked red cap, smiled the broadest kind of a smile, and said, "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Come in! Come in!"

So in went Little Girl, holding fast to Little Man's hand, and when she was really inside there was the jolliest, reddest fire all glowing and snapping, and there were Little Man and all his brothers and sisters, who said their names were "Merry Christmas," and "Good Cheer," and ever so many other jolly-sounding things, and there were such a lot of them that Little Girl just knew she never could count them, no matter how long she tried.

All around her were bundles and boxes and piles of toys and games, and Little Girl knew that these were all ready and waiting to be loaded into Santa's big sleigh for his reindeer to whirl them away over cloudtops and snowdrifts to the little people down below who had left their stockings all ready for him. Pretty soon all the little Good Cheer Brothers began to hurry and bustle and carry out the bundles as fast as they could to the steps where Little Girl could hear the jingling bells and the stamping of hoofs. So Little Girl picked up some bundles and skipped along too, for she wanted to help a bit herself -- it's no fun whatever at Christmas unless you can help, you know -- and there in the yard stood the BIGGEST sleigh that Little Girl had ever seen, and the reindeer were all stamping and prancing and jingling the bells on their harnesses, because they were so eager to be on their way to the Earth once more.

She could hardly wait for Santa to come, and just as she had begun to wonder where he was, the door opened again and out came a whole forest of Christmas trees, at least it looked just as if a whole forest had started out for a walk somewhere, but a second glance showed Little Girl that there were thousands of Christmas sprites, and that each one carried a tree or a big Christmas wreath on his back. Behind them all, she could hear some one laughing loudly, and talking in a big, jovial voice that sounded as if he were good friends with the whole world.

And straightway she knew that Santa himself was coming. Little Girl's heart went pit-a-pat for a minute while she wondered if Santa would notice her, but she didn't have to wonder long, for he spied her at once and said:

"Bless my soul! who's this? and where did you come from?"

Little Girl thought perhaps she might be afraid to answer him, but she wasn't one bit afraid. You see he had such a kind little twinkle in his eyes that she felt happy right away as she replied, "Oh, I'm Little Girl, and I wanted so much to see Santa that I just came, and here I am!"

"Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!" laughed Santa, "and here you are! Wanted to see Santa, did you, and so you came! Now that's very nice, and it's too bad I'm in such a hurry, for we should like nothing better than to show you about and give you a real good time. But you see it is quarter of twelve now, and I must be on my way at once, else I'll never reach that first chimney-top by midnight. I'd call Mrs. Santa and ask her to get you some supper, but she is busy finishing dolls' clothes which must be done before morning, and I guess we'd better not bother her. Is there anything that you would like, Little Girl?" and good old Santa put his big warm hand on Little Girl's curls and she felt its warmth and kindness clear down to her very heart. You see, my dears, that even though Santa was in such a great hurry, he wasn't too busy to stop and make some one happy for a minute, even if it was some one no bigger than Little Girl.

So she smiled back into Santa's face and said: "Oh, Santa, if I could ONLY ride down to Earth with you behind those splendid reindeer! I'd love to go; won't you PLEASE take me? I'm so small that I won't take up much room on the seat, and I'll keep very still and not bother one bit!"

Then Santa laughed, SUCH a laugh, big and loud and rollicking, and he said, "Wants a ride, does she? Well, well, shall we take her, Little Elves? Shall we take her, Little Fairies? Shall we take her, Good Reindeer?"

And all the Little Elves hopped and skipped and brought Little Girl a sprig of holly; and all the Little Fairies bowed and smiled and brought her a bit of mistletoe; and all the Good Reindeer jingled their bells loudly, which meant, "Oh, yes! let's take her! She's a good Little Girl! Let her ride!" And before Little Girl could even think, she found herself all tucked up in the big fur robes beside Santa, and away they went, right out into the air, over the clouds, through the Milky Way, and right under the very handle of the Big Dipper, on, on, toward the Earthland, whose lights Little Girl began to see twinkling away down below her. Presently she felt the runners scrape upon something, and she knew they must be on some one's roof, and that Santa would slip down some one's chimney in a minute.

How she wanted to go, too! You see if you had never been down a chimney and seen Santa fill up the stockings, you would want to go quite as much as Little Girl did, now, wouldn't you? So, just as Little Girl was wishing as hard as ever she could wish, she heard a Tiny Voice say, "Hold tight to his arm! Hold tight to his arm!" So she held Santa's arm tight and close, and he shouldered his pack, never thinking that it was heavier than usual, and with a bound and a slide, there they were, Santa, Little Girl, pack and all, right in the middle of a room where there was a fireplace and stockings all hung up for Santa to fill.

Just then Santa noticed Little Girl. He had forgotten all about her for a minute, and he was very much surprised to find that she had come, too. "Bless my soul!" he said, "where did you come from, Little Girl? and how in the world can we both get back up that chimney again? It's easy enough to slide down, but it's quite another matter to climb up again!" and Santa looked real worried. But Little Girl was beginning to feel very tired by this time, for she had had a very exciting evening, so she said, "Oh, never mind me, Santa. I've had such a good time, and I'd just as soon stay here a while as not. I believe I'll curl up on his hearth-rug a few minutes and have a little nap, for it looks as warm and cozy as our own hearth-rug at home, and -- why, it is our own hearth and it's my own nursery, for there is Teddy Bear in his chair where I leave him every night, and there's Bunny Cat curled up on his cushion in the corner."

And Little Girl turned to thank Santa and say goodbye to him, but either he had gone very quickly, or else she had fallen asleep very quickly -- she never could tell which -- for the next thing she knew, Daddy was holding her in his arms and was saying, "What is my Little Girl doing here? She must go to bed, for it's Christmas Eve, and old Santa won't come if he thinks there are any little folks about."

But Little Girl knew better than that, and when she began to tell him all about it, and how the Christmas fairies had welcomed her, and how Santa had given her such a fine ride, Daddy laughed and laughed, and said, "You've been dreaming, Little Girl, you've been dreaming."

But Little Girl knew better than that, too, for there on the hearth was the little Black Coal, which had given her Two Shoes and Bright Light, and tight in her hand she held a holly berry which one of the Christmas Sprites had placed there. More than all that, there she was on the hearth-rug herself, just as Santa had left her, and that was the best proof of all.

The trouble was, Daddy himself had never been a Little Girl, so he couldn't tell anything about it, but we know she hadn't been dreaming, now, don't we, my dears?



VII. "A Christmas Matinee"

Mrs. M.A.L. Lane

It was the day before Christmas in the year 189-. Snow was falling heavily in the streets of Boston, but the crowd of shoppers seemed undiminished. As the storm increased, groups gathered at the corners and in sheltering doorways to wait for belated cars; but the holiday cheer was in the air, and there was no grumbling. Mothers dragging tired children through the slush of the streets; pretty girls hurrying home for the holidays; here and there a harassed-looking man with perhaps a single package which he had taken a whole morning to select -- all had the same spirit of tolerant good-humor.

"School Street! School Street!" called the conductor of an electric car. A group of young people at the farther end of the car started to their feet. One of them, a young man wearing a heavy fur-trimmed coat, addressed the conductor angrily.

"I said, 'Music Hall,' didn't I?" he demanded. "Now we've got to walk back in the snow because of your stupidity!"

"Oh, never mind, Frank!" one of the girls interposed. "We ought to have been looking out ourselves! Six of us, and we went by without a thought! It is all Mrs. Tirrell's fault! She shouldn't have been so entertaining!"

The young matron dimpled and blushed. "That's charming of you, Maidie," she said, gathering up her silk skirts as she prepared to step down into the pond before her. "The compliment makes up for the blame. But how it snows!"

"It doesn't matter. We all have gaiters on," returned Maidie Williams, undisturbed.

"Fares, please!" said the conductor stolidly.

Frank Armstrong thrust his gloved hand deep into his pocket with angry vehemence. "There's your money," he said, "and be quick about the change, will you? We've lost time enough!"

The man counted out the change with stiff, red fingers, closed his lips firmly as if to keep back an obvious rejoinder, rang up the six fares with careful accuracy, and gave the signal to go ahead. The car went on into the drifting storm.

Armstrong laughed shortly as he rapidly counted the bits of silver lying in his open palm. He turned instinctively, but two or three cars were already between him and the one he was looking for.

"The fellow must be an imbecile," he said, rejoining the group on the crossing. "He's given me back a dollar and twenty cents, and I handed him a dollar bill."

"Oh, can't you stop him?" cried Maidie Williams, with a backward step into the wet street.

The Harvard junior, who was carrying her umbrella, protested: "What's the use. Miss Williams? He'll make it up before he gets to Scollay Square, you may be sure. Those chaps don't lose anything. Why, the other day, I gave one a quarter and he went off as cool as you please. 'Where's my change?' said I. 'You gave me a nickel,' said he. And there wasn't anybody to swear that I didn't except myself, and I didn't count."

"But that doesn't make any difference," insisted the girl warmly. "Because one conductor was dishonest, we needn't be. I beg your pardon, Frank, but it does seem to me just stealing."

"Oh, come along!" said her cousin, with an easy laugh. "I guess the West End Corporation won't go without their dinners to-morrow. Here, Maidie, here's the ill-gotten fifty cents. I think you ought to treat us all after the concert; still, I won't urge you. I wash my hands of all responsibility. But I do wish you hadn't such an unpleasant conscience."

Maidie flushed under the sting of his cousinly rudeness, but she went on quietly with the rest. It was evident that any attempt to overtake the car was out of the question.

"Did you notice his number, Frank?" she asked, suddenly.

"No, I never thought of it" said Frank, stopping short. "However, I probably shouldn't make any complaint if I had. I shall forget all about it tomorrow. I find it's never safe to let the sun go down on my wrath. It's very likely not to be there the next day."

"I wasn't thinking of making a complaint," said Maidie; but the two young men were enjoying the small joke too much to notice what she said.

The great doorway of Music Hall was just ahead. In a moment the party were within its friendly shelter, stamping off the snow. The girls were adjusting veils and hats with adroit feminine touches; the pretty chaperon was beaming approval upon them, and the young men were taking off their wet overcoats, when Maidie turned again in sudden desperation.

"Mr. Harris," she said, rather faintly, for she did not like to make herself disagreeable, "do you suppose that car comes right back from Scollay Square?"

"What car?" asked Walter Harris, blankly. "Oh, the one we came in? Yes, I suppose it does. They're running all the time, anyway. Why, you are not sick, are you, Miss Williams?"

There was genuine concern in his tone. This girl, with her sweet, vibrant voice, her clear gray eyes, seemed very charming to him. She wasn't beautiful, perhaps, but she was the kind of girl he liked. There was a steady earnestness in the gray eyes that made him think of his mother.

"No," said Maidie, slowly. "I'm all right, thank you. But I wish I could find that man again. I know sometimes they have to make it up if their accounts are wrong, and I couldn't -- we couldn't feel very comfortable -- "

Frank Armstrong interrupted her. "Maidie," he said, with the studied calmness with which one speaks to an unreasonable child, "you are perfectly absurd. Here it is within five minutes of the tune for the concert to begin. It is impossible to tell when that car is coming back. You are making us all very uncomfortable. Mrs. Tirrell, won't you please tell her not to spoil our afternoon?"

"I think he's right, Maidie," said Mrs. Tirrell. "It's very nice of you to feel so sorry for the poor man, but he really was very careless. It was all his own fault. And just think how far he made us walk! My feet are quite damp. We ought to go in directly or we shall all take cold, and I'm sure you wouldn't like that, my dear."

She led the way as she spoke, the two girls and young Armstrong following. Maidie hesitated. It was so easy to go in, to forget everything in the light and warmth and excitement.

"No," said she, very firmly, and as much to herself as to the young man who stood waiting for her. "I must go back and try to make it right. I'm so sorry, Mr. Harris, but if you will tell them -- "

"Why, I'm going with you, of course" said the young fellow, impulsively. "If I'd only looked once at the man I'd go alone, but I shouldn't know him from Adam."

Maidie laughed. "Oh, I don't want to lose the whole concert, Mr. Harris, and Frank, has all the tickets. You must go after them and try to make my peace. I'll come just as soon as I can. Don't wait for me, please. If you'll come and look for me here the first number, and not let them scold me too much -- " She ended with an imploring little catch in her breath that was almost a sob.

"They sha'n't say a word, Miss Williams!" cried Walter Harris, with honest admiration in his eyes.

But she was gone already, and conscious that further delay was only making matters worse, he went on into the hall.

Meanwhile, the car swung heavily along the wet rails on its way to the turning-point. It was nearly empty now. An old gentleman and his nurse were the only occupants. Jim Stevens, the conductor, had stepped inside the car.

"Too bad I forgot those young people wanted to get off at Music Hall," he was thinking to himself. "I don't see how I came to do it. That chap looked as if he wanted to complain of me, and I don't know as I blame him. I'd have said I was sorry if he hadn't been so sharp with his tongue. I hope he won't complain just now. 'Twould be a pretty bad time for me to get into trouble, with Mary and the baby both sick. I'm too sleepy to be good for much, that's a fact. Sitting up three nights running takes hold of a fellow somehow when he's at work all day. The rent's paid, that's one thing, if it hasn't left me but half a dollar to my name. Hullo!" He was struck by a sudden distinct recollection of the coins he had returned. "Why, I gave him fifty cents too much!"

He glanced up at the dial which indicated the fares and began to count the change in his pocket. He knew exactly how much money he had had at the beginning of the trip. He counted carefully. Then he plunged his hand into the heavy canvas pocket of his coat. Perhaps he had half a dollar there. No, it was empty!

He faced the fact reluctantly. Fifty cents short, ten fares! Gone into the pocket of the young gentleman with the fur collar! The conductor's hand shook as he put the money back in his pocket. It meant -- what did it mean? He drew a long breath.

Christmas Eve! A dark dreary little room upstairs in a noisy tenement house. A pale, thin woman on a shabby lounge vainly trying to quiet a fretful child. The child is thin and pale, too, with a hard, racking cough. There is a small fire in the stove, a very small fire; coal is so high. The medicine stands on the shelf. "Medicine won't do much good," the doctor had said; "he needs beef and cream."

Jim's heart sank at the thought. He could almost hear the baby asking; "Isn't papa coming soon? Isn't he, mamma?"

"Poor little kid!" Jim said, softly, under his breath. "And I shan't have a thing to take home to him; nor Mary's violets, either. It'll be the first Christmas that ever happened. I suppose that chap would think it was ridiculous for me to be buying violets. He wouldn't understand what the flowers mean to Mary. Perhaps he didn't notice I gave him too much. That kind don't know how much they have. They just pull it out as if it was newspaper."

The conductor went out into the snow to help the nurse, who was assisting the old gentleman to the ground. Then the car swung on again. Jim turned up the collar of his coat about his ears and stamped his feet. There was the florist's shop where he had meant to buy the violets, and the toy-shop was just around the corner.

A thought flashed across his tired brain. "Plenty of men would do it; they do it every day. Nobody ever would be the poorer for it. This car will be crowded going home. I needn't ring in every fare; nobody could tell. But Mary! She wouldn't touch those violets if she knew. And she'd know. I'd have to tell her. I couldn't keep it from her, she's that quick."

He jumped off to adjust the trolley with a curious sense of unreality. It couldn't be that he was really going home this Christmas Eve with empty hands. Well, they must all suffer together for his carelessness. It was his own fault, but it was hard. And he was so tired!

To his amazement he found his eyes were blurred as he watched the people crowding into the car. What? Was he going to cry like a baby -- he, a great burly man of thirty years?

"It's no use," he thought. "I couldn't do it. The first time I gave Mary violets was the night she said she'd marry me. I told her then I'd do my best to make her proud of me. I guess she wouldn't be very proud of a man who could cheat. She'd rather starve than have a ribbon she couldn't pay for."

He rang up a dozen fares with a steady hand. The temptation was over. Six more strokes -- then nine without a falter. He even imagined the bell rang more distinctly than usual, even encouragingly. The car stopped. Jim flung the door open with a triumphant sweep of his arm. He felt ready to face the world. But the baby -- his arm dropped. It was hard.

He turned to help the young girl who was waiting at the step. Through the whirling snow he saw her eager face, with a quick recognition lighting the steady eyes, and wondered dimly, as he stood with his hand on the signal-strap, where he could have seen her before.

He knew immediately.

"There was a mistake," she said, with a shy tremor in her voice. "You gave us too much change and here it is." She held out to Jim the piece of silver which had given him such an unhappy quarter of an hour.

He took it like one dazed. Would the young lady think he was crazy to care so much about so small a coin? He must say something. "Thank you, miss," he stammered as well as he could. "You see, I thought it was gone -- and there's the baby -- and it's Christmas Eve -- and my wife's sick -- and you can't understand -- "

It certainly was not remarkable that she couldn't.

"But I do," she said, simply. "I was afraid of that. And I thought perhaps there was a baby, so I brought my Christmas present for her," and something else dropped into Jim's cold hand.

"What you waiting for?" shouted the motorman from the front platform. The girl had disappeared in the snow.

Jim rang the bell to go ahead, and gazed again at the two shining half dollars in his hand.

"I didn't have a chance to tell her," he explained to his wife late in the evening, as he sat in a tiny rocking-chair several sizes too small for him, "that the baby wasn't a her at all, though if I thought he'd grow up into such a lovely one as she is, I don't know but I almost wish he was."

"Poor Jim!" said Mary, with a little laugh as she put up her hand to stroke his rough cheek. "I guess you're tired."

"And I should say," he added, stretching out his long legs toward the few red sparks in the bottom of the grate, "I should say she had tears in her eyes, too, but I was that near crying myself I couldn't be sure."

The little room was sweet with the odour of English violets. Asleep in the bed lay the boy, a toy horse clasped close to his breast.

"Bless her heart!" said Mary, softly.

"Well, Miss Williams," said Walter Harris, as he sprang to meet a snow-covered figure coming swiftly along the sidewalk. "I can see that you found him. You've lost the first number, but they won't scold you -- not this time."

The girl turned a radiant face upon him. "Thank you," she said, shaking the snowy crystals from her skirt. "I don't care now if they do. I should have lost more than that if I had stayed."



VIII. Toinette And The Elves

Susan Coolidge

The winter's sun was nearing the horizon's edge. Each moment the tree shadows grew longer in the forest; each moment the crimson light on the upper boughs became more red and bright. It was Christmas Eve, or would be in half an hour, when the sun should be fairly set; but it did not feel like Christmas, for the afternoon was mild and sweet, and the wind in the leafless boughs sang, as it moved about, as though to imitate the vanished birds. Soft trills and whistles, odd little shakes and twitters -- it was astonishing what pretty noises the wind made, for it was in good humor, as winds should be on the Blessed Night; all its storm-tones and bass-notes were for the moment laid aside, and gently as though hushing a baby to sleep, it cooed and rustled and brushed to and fro in the leafless woods.

Toinette stood, pitcher in hand, beside the well. "Wishing Well," the people called it, for they believed that if any one standing there bowed to the East, repeated a certain rhyme and wished a wish, the wish would certainly come true. Unluckily, nobody knew exactly what the rhyme should be. Toinette did not; she was wishing that she did, as she stood with her eyes fixed on the bubbling water. How nice it would be! she thought. What beautiful things should be hers, if it were only to wish and to have. She would be beautiful, rich, good -- oh, so good. The children should love her dearly, and never be disagreeable. Mother should not work so hard -- they should all go back to France -- which mother said was si belle. Oh, dear, how nice it would be. Meantime, the sun sank lower, and mother at home was waiting for the water, but Toinette forgot that.

Suddenly she started. A low sound of crying met her ear, and something like a tiny moan. It seemed close by but she saw nothing.

Hastily she filled her pitcher and turned to go. But again the sound came, an unmistakable sob, right under her feet. Toinette stopped short.

"What is the matter?" she called out bravely. "Is anybody there? and if there is, why don't I see you?"

A third sob -- and all at once, down on the ground beside her, a tiny figure became visible, so small that Toinette had to kneel and stoop her head to see it plainly. The figure was that of an odd little man. He wore a garb of green bright and glancing as the scales of a beetle. In his mite of a hand was a cap, out of which stuck a long pointed feather. Two specks of tears stood on his cheeks and he fixed on Toinette a glance so sharp and so sad that it made her feel sorry and frightened and confused all at once.

"Why how funny this is!" she said, speaking to herself out loud.

"Not at all," replied the little man, in a voice as dry and crisp as the chirr of a grasshopper. "Anything but funny. I wish you wouldn't use such words. It hurts my feelings, Toinette."

"Do you know my name, then?" cried Toinette, astonished. "That's strange. But what is the matter? Why are you crying so, little man?"

"I'm not a little man. I'm an elf," responded the dry voice; "and I think you'd cry if you had an engagement out to tea, and found yourself spiked on a great bayonet, so that you couldn't move an inch. Look!" He turned a little as he spoke and Toinette saw a long rose-thorn sticking through the back of the green robe. The little man could by no means reach the thorn, and it held him fast prisoner to the place.

"Is that all? I'll take it out for you," she said.

"Be careful -- oh, be careful," entreated the little man. "This is my new dress, you know -- my Christmas suit, and it's got to last a year. If there is a hole in it, Peascod will tickle me and Bean Blossom tease, till I shall wish myself dead." He stamped with vexation at the thought.

"Now, you mustn't do that," said Toinette, in a motherly tone, "else you'll tear it yourself, you know." She broke off the thorn as she spoke, and gently drew it out. The elf anxiously examined the stuff. A tiny puncture only was visible and his face brightened.

"You're a good child," he said. "I'll do as much for you some day, perhaps."

"I would have come before if I had seen you," remarked Toinette, timidly. "But I didn't see you a bit."

"No, because I had my cap on," cried the elf. He placed it on his head as he spoke, and hey, presto! nobody was there, only a voice which laughed and said: "Well -- don't stare so. Lay your finger on me now."

"Oh," said Toinette, with a gasp. "How wonderful. What fun it must be to do that. The children wouldn't see me. I should steal in and surprise them; they would go on talking, and never guess that I was there. I should so like it. Do elves ever lend their caps to anybody? I wish you'd lend me yours. It must be so nice to be invisible."

"Ho," cried the elf, appearing suddenly again. "Lend my cap, indeed! Why it wouldn't stay on the very tip of your ear, it's so small. As for nice, that depends. Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. No, the only way for mortal people to be invisible is to gather the fern-seed and put it in their shoes."

"Gather it? Where? I never saw any seed to the ferns," said Toinette, staring about her.

"Of course not -- we elves take care of that," replied the little man. "Nobody finds the fern-seed but ourselves. I'll tell you what, though. You were such a nice child to take out the thorn so cleverly, that I'll give you a little of the seed. Then you can try the fun of being invisible, to your heart's content."

"Will you really? How delightful. May I have it now?"

"Bless me. Do you think I carry my pockets stuffed with it?" said the elf. "Not at all. Go home, say not a word to any one, but leave your bedroom window open to night, and you'll see what you'll see."

He laid his finger on his nose as he spoke, gave a jump like a grasshopper, clapping on his cap as he went, and vanished. Toinette lingered a moment, in hopes that he might come back, then took her pitcher and hurried home. The woods were very dusky by this time; but full of her strange adventures, she did not remember to feel afraid.

"How long you have been," said her mother. "It's late for a little maid like you to be up. You must make better speed another time, my child."

Toinette pouted as she was apt to do when reproved. The children clamoured to know what had kept her, and she spoke pettishly and crossly; so that they too became cross, and presently went away into the outer kitchen to play by themselves. The children were apt to creep away when Toinette came. It made her angry and unhappy at times that they should do so, but she did not realize that it was in great part her own fault, and so did not set herself to mend it.

"Tell me a 'tory," said baby Jeanneton, creeping to her knee a little later. But Toinette's head was full of the elf; she had no time to spare for Jeanneton.

"Oh, not to-night," she replied. "Ask mother to tell you one."

"Mother's busy," said Jeanneton wistfully.

Toinette took no notice and the little one crept away disconsolately.

Bedtime at last. Toinette set the casement open, and lay a long time waiting and watching; then she fell asleep. She waked with a sneeze and jump and sat up in bed. Behold, on the coverlet stood her elfin friend, with a long train of other elves beside him, all clad in the beetle-wing green, and wearing little pointed caps. More were coming in at the window; outside a few were drifting about in the moon rays, which lit their sparkling robes till they glittered like so many fireflies. The odd thing was, that though the caps were on, Toinette could see the elves distinctly and this surprised her so much, that again she thought out loud and said, "How funny."

"You mean about the caps," replied her special elf, who seemed to have the power of reading thought.

"Yes, you can see us to-night, caps and all. Spells lose their value on Christmas Eve, always. Peascod, where is the box? Do you still wish to try the experiment of being invisible, Toinette?"

"Oh, yes -- indeed I do."

"Very well; so let it be."

As he spoke he beckoned, and two elves puffing and panting like little men with a heavy load, dragged forward a droll little box about the size of a pumpkin-seed.

One of them lifted the cover.

"Pay the porter, please, ma'am," he said giving Toinette's ear a mischievous tweak with his sharp fingers.

"Hands off, you bad Peascod!" cried Toinette's elf. "This is my girl. She shan't be pinched!" He dealt Peascod a blow with his tiny hand as he spoke and looked so brave and warlike that he seemed at least an inch taller than he had before. Toinette admired him very much; and Peascod slunk away with an abashed giggle muttering that Thistle needn't be so ready with his fist.

Thistle -- for thus, it seemed, Toinette's friend was named -- dipped his fingers in the box, which was full of fine brown seeds, and shook a handful into each of Toinette's shoes, as they stood, toes together by the bedside.

"Now you have your wish," he said, "and can go about and do what you like, no one seeing. The charm will end at sunset. Make the most of it while you can; but if you want to end it sooner, shake the seeds from the shoes and then you are just as usual."

"Oh, I shan't want to," protested Toinette; "I'm sure I shan't."

"Good-bye," said Thistle, with a mocking little laugh.

"Good-bye, and thank you ever so much," replied Toinette.

"Good-bye, good-bye," replied the other elves, in shrill chorus. They clustered together, as if in consultation; then straight out of the window they flew like a swarm of gauzy-winged bees, and melted into the moonlight. Toinette jumped up and ran to watch them but the little men were gone -- not a trace of them was to be seen; so she shut the window, went back to bed and presently in the midst of her amazed and excited thoughts fell asleep.

She waked in the morning, with a queer, doubtful feeling. Had she dreamed, or had it really happened? She put on her best petticoat and laced her blue bodice; for she thought the mother would perhaps take them across the wood to the little chapel for the Christmas service. Her long hair smoothed and tied, her shoes trimly fastened, downstairs she ran. The mother was stirring porridge over the fire. Toinette went close to her, but she did not move or turn her head.

"How late the children are," she said at last, lifting the boiling pot on the hob. Then she went to the stair-foot and called, "Marc, Jeanneton, Pierre, Marie. Breakfast is ready, my children. Toinette -- but where, then, is Toinette? She is used to be down long before this."

"Toinette isn't upstairs," said Marie from above.

"Her door is wide open, and she isn't there."

"That is strange," said the mother. "I have been here an hour, and she has not passed this way since." She went to the outer door and called, "Toinette! Toinette!" passing close to Toinette as she did so. And looking straight at her with unseeing eyes. Toinette, half frightened, half pleased, giggled low to herself. She really was invisible, then. How strange it seemed and what fun it was going to be.

The children sat down to breakfast, little Jeanneton, as the youngest, saying grace. The mother distributed the porridge and gave each a spoon but she looked anxious.

"Where can Toinette have gone?" she said to herself. Toinette was conscious-pricked. She was half inclined to dispel the charm on the spot. But just then she caught a whisper from Pierre to Marc which so surprised her as to put the idea out of her head.

"Perhaps a wolf has eaten her up -- a great big wolf like the 'Capuchon Rouge,' you know." This was what Pierre said; and Marc answered unfeelingly:

"If he has, I shall ask mother to let me have her room for my own."

Poor Toinette, her cheeks burned and her eyes filled with tears at this. Didn't the boys love her a bit then? Next she grew angry, and longed to box Marc's ears, only she recollected in time that she was invisible. What a bad boy he was, she thought.

The smoking porridge reminded her that she was hungry; so brushing away the tears she slipped a spoon off the table and whenever she found the chance, dipped it into the bowl for a mouthful. The porridge disappeared rapidly.

"I want some more," said Jeanneton.

"Bless me, how fast you have eaten," said the mother, turning to the bowl.

This made Toinette laugh, which shook her spoon, and a drop of the hot mixture fell right on the tip of Marie's nose as she sat with upturned face waiting her turn for a second helping. Marie gave a little scream.

"What is it?" said the mother.

"Hot water! Right in my face!" sputtered Marie.

"Water!" cried Marc. "It's porridge."

"You spattered with your spoon. Eat more carefully, my child," said the mother, and Toinette laughed again as she heard her. After all, there was some fun in being invisible.

The morning went by. Constantly the mother went to the door, and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked out, in hopes of seeing a little figure come down the wood-path, for she thought perhaps the child went to the spring after water, and fell asleep there. The children played happily, meanwhile. They were used to doing without Toinette and did not seem to miss her, except that now and then baby Jeanneton said: "Poor Toinette gone -- not here -- all gone."

"Well, what if she has?" said Marc at last looking up from the wooden cup he was carving for Marie's doll. "We can play all the better."

Marc was a bold, outspoken boy, who always told his whole mind about things.

"If she were here," he went on," she'd only scold and interfere. Toinette almost always scolds. I like to have her go away. It makes it pleasanter."

"It is rather pleasanter," admitted Marie, "only I'd like her to be having a nice time somewhere else."

"Bother about Toinette," cried Pierre.

"Let's play 'My godmother has cabbage to sell.'"

I don't think Toinette had ever felt so unhappy in her life, as when she stood by unseen, and heard the children say these words. She had never meant to be unkind to them, but she was quick-tempered, dreamy, wrapped up in herself. She did not like being interrupted by them, it put her out, and she spoke sharply and was cross. She had taken it for granted that the others must love her, by a sort of right, and the knowledge that they did not grieved over very much. Creeping away, she hid herself in the woods. It was a sparkling day, but the sun did not look so bright as usual. Cuddled down under a rosebush, Toinette sat sobbing as if her heart would break at the recollection of the speeches she had overheard.

By and by a little voice within her woke up and began to make itself audible. All of us know this little voice. We call it conscience.

"Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, oh, dear! I pushed her away only last night and wouldn't tell her a story. And Marie hoped I was having a pleasant time somewhere. I wish I hadn't slapped Marie last Friday. And I wish I hadn't thrown Marc's ball into the fire that day I was angry with him. How unkind he was to say that -- but I wasn't always kind to him. And once I said that I wished a bear would eat Pierre up. That was because he broke my cup. Oh, dear, oh, dear. What a bad girl I've been to them all."

"But you could be better and kinder if you tried, couldn't you?" said the inward voice. "I think you could."

And Toinette clasped her hands tight and said out loud: "I could. Yes -- and I will."

The first thing to be done was to get rid of the fern-seed which she now regarded as a hateful thing. She untied her shoes and shook it out in the grass. It dropped and seemed to melt into the air, for it instantly vanished. A mischievous laugh sounded close behind, and a beetle-green coat-tail was visible whisking under a tuft of rushes. But Toinette had had enough of the elves, and, tying her shoes, took the road toward home, running with all her might.

"Where have you been all day, Toinette?" cried the children, as, breathless and panting, she flew in at the gate. But Toinette could not speak. She made slowly for her mother, who stood in the doorway, flung herself into her arms and burst into a passion of tears.

"Ma cherie, what is it, whence hast thou come?" asked the good mother alarmed. She lifted Toinette into her arms as she spoke, and hastened indoors. The other children followed, whispering and peeping, but the mother sent them away, and sitting down by the fire with Toinette in her lap, she rocked and hushed and comforted, as though Toinette had been again a little baby. Gradually the sobs ceased. For a while Toinette lay quiet, with her head on her mother's breast. Then she wiped her wet eyes, put her arms around her mother's neck, and told her all from the very beginning, keeping not a single thing back. The dame listened with alarm.

"Saints protect us," she muttered. Then feeling Toinette's hands and head, "Thou hast a fever," she said. "I will make thee a tisane, my darling, and thou must at once go to bed." Toinette vainly protested; to bed she went and perhaps it was the wisest thing, for the warm drink threw her into a long sound sleep and when she woke she was herself again, bright and well, hungry for dinner, and ready to do her usual tasks.

Herself -- but not quite the same Toinette that she had been before. Nobody changes from bad to better in a minute. It takes time for that, time and effort, and a long struggle with evil habits and tempers. But there is sometimes a certain minute or day in which people begin to change, and thus it was with Toinette. The fairy lesson was not lost upon her. She began to fight with herself, to watch her faults and try to conquer them. It was hard work; often she felt discouraged, but she kept on. Week after week and month after month she grew less selfish, kinder, more obliging than she used to be. When she failed and her old fractious temper got the better of her, she was sorry and begged every one's pardon so humbly that they could not but forgive. The mother began to think that the elves really had bewitched her child. As for the children they learned to love Toinette as never before, and came to her with all their pains and pleasures, as children should to a kind older sister. Each fresh proof of this, every kiss from Jeanneton, every confidence from Marc, was a comfort to Toinette, for she never forgot Christmas Day, and felt that no trouble was too much to wipe out that unhappy recollection. "I think they like me better than they did then," she would say; but then the thought came, "Perhaps if I were invisible again, if they did not know I was there, I might hear something to make me feel as badly as I did that morning." These sad thoughts were part of the bitter fruit of the fairy fern-seed.

So with doubts and fears the year went by, and again it was Christmas Eve. Toinette had been asleep some hours when she was roused by a sharp tapping at the window pane. Startled, and only half awake, she sat up in bed and saw by the moonlight a tiny figure outside which she recognized. It was Thistle drumming with his knuckles on the glass.

"Let me in," cried the dry little voice. So Toinette opened the casement, and Thistle flew in and perched as before on the coverlet.

"Merry Christmas, my girl." he said, "and a Happy New Year when it comes. I've brought you a present;" and, dipping into a pouch tied round his waist, he pulled out a handful of something brown. Toinette knew what it was in a moment.

"Oh, no," she cried shrinking back. "Don't give me any fern-seeds. They frighten me. I don't like them."

"Don't be silly," said Thistle, his voice sounding kind this time, and earnest. "It wasn't pleasant being invisible last year, but perhaps this year it will be. Take my advice, and try it. You'll not be sorry."

"Sha'n't I?" said Toinette, brightening. "Very well, then, I will." She leaned out of bed, and watched Thistle strew the fine dustlike grains in each shoe.

"I'll drop in to-morrow night, and just see how you like it," he said. Then, with a nod, he was gone.

The old fear came back when she woke in the morning, and she tied on her shoes with a tremble at her heart. Downstairs she stole. The first thing she saw was a wooden ship standing on her plate. Marc had made the ship, but Toinette had no idea it was for her.

The little ones sat round the table with their eyes on the door, watching till Toinette should come in and be surprised.

"I wish she'd hurry," said Pierre, drumming on his bowl with a spoon.

"We all want Toinette, don't we?" said the mother, smiling as she poured the hot porridge.

"It will be fun to see her stare," declared Marc.

"Toinette is jolly when she stares. Her eyes look big and her cheeks grow pink. Andre Brugen thinks his sister Aline is prettiest, but I don't. Our Toinette is ever so pretty."

"She is ever so nice, too," said Pierre. "She's as good to play with as -- as -- a boy," finished triumphantly.

"Oh, I wish my Toinette would come," said Jeanneton.

Toinette waited no longer, but sped upstairs with glad tears in her eyes. Two minutes, and down she came again visible this time. Her heart was light as a feather.

"Merry Christmas!" clamoured the children. The ship was presented, Toinette was duly surprised, and so the happy day began.

That night Toinette left the window open, and lay down in her clothes; for she felt, as Thistle had been so kind, she ought to receive him politely. He came at midnight, and with him all the other little men in green.

"Well, how was it?" asked Thistle.

"Oh, I liked it this time," declared Toinette, with shining eyes, "and I thank you so much."

"I'm glad you did," said the elf. "And I'm glad you are thankful, for we want you to do something for us."

"What can it be?" inquired Toinette, wondering.

"You must know," went on Thistle, "that there is no dainty in the world which we elves enjoy like a bowl of fern-seed broth. But it has to be cooked over a real fire, and we dare not go near fire, you know, lest our wings scorch. So we seldom get any fern-seed broth. Now, Toinette, will you make us some?"

"Indeed, I will!" cried Toinette, "only you must tell me how."

"It is very simple," said Peascod; "only seed and honey dew, stirred from left to right with a sprig of fennel. Here's the seed and the fennel, and here's the dew. Be sure and stir from the left; if you don't, it curdles, and the flavour will be spoiled."

Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette, moving very softly, quickened the fire, set on the smallest bowl she could find, and spread the doll's table with the wooden saucers which Marc had made for Jeanneton to play with. Then she mixed and stirred as the elves bade, and when the soup was done, served it to them smoking hot. How they feasted! No bumblebee, dipping into a flower-cup, ever sipped and twinkled more rapturously than they.

When the last drop was eaten, they made ready to go. Each in turn kissed Toinette's hand, and said a word of farewell. Thistle brushed his feathered cap over the doorpost as he passed.

"Be lucky, house," he said, "for you have received and entertained the luck-bringers. And be lucky, Toinette. Good temper is good luck, and sweet words and kind looks and peace in the heart are the fairest of fortunes. See that you never lose them again, my girl." With this, he, too, kissed Toinette's hand, waved his feathered cap, and -- whir! they all were gone, while Toinette, covering the fire with ashes and putting aside the little cups, stole up to her bed a happy child.


IX. The Voyage Of The Wee Red Cap

Ruth Sawyer Durand

It was the night of St. Stephen, and Teig sat alone by his fire with naught in his cupboard but a pinch of tea and a bare mixing of meal, and a heart inside of him as soft and warm as the ice on the water-bucket outside the door. The tuft was near burnt on the hearth -- a handful of golden cinders left, just; and Teig took to counting them greedily on his fingers.

"There's one, two, three, an' four an' five," he laughed. "Faith, there be more bits o' real gold hid undther the loose clay in the corner."

It was the truth; and it was the scraping and scrooching for the last piece that had left Teig's cupboard bare of a Christmas dinner.

"Gold is betther nor eatin' an' dthrinkin'. An' if ye have naught to give, there'll be naught asked of ye;" and he laughed again.

He was thinking of the neighbours, and the doles of food and piggins of milk that would pass over their thresholds that night to the vagabonds and paupers who were sure to come begging. And on the heels of that thought followed another: who would be giving old Barney his dinner? Barney lived a stone's throw from Teig, alone, in a wee tumbled-in cabin; and for a score of years past Teig had stood on the doorstep every Christmas Eve, and, making a hollow of his two hands, had called across the road:

"Hey, there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?"

And Barney had reached for his crutches -- there being but one leg to him -- and had come.

"Faith," said Teig, trying another laugh, "Barney can fast for the once; 'twill be all the same in a month's time." And he fell to thinking of the gold again. A knock came at the door. Teig pulled himself down in his chair where the shadow would cover him, and held his tongue.

"Teig, Teig!" It was the widow O'Donnelly's voice. "If ye are there, open your door. I have not got the pay for the spriggin' this month, an' the childher are needin' food."

But Teig put the leash on his tongue, and never stirred till he heard the tramp of her feet going on to the next cabin. Then he saw to it that the door was tight-barred. Another knock came, and it was a stranger's voice this time:

"The other cabins are filled; not one but has its hearth crowded; will ye take us in -- the two of us? The wind bites mortal sharp, not a morsel o' food have ne tasted this day. Masther, will ye take us in?"

But Teig sat on, a-holding his tongue; and the tramp of the strangers' feet passed down the road. Others took their place -- small feet, running. It was the miller's wee Cassie, and she called out as she ran by.

"Old Barney's watchin' for ye. Ye'll not be forgettin' him, will ye, Teig?"

And then the child broke into a song, sweet and clear, as she passed down the road:

"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen, Mind that ye keep it, this holy even. Open your door an' greet ye the stranger --  For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger. Mhuire as truagh!

"Feed ye the hungry an' rest ye the weary, This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary. 'Tis well that ye mind -- ye who sit by the fire --  That the Lord he was born in a dark and cold byre. Mhuire as truagh!"

Teig put his fingers deep in his ears. "A million murdthering curses on them that won't let me be! Can't a man try to keep what is his without bein' pesthered by them that has only idled an' wasted their days?"

And then the strange thing happened: hundreds and hundreds of wee lights began dancing outside the window, making the room bright; the hands of the clock began chasing each other round the dial, and the bolt of the door drew itself out. Slowly, without a creak or a cringe, the door opened, and in there trooped a crowd of the Good People. Their wee green cloaks were folded close about them, and each carried a rush candle.

Teig was filled with a great wonderment, entirely, when he saw the fairies, but when they saw him they laughed.

"We are takin' the loan o' your cabin this night, Teig," said they. "Ye are the only man hereabout with an empty hearth, an' we're needin' one."

Without saying more, they bustled about the room making ready. They lengthened out the table and spread and set it; more of the Good People trooped in, bringing stools and food and drink. The pipers came last, and they sat themselves around the chimney-piece a-blowing their chanters and trying the drones. The feasting began and the pipers played and never had Teig seen such a sight in his life. Suddenly a wee man sang out:

"Clip, clap, clip, clap, I wish I had my wee red cap!" And out of the air there tumbled the neatest cap Teig ever laid his two eyes on. The wee man clapped it on his head, crying:

"I wish I was in Spain!" and -- whist -- up the chimney he went, and away out of sight.

It happened just as I am telling it. Another wee man called for his cap, and away he went after the first. And then another and another until the room was empty and Teig sat alone again.

"By my soul," said Teig, "I'd like to thravel that way myself! It's a grand savin' of tickets an' baggage; an' ye get to a place before ye've had time to change your mind. Faith there is no harm done if I thry it."

So he sang the fairies' rhyme and out of the air dropped a wee cap for him. For a moment the wonder had him, but the next he was clapping the cap on his head and crying:

"Spain!"

Then -- whist -- up the chimney he went after the fairies, and before he had time to let out his breath he was standing in the middle of Spain, and strangeness all about him.

He was in a great city. The doorways of the houses were hung with flowers and the air was warm and sweet with the smell of them. Torches burned along the streets, sweetmeat-sellers went about crying their wares, and on the steps of the cathedral crouched a crowd of beggars.

"What's the meanin' o' that?" asked Teig of one of the fairies. "They are waiting for those that are hearing mass. When they come out, they give half of what they have to those that have nothing, so on this night of all the year there shall be no hunger and no cold."

And then far down the street came the sound of a child's voice, singing:

"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen, Mind that ye keep it, this holy even".

"Curse it!" said Teig; "can a song fly afther ye?"

And then he heard the fairies cry "Holland!" and cried "Holland!" too.

In one leap he was over France, and another over Belgium; and with the third he was standing by long ditches of water frozen fast, and over them glided hundreds upon hundreds of lads and maids. Outside each door stood a wee wooden shoe empty. Teig saw scores of them as he looked down the ditch of a street.

"What is the meanin' o' those shoes? " he asked the fairies.

"Ye poor lad!" answered the wee man next to him; "are ye not knowing anything? This is the Gift Night of the year, when every man gives to his neighbour."

A child came to the window of one of the houses, and in her hand was a lighted candle. She was singing as she put the light down close to the glass, and Teig caught the words:

"Open your door an' greet ye the stranger --  For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger. Mhuire as truagh!"

"'Tis the de'il's work!" cried Teig, and he set the red cap more firmly on his head.

"I'm for another country."

I cannot be telling you a half of the adventures Teig had that night, nor half the sights that he saw. But he passed by fields that held sheaves of grain for the birds and doorsteps that held bowls of porridge for the wee creatures. He saw lighted trees, sparkling and heavy with gifts; and he stood outside the churches and watched the crowds pass in, bearing gifts to the Holy Mother and Child.

At last the fairies straightened their caps and cried, "Now for the great hall in the King of England's palace!"

Whist -- and away they went, and Teig after them; and the first thing he knew he was in London, not an arm's length from the King's throne. It was a grander sight than he had seen in any other country. The hall was filled entirely with lords and ladies; and the great doors were open for the poor and the homeless to come in and warm themselves by the King's fire and feast from the King's table. And many a hungry soul did the King serve with his own hands.

Those that had anything to give gave it in return. It might be a bit of music played on a harp or a pipe, or it might be a dance or a song; but more often it was a wish, just, for good luck and safekeeping.

Teig was so taken up with the watching that he never heard the fairies when they wished themselves on; moreover, he never saw the wee girl that was fed, and went laughing away. But he heard a bit of her song as she passed through the door:

"Feed ye the hungry an' rest ye the weary, This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary."

Then the anger had Teig. "I'll stop your pestherin' tongue, once an' for all time!" and, catching the cap from his head, he threw it after her. No sooner was the cap gone than every soul in the hall saw him. The next moment they were about him, catching at his coat and crying:

"Where is he from, what does he here? Bring him before the King!" And Teig was dragged along by a hundred hands to the throne where the King sat.

"He was stealing food," cried one.

"He was robbing the King's jewels," cried another.

"He looks evil," cried a third. "Kill him!"

And in a moment all the voices took it up and the hall rang with: "Aye, kill him, kill him!"

Teig's legs took to trembling, and fear put the leash on his tongue; but after a long silence he managed to whisper:

"I have done evil to no one -- no one!"

"Maybe," said the King; "but have ye done good? Come, tell us, have ye given aught to any one this night? If ye have, we will pardon ye."

Not a word could Teig say -- fear tightened the leash -- for he was knowing full well there was no good to him that night.

"Then ye must die," said the King. "Will ye try hanging or beheading?"

"Hanging, please, your Majesty," said Teig.

The guards came rushing up and carried him off.

But as he was crossing the threshold of the hall a thought sprang at him and held him.

"Your Majesty," he called after him, "will ye grant me a last request?"

"I will," said the King.

"Thank ye. There's a wee red cap that I'm mortal fond of, and I lost it a while ago; if I could be hung with it on, I would hang a deal more comfortable."

The cap was found and brought to Teig.

"Clip, clap, clip, clap, for my wee red cap, I wish I was home," he sang.

Up and over the heads of the dumfounded guard he flew, and -- whist -- and away out of sight. When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting dose by his own hearth, with the fire burnt low. The hands of the clock were still, the bolt was fixed firm in the door. The fairies' lights were gone, and the only bright thing was the candle burning in old Barney's cabin across the road.

A running of feet sounded outside, and then the snatch of a song

"'Tis well that ye mind -- ye who sit by the fire --  That the Lord he was born in a dark and cold byre. Mhuire as traugh!"

"Wait ye, whoever ye are!" and Teig was away to the corner, digging fast at the loose clay, as a terrier digs at a bone. He filled his hands full of the shining gold, then hurried to the door, unbarring it.

The miller's wee Cassie stood there, peering at him out of the darkness.

"Take those to the widow O'Donnelly, do ye hear? And take the rest to the store. Ye tell Jamie to bring up all that he has that is eatable an' dhrinkable; and to the neighbours ye say, 'Teig's keepin' the feast this night.' Hurry now!"

Teig stopped a moment on the threshold until the tramp of her feet had died away; then he made a hollow of his two hands and called across the road:

"Hey there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?"



X. A Story Of The Christ-Child

A German legend for Christmas Eve as told by ELIZABETH HARKISON

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, on the night before Christmas, a little child was wandering all alone through the streets of a great city. There were many people on the street, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, uncles and aunts, and even gray-haired grandfathers and grandmothers, all of whom were hurrying home with bundles of presents for each other and for their little ones. Fine carriages rolled by, express wagons rattled past, even old carts were pressed into service, and all things seemed in a hurry and glad with expectation of the coming Christmas morning.

From some of the windows bright lights were already beginning to stream until it was almost as bright as day. But the little child seemed to have no home, and wandered about listlessly from street to street. No one took any notice of him except perhaps Jack Frost, who bit his bare toes and made the ends of his fingers tingle. The north wind, too, seemed to notice the child, for it blew against him and pierced his ragged garments through and through, causing him to shiver with cold. Home after home he passed, looking with longing eyes through the windows, in upon the glad, happy children, most of whom were helping to trim the Christmas trees for the coming morrow.

"Surely," said the child to himself, "where there is so must gladness and happiness, some of it may be for me." So with timid steps he approached a large and handsome house. Through the windows, he could see a tall and stately Christmas tree already lighted. Many presents hung upon it. Its green boughs were trimmed with gold and silver ornaments. Slowly he climbed up the broad steps and gently rapped at the door. It was opened by a large man-servant. He had a kindly face, although his voice was deep and gruff. He looked at the little child for a moment, then sadly shook his head and said, "Go down off the steps. There is no room here for such as you." He looked sorry as he spoke; possibly he remembered his own little ones at home, and was glad that they were not out in this cold and bitter night. Through the open door a bright light shone, and the warm air, filled with fragrance of the Christmas pine, rushed out from the inner room and greeted the little wanderer with a kiss. As the child turned back into the cold and darkness, he wondered why the footman had spoken thus, for surely, thought he, those little children would love to have another companion join them in their joyous Christmas festival. But the little children inside did not even know that he had knocked at the door.

The street grew colder and darker as the child passed on. He went sadly forward, saying to himself, "Is there no one in all this great city who will share the Christmas with me?" Farther and farther down the street he wandered, to where the homes were not so large and beautiful. There seemed to be little children inside of nearly all the houses. They were dancing and frolicking about. Christmas trees could be seen in nearly every window, with beautiful dolls and trumpets and picture-books and balls and tops and other dainty toys hung upon them. In one window the child noticed a little lamb made of soft white wool. Around its neck was tied a red ribbon. It had evidently been hung on the tree for one of the children. The little stranger stopped before this window and looked long and earnestly at the beautiful things inside, but most of all was he drawn toward the white lamb. At last creeping up to the window-pane, he gently tapped upon it. A little girl came to the window and looked out into the dark street where the snow had now begun to fall. She saw the child, but she only frowned and shook her head and said, "Go away and come some other time. We are too busy to take care of you now." Back into the dark, cold streets he turned again. The wind was whirling past him and seemed to say, "Hurry on, hurry on, we have no time to stop. 'Tis Christmas Eve and everybody is in a hurry to-night."

Again and again the little child rapped softly at door or window-pane. At each place he was refused admission. One mother feared he might have some ugly disease which her darlings would catch; another father said he had only enough for his own children and none to spare for beggars. Still another told him to go home where he belonged, and not to trouble other folks.

The hours passed; later grew the night, and colder grew the wind, and darker seemed the street. Farther and farther the little one wandered. There was scarcely any one left upon the street by this time, and the few who remained did not seem to see the child, when suddenly ahead of him there appeared a bright, single ray of light. It shone through the darkness into the child's eyes. He looked up smilingly and said, "I will go where the small light beckons, perhaps they will share their Christmas with me."

Hurrying past all the other houses, he soon reached the end of the street and went straight up to the window from which the light was streaming. It was a poor, little, low house, but the child cared not for that. The light seemed still to call him in. From what do you suppose the light came? Nothing but a tallow candle which had been placed in an old cup with a broken handle, in the window, as a glad token of Christmas Eve. There was neither curtain nor shade to the small, square window and as the little child looked in he saw standing upon a neat wooden table a branch of a Christmas tree. The room was plainly furnished but it was very clean. Near the fireplace sat a lovely faced mother with a little two-year-old on her knee and an older child beside her. The two children were looking into their mother's face and listening to a story. She must have been telling them a Christmas story, I think. A few bright coals were burning in the fireplace, and all seemed light and warm within.

The little wanderer crept closer and closer to the window-pane. So sweet was the mother's face, so loving seemed the little children, that at last he took courage and tapped gently, very gently on the door. The mother stopped talking, the little children looked up. "What was that, mother?" asked the little girl at her side. "I think it was some one tapping on the door," replied the mother. "Run as quickly as you can and open it, dear, for it is a bitter cold night to keep any one waiting in this storm." "Oh, mother, I think it was the bough of the tree tapping against the window-pane," said the little girl. "Do please go on with our story." Again the little wanderer tapped upon the door. "My child, my child," exclaimed the mother, rising, "that certainly was a rap on the door. Run quickly and open it. No one must be left out in the cold on our beautiful Christmas Eve."

The child ran to the door and threw it wide open. The mother saw the ragged stranger standing without, cold and shivering, with bare head and almost bare feet. She held out both hands and drew him into the warm, bright room. "You poor, dear child," was all she said, and putting her arms around him, she drew him close to her breast. "He is very cold, my children," she exclaimed. "We must warm him." "And," added the little girl, "we must love him and give him some of our Christmas, too." "Yes," said the mother, "but first let us warm him -- "

The mother sat down by the fire with the little child on her lap, and her own little ones warmed his half-frozen hands in theirs. The mother smoothed his tangled curls, and, bending low over his head, kissed the child's face. She gathered the three little ones in her arms and the candle and the fire light shone over them. For a moment the room was very still. By and by the little girl said softly, to her mother, "May we not light the Christmas tree, and let him see how beautiful it looks?" "Yes," said the mother. With that she seated the child on a low stool beside the fire, and went herself to fetch the few simple ornaments which from year to year she had saved for her children's Christmas tree. They were soon so busy that they did not notice the room had filled with a strange and brilliant light. They turned and looked at the spot where the little wanderer sat. His ragged clothes had changed to garments white and beautiful; his tangled curls seemed like a halo of golden light about his head; but most glorious of all was his face, which shone with a light so dazzling that they could scarcely look upon it.

In silent wonder they gazed at the child. Their little room seemed to grow larger and larger, until it was as wide as the whole world, the roof of their low house seemed to expand and rise, until it reached to the sky.

With a sweet and gentle smile the wonderful child looked upon them for a moment, and then slowly rose and floated through the air, above the treetops, beyond the church spire, higher even than the clouds themselves, until he appeared to them to be a shining star in the sky above. At last he disappeared from sight. The astonished children turned in hushed awe to their mother, and said in a whisper, "Oh, mother, it was the Christ-Child, was it not?" And the mother answered in a low tone, "Yes."

And it is said, dear children, that each Christmas Eve the little Christ-Child wanders through some town or village, and those who receive him and take him into their homes and hearts have given to them this marvellous vision which is denied to others.



XI. Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas

Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Jimmy Scarecrow led a sad life in the winter. Jimmy's greatest grief was his lack of occupation. He liked to be useful, and in winter he was absolutely of no use at all.

He wondered how many such miserable winters he would have to endure. He was a young Scarecrow, and this was his first one. He was strongly made, and although his wooden joints creaked a little when the wind blew he did not grow in the least rickety. Every morning, when the wintry sun peered like a hard yellow eye across the dry corn-stubble, Jimmy felt sad, but at Christmas time his heart nearly broke.

On Christmas Eve Santa Claus came in his sledge heaped high with presents, urging his team of reindeer across the field. He was on his way to the farmhouse where Betsey lived with her Aunt Hannah.

Betsey was a very good little girl with very smooth yellow curls, and she had a great many presents. Santa Claus had a large wax doll-baby for her on his arm, tucked up against the fur collar of his coat. He was afraid to trust it in the pack, lest it get broken.

When poor Jimmy Scarecrow saw Santa Claus his heart gave a great leap. "Santa Claus! Here I am!" he cried out, but Santa Claus did not hear him.

"Santa Claus, please give me a little present. I was good all summer and kept the crows out of the corn," pleaded the poor Scarecrow in his choking voice, but Santa Claus passed by with a merry halloo and a great clamour of bells.

Then Jimmy Scarecrow stood in the corn-stubble and shook with sobs until his joints creaked. "I am of no use in the world, and everybody has forgotten me," he moaned. But he was mistaken.

The next morning Betsey sat at the window holding her Christmas doll-baby, and she looked out at Jimmy Scarecrow standing alone in the field amidst the corn-stubble.

"Aunt Hannah?" said she. Aunt Hannah was making a crazy patchwork quilt, and she frowned hard at a triangular piece of red silk and circular piece of pink, wondering how to fit them together. "Well?" said she.

"Did Santa Claus bring the Scarecrow any Christmas present?"

"No, of course he didn't."

"Why not?"

"Because he's a Scarecrow. Don't ask silly questions."

"I wouldn't like to be treated so, if I was a Scarecrow," said Betsey, but her Aunt Hannah did not hear her. She was busy cutting a triangular snip out of the round piece of pink silk so the piece of red silk could be feather-stitched into it.

It was snowing hard out of doors, and the north wind blew. The Scarecrow's poor old coat got whiter and whiter with snow. Sometimes he almost vanished in the thick white storm. Aunt Hannah worked until the middle of the afternoon on her crazy quilt. Then she got up and spread it out over the sofa with an air of pride.

"There," said she, "that's done, and that makes the eighth. I've got one for every bed in the house, and I've given four away. I'd give this away if I knew of anybody that wanted it."

Aunt Hannah put on her hood and shawl, and drew some blue yarn stockings on over her shoes, and set out through the snow to carry a slice of plum-pudding to her sister Susan, who lived down the road. Half an hour after Aunt Hannah had gone Betsey put her little red plaid shawl over her head, and ran across the field to Jimmy Scarecrow. She carried her new doll-baby smuggled up under her shawl.

"Wish you Merry Christmas!" she said to Jimmy Scarecrow.

"Wish you the same," said Jimmy, but his voice was choked with sobs, and was also muffled, for his old hat had slipped down to his chin. Betsey looked pitifully at the old hat fringed with icicles, like frozen tears, and the old snow-laden coat. "I've brought you a Christmas present," said she, and with that she tucked her doll-baby inside Jimmy Scarecrow's coat, sticking its tiny feet into a pocket.

"Thank you," said Jimmy Scarecrow faintly.

"You're welcome," said she. "Keep her under your overcoat, so the snow won't wet her, and she won't catch cold, she's delicate."

"Yes, I will," said Jimmy Scarecrow, and he tried hard to bring one of his stiff, outstretched arms around to clasp the doll-baby.

"Don't you feel cold in that old summer coat?" asked Betsey.

"If I bad a little exercise, I should be warm," he replied. But he shivered, and the wind whistled through his rags.

"You wait a minute," said Betsey, and was off across the field.

Jimmy Scarecrow stood in the corn-stubble, with the doll-baby under his coat and waited, and soon Betsey was back again with Aunt Hannah's crazy quilt trailing in the snow behind her.

"Here," said she, "here is something to keep you warm," and she folded the crazy quilt around the Scarecrow and pinned it.

"Aunt Hannah wants to give it away if anybody wants it," she explained. "She's got so many crazy quilts in the house now she doesn't know what to do with them. Good-bye -- be sure you keep the doll-baby covered up." And with that she ran cross the field, and left Jimmy Scarecrow alone with the crazy quilt and the doll-baby.

The bright flash of colours under Jimmy's hat-brim dazzled his eyes, and he felt a little alarmed. "I hope this quilt is harmless if it IS crazy," he said. But the quilt was warm, and he dismissed his fears. Soon the doll-baby whimpered, but he creaked his joints a little, and that amused it, and he heard it cooing inside his coat.

Jimmy Scarecrow had never felt so happy in his life as he did for an hour or so. But after that the snow began to turn to rain, and the crazy quilt was soaked through and through: and not only that, but his coat and the poor doll-baby. It cried pitifully for a while, and then it was still, and he was afraid it was dead.

It grew very dark, and the rain fell in sheets, the snow melted, and Jimmy Scarecrow stood halfway up his old boots in water. He was saying to himself that the saddest hour of his life had come, when suddenly he again heard Santa Claus' sleigh-bells and his merry voice talking to his reindeer. It was after midnight, Christmas was over, and Santa was hastening home to the North Pole.

"Santa Claus! dear Santa Claus!" cried Jimmy Scarecrow with a great sob, and that time Santa Claus heard him and drew rein.

"Who's there?" he shouted out of the darkness.

"It's only me," replied the Scarecrow.

"Who's me?" shouted Santa Claus.

"Jimmy Scarecrow!"

Santa got out of his sledge and waded up. "Have you been standing here ever since corn was ripe?" he asked pityingly, and Jimmy replied that he had.

"What's that over your shoulders?" Santa Claus continued, holding up his lantern.

"It's a crazy quilt."

"And what are you holding under your coat?"

"The doll-baby that Betsey gave me, and I'm afraid it's dead," poor Jimmy Scarecrow sobbed.

"Nonsense!" cried Santa Claus. "Let me see it!" And with that he pulled the doll-baby out from under the Scarecrow's coat, and patted its back, and shook it a little, and it began to cry, and then to crow. "It's all right," said Santa Claus. "This is the doll-baby I gave Betsey, and it is not at all delicate. It went through the measles, and the chicken-pox, and the mumps, and the whooping-cough, before it left the North Pole. Now get into the sledge, Jimmy Scarecrow, and bring the doll-baby and the crazy quilt. I have never had any quilts that weren't in their right minds at the North Pole, but maybe I can cure this one. Get in!" Santa chirruped to his reindeer, and they drew the sledge up close in a beautiful curve.

"Get in, Jimmy Scarecrow, and come with me to the North Pole!" he cried.

"Please, how long shall I stay?" asked Jimmy Scarecrow.

"Why, you are going to live with me," replied Santa Claus. "I've been looking for a person like you for a long time."

"Are there any crows to scare away at the North Pole? I want to be useful," Jimmy Scarecrow said, anxiously.

"No," answered Santa Claus, "but I don't want you to scare away crows. I want you to scare away Arctic Explorers. I can keep you in work for a thousand years, and scaring away Arctic Explorers from the North Pole is much more important than scaring away crows from corn. Why, if they found the Pole, there wouldn't be a piece an inch long left in a week's time, and the earth would cave in like an apple without a core! They would whittle it all to pieces, and carry it away in their pockets for souvenirs. Come along; I am in a hurry."

"I will go on two conditions," said Jimmy. "First, I want to make a present to Aunt Hannah and Betsey, next Christmas."

"You shall make them any present you choose. What else?"

"I want some way provided to scare the crows out of the corn next summer, while I am away," said Jimmy.

"That is easily managed," said Santa Claus. "Just wait a minute."

Santa took his stylographic pen out of his pocket, went with his lantern close to one of the fence-posts, and wrote these words upon it:

Notice To Crows

Whichever crow shall hereafter hop, fly, or flop into this field during the absence of Jimmy Scarecrow, and therefrom purloin, steal, or abstract corn, shall be instantly, in a twinkling and a trice, turned snow-white, and be ever after a disgrace, a byword and a reproach to his whole race.

Per order of Santa Claus.

"The corn will be safe now," said Santa Claus, "get in." Jimmy got into the sledge and they flew away over the fields, out of sight, with merry halloos and a great clamour of bells.

The next morning there was much surprise at the farmhouse, when Aunt Hannah and Betsey looked out of the window and the Scarecrow was not in the field holding out his stiff arms over the corn stubble. Betsey had told Aunt Hannah she had given away the crazy quilt and the doll-baby, but had been scolded very little.

"You must not give away anything of yours again without asking permission," said Aunt Hannah. "And you have no right to give anything of mine, even if you know I don't want it. Now both my pretty quilt and your beautiful doll-baby are spoiled."

That was all Aunt Hannah had said. She thought she would send John after the quilt and the doll-baby next morning as soon as it was light.

But Jimmy Scarecrow was gone, and the crazy quilt and the doll-baby with him. John, the servant-man, searched everywhere, but not a trace of them could he find. "They must have all blown away, mum," he said to Aunt Hannah.

"We shall have to have another scarecrow next summer," said she.

But the next summer there was no need of a scarecrow, for not a crow came past the fence-post on which Santa Claus had written his notice to crows. The cornfield was never so beautiful, and not a single grain was stolen by a crow, and everybody wondered at it, for they could not read the crow-language in which Santa had written.

"It is a great mystery to me why the crows don't come into our cornfield, when there is no scarecrow," said Aunt Hannah.

But she had a still greater mystery to solve when Christmas came round again. Then she and Betsey had each a strange present. They found them in the sitting-room on Christmas morning. Aunt Hannah's present was her old crazy quilt, remodelled, with every piece cut square and true, and matched exactly to its neighbour.

"Why, it's my old crazy quilt, but it isn't crazy now!" cried Aunt Hannah, and her very spectacles seemed to glisten with amazement.

Betsey's present was her doll-baby of the Christmas before; but the doll was a year older. She had grown an inch, and could walk and say, "mamma," and "how do?" She was changed a good deal, but Betsey knew her at once. "It's my doll-baby!" she cried, and snatched her up and kissed her.

But neither Aunt Hannah nor Betsey ever knew that the quilt and the doll were Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas presents to them.



XII. Why The Chimes Rang

Raymond Mc Alden

There was once in a faraway country where few people have ever travelled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like lines of ants all moving in the same direction.

When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church. This room was so long that one standing at the doorway could scarcely see to the other end, where the choir stood by the marble altar. In the farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud, that sometimes when it played, the people for miles around would close their shutters and prepare for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such church as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old. But the strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of bells.

At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing over it as far up as one could see. I say as far as one could see, because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be certain that it was in sight. Up, and up, and up climbed the stones and the ivy; and as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.

Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower was a chime of Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been built, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it was because a great musician had cast them and arranged them in their place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up where the air was clearest and purest; however that might be no one who had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky; others as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees.

But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There was an old man living not far from the church who said that his mother had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes, you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the church their offerings to the Christ-Child; and when the greatest and best offering was laid on the altar there used to come sounding through the music of the choir the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. Some said that the wind rang them, and others, that they were so high that the angels could set them swinging. But for many long years they had never been heard. It was said that people had been growing less careful of their gifts for the Christ-Child, and that no offering was brought great enough to deserve the music of the chimes.

Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.

Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother. They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan which they had often talked over when by themselves, to go to see the beautiful celebration.

"Nobody can guess, Little Brother," Pedro would say; "all the fine things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the Christ-Child sometimes comes down to bless the service. What if we could see Him?"

The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the lights of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed they were about to enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to look at it.

It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All this Pedro saw in a moment and he knelt down beside her and tried to rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a moment he stood up again, and said:

"It's no use, Little Brother. You will have to go on alone."

"Alone?" cried Little Brother. "And you not see the Christmas festival?"

"No," said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in his throat. "See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing, and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket."

"But I cannot bear to leave you, and go on alone," said Little Brother.

"Both of us need not miss the service," said Pedro, "and it had better be I than you. You can easily find your way to church; and you must see and hear everything twice, Little Brother -- once for you and once for me. I am sure the Christ-Child must know how I should love to come with you and worship Him; and oh! if you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in any one's way, take this little silver piece of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking. Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with you."

In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city and winked hard to keep back the tears, as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the music and splendour of the Christmas celebration that he had been planning for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in the snow.

The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound, and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble around them.

At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be laid on the altar. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down their gifts to the Christ-Child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years and years. And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There went a great murmur through the church as the people saw the king take from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the Holy Child. "Surely," every one said, "we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has ever happened before."

But still only the cold old wind was heard in the tower and the people shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they never really believed the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever rang at all.

The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly the organist stopped playing; and every one looked at the old minister, who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people strained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the chimes in the tower. So far away, and yet so clear the music seemed -- so much sweeter were the notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they all stood up together and stared straight at the altar, to see what great gift had awakened the long silent bells.

But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking, and had laid Pedro's little piece of silver on the altar.



XIII. The Birds' Christmas

From "In the Child's World," by Emilie Poulssen, Milton Bradley Co. Publishers. Used by permission.

F. E. Mann

Founded on fact.

"Chickadee-dee-dee-dee! Chickadee-dee-dee-dee! Chicka -- " "Cheerup, cheerup, chee-chee! Cheerup, cheerup, chee-chee!" "Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee!"

"Rap-atap-atap-atap!" went the woodpecker; "Mrs. Chickadee may speak first."

"Friends," began Mrs. Chickadee, "why do you suppose I called you together?"

"Because it's the day before Christmas," twittered Snow Bunting. "And you're going to give a Christmas party," chirped the Robin. "And you want us all to come!" said Downy Woodpecker. "Hurrah! Three cheers for Mrs. Chickadee!"

"Hush!" said Mrs. Chickadee, "and I'll tell you all about it. To-morrow IS Christmas Day, but I don't want to give a party."

"Chee, chee, chee!" cried Robin Rusty-breast; "chee, chee, chee!"

"Just listen to my little plan," said Mrs. Chickadee, "for, indeed, I want you all to help. How many remember Thistle Goldfinch -- the happy little fellow who floated over the meadows through the summer and fall?"

"Cheerup, chee-chee, cheerup, chee-chee, I do," sang the Robin; "how he loved to sway on thistletops!"

"Yes," said Downy Woodpecker, "and didn't he sing? All about blue skies, and sunshine and happy days, with his 'Swee-e-et sweet-sweet-sweet-a - twitter-witter-witter-witter-wee-twea!'"

"Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee," said Snow Bunting. "We've all heard of Thistle Goldfinch, but what can he have to do with your Christmas party? He's away down South now, and wouldn't care if you gave a dozen parties."

"Oh, but he isn't; he's right in these very woods!"

"Why, you don't mean -- "

"Indeed I do mean it, every single word. Yesterday I was flitting about among the trees, peeking at a dead branch here, and a bit of moss there, and before I knew it I found myself away over at the other side of the woods! 'Chickadee-dee-dee, chickadee-dee-dee!' I sang, as I turned my bill toward home. Just then I heard the saddest little voice pipe out: 'Dear-ie me! Dear-ie me!' and there on the sunny side of a branch perched a lonesome bit of yellowish down. I went up to see what it was, and found dear little Thistle Goldfinch! He was very glad to see me, and soon told his short story. Through the summer Papa and Mamma Goldfinch and all the brothers and sisters had a fine time, singing together, fluttering over thistletops, or floating through the balmy air. But when 'little Jack Frost walked through the trees,' Papa Goldfinch said: 'It is high time we went South!' All were ready but Thistle; he wanted to stay through the winter, and begged so hard that Papa Goldfinch soberly said: 'Try it, my son, but do find a warm place to stay in at night.' Then off they flew, and Thistle was alone. For a while he was happy. The sun shone warm through the middle of the day, and there were fields and meadows full of seeds. You all remember how sweetly he sang for us then. But by and by the cold North Wind came whistling through the trees, and chilly Thistle woke up one gray morning to find the air full of whirling snowflakes He didn't mind the light snows, golden-rod and some high grasses were too tall to be easily covered, and he got seeds from them. But now that the heavy snows have come, the poor little fellow is almost starved, and if he doesn't have a warm place to sleep in these cold nights, he'll surely die!"

Mrs. Chickadee paused a minute. The birds were so still one could hear the pine trees whisper. Then she went on: "I comforted the poor little fellow as best I could, and showed him where to find a few seeds; then I flew home, for it was bedtime. I tucked my head under my wing to keep it warm, and thought, and thought, and thought; and here's my plan:

"We Chickadees have a nice warm home here in the spruce trees, with their thick, heavy boughs to shut out the snow and cold. There is plenty of room, so Thistle could sleep here all winter. We would let him perch on a branch, when we Chickadees would nestle around him until he was as warm as in the lovely summer tine. These cones are so full of seeds that we could spare him a good many; and I think that you Robins might let him come over to your pines some day and share your seeds. Downy Woodpecker must keep his eyes open as he hammers the trees, and if he spies a supply of seeds he will let us know at once. Snow Bunting is only a visitor, so I don't expect him to help, but I wanted him to hear my plan with the rest of you. Now you WILL try, won't you, EVERY ONE?"

"Cheerup, cheerup, ter-ra-lee! Indeed we'll try; let's begin right away! Don't wait until to-morrow; who'll go and find Thistle?"

"I will," chirped Robin Rusty-breast, and off he flew to the place which Mrs. Chickadee had told of, at the other side of the wood. There, sure enough, he found Thistle Goldfinch sighing: "Dear-ie me! dear-ie me! The winter is so cold and I'm here all alone!" "Cheerup, chee-chee!" piped the Robin:

"Cheerup, cheerup, I'm here! I'm here and I mean to stay. What if the winter is drear --  Cheerup, cheerup, anyway!"

"But the snow is so deep," said Thistle, and the Robin replied:

"Soon the snows'll be over and gone, Run and rippled away; What's the use of looking forlorn? Cheerup, cheerup, I say!"

Then he told Thistle all their plans, and wasn't Thistle surprised? Why, he just couldn't believe a word of it till they reached Mrs. Chickadee's and she said it was all true. They fed him and warmed him, then settled themselves for a good night's rest.

Christmas morning they were chirping gaily, and Thistle was trying to remember the happy song he sang in the summer time, when there came a whirr of wings as Snow Bunting flew down.

"Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee," said he, "can you fly a little way?"

"Oh, yes," replied Thistle. "I THINK I could fly a LONG way."

"Come on, then," said Snow Bunting. "Every one who wants a Christmas dinner, follow me!" That was every word he would say, so what could they do but follow?

Soon they came to the edge of the wood, and then to a farmhouse. Snow Bunting flew straight up to the piazza, and there stood a dear little girl in a warm hood and cloak, with a pail of bird-seed on her arm, and a dish of bread crumbs in her hand. As they flew down, she said:

"And here are some more birdies who have come for a Christmas dinner. Of course you shall have some, you dear little things!" and she laughed merrily to see them dive for the crumbs.

After they had finished eating, Elsie (that was the little girl's name) said: "Now, little birds, it is going to be a cold winter, you would better come here every day to get your dinner. I'll always be glad to see you."

"Cheerup chee-chee, cheerup chee-chee! thank you, thank you," cried the Robins. "Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee! thank you, thank you!" twittered Snow Bunting.

"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee! how kind you are!" sang the Chickadees.

And Thistle Goldfinch? Yes, he remembered his summer song, for he sang as they flew away:

"Swee-e-et-sweet-sweet-sweet-a-twitter-witter-witter-witter -- wee-twea!"

notes. -- l. The Robin's song is from "Bird Talks," by Mrs. A.D.T. Whitney. 2. The fact upon which this story is based -- that is of the other birds adopting and warming the solitary Thistle Goldfinch -- was observed near Northampton, Mass., where robins and other migratory birds sometimes spend the winter in the thick pine woods.



XIV. The Little Sister's Vacation

Winifred M. Kirkland

It was to be a glorious Christmas at Doctor Brower's. All "the children" -- little Peggy and her mother always spoke of the grown-up ones as "the children" -- were coming home. Mabel was coming from Ohio with her big husband and her two babies, Minna and little Robin, the year-old grandson whom the home family had never seen; Hazen was coming all the way from the Johns Hopkins Medical School, and Arna was coming home from her teaching in New York. It was a trial to Peggy that vacation did not begin until the very day before Christmas, and then continued only one niggardly week. After school hours she had helped her mother in the Christmas preparations every day until she crept into bed at night with aching arms and tired feet, to lie there tossing about, whether from weariness or glad excitement she did not know.

"Not so hard, daughter," the doctor said to her once.

"Oh, papa," protested her mother, "when we're so busy, and Peggy is so handy!"

"Not so hard," he repeated, with his eyes on fifteen-year-old Peggy's delicate face, as, wearing her braids pinned up on her head and a pinafore down to her toes, she stoned raisins and blanched almonds, rolled bread crumbs and beat eggs, dusted and polished and made ready for the children.

Finally, after a day of flying about, helping with the many last thing, Peggy let down her braids and put on her new crimson shirtwaist, and stood with her mother in the front doorway, for it was Christmas Eve at last, and the station 'bus was rattling up with the first homecomers, Arna and Hazen.

Then there were voices ringing up and down the dark street, and there were happy tears in the mother's eyes, and Arna had taken Peggy's face in her two soft-gloved hands and lifted it up and kissed it, and Hazen had swung his little sister up in the air just as of old. Peggy's tired feet were dancing for joy. She was helping Arna take off her things, was carrying her bag upstairs -- would have carried Hazen's heavy grip, too, only her father took it from her.

"Set the kettle to boil, Peggy," directed her mother; "then run upstairs and see if Arna wants anything. We'll wait supper till the rest come."

The rest came on the nine o'clock train, such a load of them -- the big, bluff brother-in-law, Mabel, plump and laughing, as always, Minna, elfin and bright-eyed, and sleepy Baby Robin. Such hugging, such a hubbub of baby talk! How many things there seemed to be to do for those precious babies right away!

Peggy was here and there and everywhere. Everything was in joyous confusion. Supper was to be set on, too. While the rest ate, Peggy sat by, holding Robin, her own little nephew, and managing at the same time to pick up the things -- napkin, knife, spoon, bread -- that Minna, hilarious with the late hour, flung from her high chair.

It seemed as if they would never be all stowed away for the night. Some of them wanted pitchers of warm water, some of them pitchers of cold, and the alcohol stove must be brought up for heating the baby's milk at night. The house was crowded, too. Peggy had given up her room to Hazen, and slept on a cot in the sewing room with Minna.

The cot had been enlarged by having three chairs piled with pillows, set along the side. But Minna preferred to sleep in the middle of the cot, or else across it, her restless little feet pounding at Peggy's ribs; and Peggy was unused to any bedfellow.

She lay long awake thinking proudly of the children; of Hazen, the tall brother, with his twinkling eyes, his drolleries, his teasing; of graceful Arna who dressed so daintily, talked so cleverly, and had been to college. Arna was going to send Peggy to college, too -- it was so good of Arna! But for all Peggy's admiration for Arna, it was Mabel, the eldest sister, who was the more approachable. Mabel did not pretend even to as much learning as Peggy had herself; she was happy-go-lucky and sweet-tempered. Then her husband was a great jolly fellow, with whom it was impossible to be shy, and the babies -- there never were such cunning babies, Peggy thought. Just here her niece gave her a particularly vicious kick, and Peggy opposed to her train of admiring thoughts, "But I'm so tired."

It did not seem to Peggy that she had been asleep at all when she was waked with a vigorous pounding on her chest and a shrill little voice in her ear:

"Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus! It's mornin'! It's Ch'is'mus!"

"Oh, no, it isn't, Minna!" pleaded Peggy, struggling with sleepiness. "It's all dark still."

"Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus!" reiterated Minna continuing to pound.

"Hush, dear! You'll wake Aunt Arna, and she's feed after being all day on the chou-chou cars."

"Merry Ch'is'mus, Aunty Arna!" shouted the irrepressible Minna.

"Oh, darling, be quiet! We'll play little pig goes to market. I'll tell you a story, only be quiet a little while."

It took Peggy's utmost effort to keep the little wriggler still for the hour from five to six. Then, however, her shrill, "Merry Ch'is'mus!" roused the household. Protests were of no avail. Minna was the only granddaughter. Dark as it was, people must get up.

Peggy must dress Minna and then hurry down to help get breakfast -- not so easy a task with Minna ever at one's heels. The quick-moving sprite seemed to be everywhere -- into the sugar-bowl, the cooky jar, the steaming teakettle -- before one could turn about. Urged on by the impatient little girl, the grown-ups made short work of breakfast.

After the meal, according to time-honoured Brower custom, they formed in procession, single file, Minna first, then Ben with Baby Robin. They each held aloft a sprig of holly, and they all kept time as they sang, "God rest you, merry gentlemen," in their march from the dining-room to the office. And there they must form in circle about the tree, and dance three times round, singing "The Christmas-tree is an evergreen," before they could touch a single present.

The presents are done up according to custom, packages of every shape and size, but all in white paper and tied with red ribbon, and all marked for somebody with somebody else's best love. They all fall to opening, and the babies' shouts are not the only ones to be heard.

Passers-by smile indulgently at the racket, remembering that all the Browers are home for Christmas, and the Browers were ever a jovial company.

Peggy gazes at her gifts quietly, but with shining eyes -- little gold cuff pins from Hazen, just like Arna's; a set of furs from Mabel and Ben; but she likes Arna's gift best of all, a complete set of her favourite author.

But much as they would like to linger about the Christmas tree, Peggy and her mother, at least, must remember that the dishes must be washed and the beds made, and that the family must get ready for church. Peggy does not go to church, and nobody dreams how much she wants to go. She loves the Christmas music. No hymn rings so with joy as:

Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is king.

The choir sings it only once a year, on the Christmas morning. Besides, her chum Esther will be at church, and Peggy has been too busy to go to see her since she came home from boarding-school for the holidays. But somebody must stay at home, and that somebody who but Peggy? Somebody must baste the turkey and prepare the vegetables and take care of the babies.

Peggy is surprised to find how difficult it is to combine dinner-getting with baby-tending. When she opens the oven-door, there is Minna's head thrust up under her arm, the inquisitive little nose in great danger by reason of sputtering gravy.

"Minna," protests Peggy, "you mustn't eat another bit of candy!" and Minna opens her mouth in a howl, prolonged, but without tears and without change of colour. Robin joins in, he does not know why. Peggy is a doting aunt, but an honest one. She is vexed by a growing conviction that Mabel's babies are sadly spoiled. Peggy is ashamed of herself; surely she ought to be perfectly happy playing with Minna and Robin. Instead, she finds that the thing she would like best of all to be doing at this moment, next to going to church, would be to be lying on her father's couch in the office, all by herself, reading.

The dinner is a savoury triumph for Peggy and her mother. The gravy and the mashed potato are entirely of Peggy's workmanship, and Peggy has had a hand in most of the other dishes, too, as the mother proudly tells. How that merry party can eat! Peggy is waitress, and it is long before the passing is over, and she can sit down in her own place. She is just as fond of the unusual Christmas good things as are the rest, but somehow, before she is well started at her turkey, it is time for changing plates for dessert, and before she has tasted her nuts and raisins the babies have succumbed to sleepiness, and it is Peggy who must carry them upstairs for their nap -- just in the middle of one of Hazen's funniest stories, too.

And all the time the little sister is so ready, so quickly serviceable, that somehow nobody notices -- nobody but the doctor. It is he who finds Peggy, half as hour later, all alone in the kitchen. The mother and the older daughters are gathered about the sitting-room hearth, engaged in the dear, delicious talk about the little things that are always left out of letters.

The doctor interrupts them.

"Peggy is all alone," he says.

"But we're having such a good talk," the mother pleads, "and Peggy will be done in no time! Peggy is so handy!"

"Well, girls?" is all the doctor says, with quiet command in his eyes, and Peggy is not left to wash the Christmas dishes all alone. Because she is smiling and her cheeks are bright, her sisters do not notice that her eyes are wet, for Peggy is hotly ashamed of certain thoughts and feelings that she cannot down. She forgets them for a while, however, sitting on the hearth-rug, snuggled against her father's knee in the Christmas twilight.

Yet the troublesome thoughts came back in the evening, when Peggy sat upstairs in the dark with Minna, vainly trying to induce the excited little girl to go to sleep, while bursts of merriment from the family below were always breaking in upon the two in their banishment.

There was another restless night of it with the little niece, and another too early waking. Everybody but Minna was sleepy enough, and breakfast was a protracted meal, to which the "children" came down slowly one by one. Arna did not appear at all, and Peggy carried up to her the daintiest of trays, all of her own preparing. Arna's kiss of thanks was great reward. It was dinner-time before Peggy realized it, and she had hoped to find a quiet hour for her Latin.

The dreadful regent's examination was to come the next week, and Peggy wanted to study for it. She had once thought of asking Arna to help her, but Arna seemed so tired.

In the afternoon Esther came to see her chum, and to take her home with her to spend the night. The babies, fretful with after-Christmas-crossness, were tumbling over their aunt, and sadly interrupting confidences, while Peggy explained that she could not go out that evening. All the family were going to the church sociable, and she must put the babies to bed.

"I think it's mean," Esther broke in. "Isn't it your vacation as well as theirs? Do make that child stop pulling your hair!"

If Esther's words had only not echoed through Peggy's head as they did that night! "But it is so mean of me, so mean of me, to want my own vacation!" sobbed Peggy in the darkness. "I ought just to be glad they're all at home."

Her self-reproach made her readier than ever to wait on them all the next morning. Nobody could make such buckwheat cakes as could Mrs. Brower; nobody could turn them as could Peggy. They were worth coming from New York and Baltimore and Ohio to eat. Peggy stood at the griddle half an hour, an hour, two hours. Her head was aching. Hazen, the latest riser, was joyously calling for more.

At eleven o'clock Peggy realized that she had had no breakfast herself, and that her mother was hurrying her off to investigate the lateness of the butcher. Her head ached more and more, and she seemed strangely slow in her dinner-getting and dish-washing. Her father was away, and there was no one to help in the clearing-up. It was three before she had finished.

Outside the sleigh-bells sounded enticing. It was the first sleighing of the season. Mabel and Ben had been off for a ride, and Arna and Hazen, too. How Peggy longed to be skimming over the snow instead of polishing knives all alone in the kitchen. Sue Cummings came that afternoon to invite Peggy to her party, given in Esther's honour. Sue enumerated six other gatherings that were being given that week in honour of Esther's visit home. Sue seemed to dwell much on the subject. Presently Peggy, with hot cheeks, understood why. Everybody was giving Esther a party, everybody but Peggy herself. Esther's own chum, and all the other girls, were talking about it.

Peggy stood at the door to see Sue out, and watched the sleighs fly by. Out in the sitting-room she heard her mother saying, "Yes, of course we can have waffles for supper. Where's Peggy?" Then Peggy ran away.

In the wintry dusk the doctor came stamping in, shaking the snow from his bearskins. As always, "Where's Peggy?" was his first question.

Peggy was not to be found, they told him. They had been all over the house, calling her. They thought she must have gone out with Sue. The doctor seemed to doubt this. He went through the upstairs rooms, calling her softly. But Peggy was not in any of the bedrooms, or in any of the closets, either. There was still the kitchen attic to be tried.

There came a husky little moan out of its depths, as he whispered, "Daughter!" He groped his way to her, and sitting down on a trunk, folded her into his bearskin coat.

"Now tell father all about it," he said. And it all came out with many sobs -- the nights and dawns with Minna, the Latin, the sleighing, Esther's party, breakfast, the weariness, the headache; and last the waffles, which had moved the one unbearable thing.

"And it is so mean of me, so mean of me!" sobbed Peggy. "But, oh, daddy, I do want a vacation!"

"And you shall have one," he answered.

He carried her straight into her own room, laid her down on her own bed, and tumbled Hazen's things into the hall. Then he went downstairs and talked to his family.

Presently the mother came stealing in, bearing a glass of medicine the doctor-father had sent. Then she undressed Peggy and put her to bed as if she had been a baby, and sat by, smoothing her hair, until she fell asleep.

It seemed to Peggy that she had slept a long, long time. The sun was shining bright. Her door opened a crack and Arna peeped in, and seeing her awake, came to the bed and kissed her good morning.

"I'm so sorry, little sister!" she said.

"Sorry for what?" asked the wondering Peggy.

"Because I didn't see," said Arna. "But now I'm going to bring up your breakfast."

"Oh, no!" cried Peggy, sitting up.

"Oh, yes!" said Arna, with quiet authority. It was as dainty cooking as Peggy's own, and Arna sat by to watch her eat.

"You're so good to me, Arna!" said Peggy.

"Not very," answered Arna, dryly. "When you've finished this you must lie up here away from the children and read."

"But who will take care of Minna?" questioned Peggy.

"Minna's mamma," answered a voice from the next room, where Mabel was pounding pillows. She came to the door to look in on Peggy in all her luxury of orange marmalade to eat, Christmas books to read, and Arna to wait upon her.

"I think mothers, not aunts, were meant to look after babies," said Mabel. "I'm so sorry, dear!"

"Oh, I wish you two wouldn't talk like that!" cried Peggy. "I'm so ashamed."

"All right, we'll stop talking," said Mabel quickly, "but we'll remember."

They would not let Peggy lift her hand to any of the work that day. Mabel managed the babies masterfully. Arna moved quietly about, accomplishing wonders.

"But aren't you tired, Arna?" queried Peggy.

"Not a bit of it, and I'll have time to help you with your Caesar before -- "

"Before what?" asked Peggy, but got no answer. They had been translating famously, when, in the late afternoon, there came a ring of the doorbell. Peggy found Hazen bowing low, and craving "Mistress Peggy's company." A sleigh and two prancing horses stood at the gate.

It was a glorious drive. Peggy's eyes danced and her laugh rang out at Hazen's drolleries. The world stretched white all about them, and their horses flew on and on like the wind. They rode till dark, then turned back to the village, twinkling with lights.

The Brower house was alight in every window, and there was the sound of many voices in the hall. The door flew open upon a laughing crowd of boys and girls. Peggy, all glowing and rosy with the wind, stood utterly bewildered until Esther rushed forward and hugged and shook her.

"It's a party!" she exclaimed. "One of your mother's waffle suppers! We're all here! Isn't it splendid?"

"But, but, but -- " stammered Peggy.

"'But, but, but,'" mimicked Esther. "But this is your vacation, don't you see?"



XV. Little Wolff's Wooden Shoes

A Christmas Story By Francois Coppee; Adapted And Translated By Alma J. Foster

Once upon a time -- so long ago that everybody has forgotten the date -- in a city in the north of Europe -- with such a hard name that nobody can ever remember it -- there was a little seven-year-old boy named Wolff, whose parents were dead, who lived with a cross and stingy old aunt, who never thought of kissing him more than once a year and who sighed deeply whenever she gave him a bowlful of soup.

But the poor little fellow had such a sweet nature that in spite of everything, he loved the old woman, although he was terribly afraid of her and could never look at her ugly old face without shivering.

As this aunt of little Wolff was known to have a house of her own and an old woollen stocking full of gold, she had not dared to send the boy to a charity school; but, in order to get a reduction in the price, she had so wrangled with the master of the school, to which little Wolff finally went, that this bad man, vexed at having a pupil so poorly dressed and paying so little, often punished him unjustly, and even prejudiced his companions against him, so that the three boys, all sons of rich parents, made a drudge and laughing stock of the little fellow.

The poor little one was thus as wretched as a child could be and used to hide himself in corners to weep whenever Christmas time came.

It was the schoolmaster's custom to take all his pupils to the midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and to bring them home again afterward.

Now, as the winter this year was very bitter, and as heavy snow had been falling for several days, all the boys came well bundled up in warm clothes, with fur caps pulled over their ears, padded jackets, gloves and knitted mittens, and strong, thick-soled boots. Only little Wolff presented himself shivering in the poor clothes he used to wear both weekdays and Sundays and having on his feet only thin socks in heavy wooden shoes.

His naughty companions noticing his sad face and awkward appearance, made many jokes at his expense; but the little fellow was so busy blowing on his fingers, and was suffering so much with chilblains, that he took no notice of them. So the band of youngsters, walking two and two behind the master, started for the church.

It was pleasant in the church which was brilliant with lighted candles; and the boys excited by the warmth took advantage of the music of the choir and the organ to chatter among themselves in low tones. They bragged about the fun that was awaiting them at home. The mayor's son had seen, just before starting off, an immense goose ready stuffed and dressed for cooking. At the alderman's home there was a little pine-tree with branches laden down with oranges, sweets, and toys. And the lawyer's cook had put on her cap with such care as she never thought of taking unless she was expecting something very good!

Then they talked, too, of all that the Christ-Child was going to bring them, of all he was going to put in their shoes which, you might be sure, they would take good care to leave in the chimney place before going to bed; and the eyes of these little urchins, as lively as a cage of mice, were sparkling in advance over the joy they would have when they awoke in the morning and saw the pink bag full of sugar-plums, the little lead soldiers ranged in companies in their boxes, the menageries smelling of varnished wood, and the magnificent jumping-jacks in purple and tinsel.

Alas! Little Wolff knew by experience that his old miser of an aunt would send him to bed supperless, but, with childlike faith and certain of having been, all the year, as good and industrious as possible, he hoped that the Christ-Child would not forget him, and so he, too, planned to place his wooden shoes in good time in the fireplace.

Midnight mass over, the worshippers departed, eager for their fun, and the band of pupils always walking two and two, and following the teacher, left the church.

Now, in the porch and seated on a stone bench set in the niche of a painted arch, a child was sleeping -- a child in a white woollen garment, but with his little feet bare, in spite of the cold. He was not a beggar, for his garment was white and new, and near him on the floor was a bundle of carpenter's tools.

In the clear light of the stars, his face, with its closed eyes, shone with an expression of divine sweetness, and his long, curling, blond locks seemed to form a halo about his brow. But his little child's feet, made blue by the cold of this bitter December night, were pitiful to see!

The boys so well clothed for the winter weather passed by quite indifferent to the unknown child; several of them, sons of the notables of the town, however, cast on the vagabond looks in which could be read all the scorn of the rich for the poor, of the well-fed for the hungry.

But little Wolff, coming last out of the church, stopped, deeply touched, before the beautiful sleeping child.

"Oh, dear!" said the little fellow to himself, "this is frightful! This poor little one has no shoes and stockings in this bad weather -- and, what is still worse, he has not even a wooden shoe to leave near him to-night while he sleeps, into which the little Christ-Child can put something good to soothe his misery."

And carried away by his loving heart, Wolff drew the wooden shoe from his right foot, laid it down before the sleeping child, and, as best he could, sometimes hopping, sometimes limping with his sock wet by the snow, he went home to his aunt.

"Look at the good-for-nothing!" cried the old woman, full of wrath at the sight of the shoeless boy. "What have you done with your shoe, you little villain?"

Little Wolff did not know how to lie, so, although trembling with terror when he saw the rage of the old shrew, he tried to relate his adventure.

But the miserly old creature only burst into a frightful fit of laughter.

"Aha! So my young gentleman strips himself for the beggars. Aha! My young gentleman breaks his pair of shoes for a bare-foot! Here is something new, forsooth. Very well, since it is this way, I shall put the only shoe that is left into the chimney-place, and I'll answer for it that the Christ-Child will put in something to-night to beat you with in the morning! And you will have only a crust of bread and water to-morrow. And we shall see if the next time, you will be giving your shoes to the first vagabond that happens along."

And the wicked woman having boxed the ears of the poor little fellow, made him climb up into the loft where he had his wretched cubbyhole.

Desolate, the child went to bed in the dark and soon fell asleep, but his pillow was wet with tears.

But behold! the next morning when the old woman, awakened early by the cold, went downstairs -- oh, wonder of wonders -- she saw the big chimney filled with shining toys, bags of magnificent bonbons, and riches of every sort, and standing out in front of all this treasure, was the right wooden shoe which the boy had given to the little vagabond, yes, and beside it, the one which she had placed in the chimney to hold the bunch of switches.

As little Wolff, attracted by the cries of his aunt, stood in an ecstasy of childish delight before the splendid Christmas gifts, shouts of laughter were heard outside. The woman and child ran out to see what all this meant, and behold! all the gossips of the town were standing around the public fountain. What could have happened? Oh, a most ridiculous and extraordinary thing! The children of the richest men in the town, whom their parents had planned to surprise with the most beautiful presents had found only switches in their shoes!

Then the old woman and the child thinking of all the riches in their chimney were filled with fear. But suddenly they saw the priest appear, his countenance full of astonishment. Just above the bench placed near the door of the church, in the very spot where, the night before, a child in a white garment and with bare feet, in spite of the cold, had rested his lovely head, the priest had found a circlet of gold imbedded in the old stones.

Then, they all crossed themselves devoutly, perceiving that this beautiful sleeping child with the carpenter's tools had been Jesus of Nazareth himself, who had come back for one hour just as he had been when he used to work in the home of his parents; and reverently they bowed before this miracle, which the good God had done to reward the faith and the love of a little child.



XVI. Christmas In The Alley

Olive Thorne Miller

"I declare for 't, to-morrow is Christmas Day an' I clean forgot all about it," said old Ann, the washerwoman, pausing in her work and holding the flatiron suspended in the air.

"Much good it'll do us," growled a discontented voice from the coarse bed in the corner.

"We haven't much extra, to be sure," answered Ann cheerfully, bringing the iron down onto the shirt-bosom before her, "but at least we've enough to eat, and a good fire, and that's more'n some have, not a thousand miles from here either."

"We might have plenty more," said the fretful voice, "if you didn't think so much more of strangers than you do of your own folk's comfort, keeping a houseful of beggars, as if you was a lady!"

"Now, John," replied Ann, taking another iron from the fire, "you're not half so bad as you pretend. You wouldn't have me turn them poor creatures into the streets to freeze, now, would you?"

"It's none of our business to pay rent for them," grumbled John. "Every one for himself, I say, these hard times. If they can't pay you'd ought to send 'em off; there's plenty as can."

"They'd pay quick enough if they could get work," said Ann. "They're good honest fellows, every one, and paid me regular as long as they had a cent. But when hundreds are out o' work in the city, what can they do?"

"That's none o' your business, you can turn 'em out!" growled John.

"And leave the poor children to freeze as well as starve?" said Ann. "Who'd ever take 'em in without money, I'd like to know? No, John," bringing her iron down as though she meant it, "I'm glad I'm well enough to wash and iron, and pay my rent, and so long as I can do that, and keep the hunger away from you and the child, I'll never turn the poor souls out, leastways, not in this freezing winter weather."

"An' here's Christmas," the old man went on whiningly, "an' not a penny to spend, an' I needin' another blanket so bad, with my rhumatiz, an' haven't had a drop of tea for I don't know how long!"

"I know it," said Ann, never mentioning that she too had been without tea, and not only that, but with small allowance of food of any kind, "and I'm desperate sorry I can't get a bit of something for Katey. The child never missed a little something in her stocking before."

"Yes," John struck in, "much you care for your flesh an' blood. The child ha'n't had a thing this winter."

"That's true enough," said Ann, with a sigh, "an' it's the hardest thing of all that I've had to keep her out o' school when she was doing so beautiful."

"An' her feet all on the ground," growled John.

"I know her shoes is bad," said Ann, hanging the shirt up on a line that stretched across the room, and was already nearly full of freshly ironed clothes, "but they're better than the Parker children's."

"What's that to us?" almost shouted the weak old man, shaking his fist at her in his rage.

"Well, keep your temper, old man," said Ann. "I'm sorry it goes so hard with you, but as long as I can stand on my feet, I sha'n't turn anybody out to freeze, that's certain."

"How much'll you get for them?" said the miserable old man, after a few moments' silence, indicating by his hand the clean clothes on the line.

"Two dollars," said Ann, "and half of it must go to help make up next month's rent. I've got a good bit to make up yet, and only a week to do it in, and I sha'n't have another cent till day after to-morrow."

"Well, I wish you'd manage to buy me a little tea," whined the old man; "seems as if that would go right to the spot, and warm up my old bones a bit."

"I'll try," said Ann, revolving in her mind how she could save a few pennies from her indispensable purchases to get tea and sugar, for without sugar he would not touch it.

Wearied with his unusual exertion, the old man now dropped off to sleep, and Ann went softly about, folding and piling the clothes into a big basket already half full. When they were all packed in, and nicely covered with a piece of clean muslin, she took an old shawl and hood from a nail in the corner, put them on, blew out the candle, for it must not burn one moment unnecessarily, and, taking up her basket, went out into the cold winter night, softly closing the door behind her.

The house was on an alley, but as soon as she turned the corner she was in the bright streets, glittering with lamps and gay people. The shop windows were brilliant with Christmas displays, and thousands of warmly dressed buyers were lingering before them, laughing and chatting, and selecting their purchases. Surely it seemed as if there could be no want here.

As quickly as her burden would let her, the old washerwoman passed through the crowd into a broad street and rang the basement bell of a large, showy house.

"Oh, it's the washerwoman!" said a flashy-looking servant who answered the bell; "set the basket right m here. Mrs. Keithe can't look them over to-night. There's company in the parlour -- Miss Carry's Christmas party."

"Ask her to please pay me -- at least a part," said old Ann hastily. "I don't see how I can do without the money. I counted on it."

"I'll ask her," said the pert young woman, turning to go upstairs; "but it's no use."

Returning in a moment, she delivered the message. "She has no change to-night; you're to come in the morning."

"Dear me!" thought Ann, as she plodded back through the streets, "it'll be even worse than I expected, for there's not a morsel to eat in the house, and not a penny to buy one with. Well -- well -- the Lord will provide, the Good Book says, but it's mighty dark days, and it's hard to believe."

Entering the house, Ann sat down silently before the expiring fire. She was tired, her bones ached, and she was faint for want of food.

Wearily she rested her head on her hands, and tried to think of some way to get a few cents. She had nothing she could sell or pawn, everything she could do without had gone before, in similar emergencies. After sitting there some time, and revolving plan after plan, only to find them all impossible, she was forced to conclude that they must go supperless to bed.

Her husband grumbled, and Katey -- who came in from a neighbour's -- cried with hunger, and after they were asleep old Ann crept into bed to keep warm, more disheartened than she had been all winter.

If we could only see a little way ahead! All this time -- the darkest the house on the alley had seen -- help was on the way to them. A kind-hearted city missionary, visiting one of the unfortunate families living in the upper rooms of old Ann's house, had learned from them of the noble charity of the humble old washerwoman. It was more than princely charity, for she not only denied herself nearly every comfort, but she endured the reproaches of her husband, and the tears of her child.

Telling the story to a party of his friends this Christmas Eve, their hearts were troubled, and they at once emptied their purses into his hands for her. And the gift was at that very moment in the pocket of the missionary, waiting for morning to make her Christmas happy. Christmas morning broke clear and cold. Ann was up early, as usual, made her fire, with the last of her coal, cleared up her two rooms, and, leaving her husband and Katey in bed, was about starting out to try and get her money to provide a breakfast for them. At the door she met the missionary.

"Good-morning, Ann," said he. "I wish you a Merry Christmas."

"Thank you, sir," said Ann cheerfully; "the same to yourself."

"Have you been to breakfast already?" asked the missionary.

"No, sir," said Ann. "I was just going out for it."

"I haven't either," said he, "but I couldn't bear to wait until I had eaten breakfast before I brought you your Christmas present -- I suspect you haven't had any yet."

Ann smiled. "Indeed, sir, I haven't had one since I can remember."

"Well, I have one for you. Come in, and I'll tell you about it."

Too much amazed for words, Ann led him into the room. The missionary opened his purse, and handed her a roll of bills.

"Why -- what!" she gasped, taking it mechanically.

"Some friends of mine heard of your generous treatment of the poor families upstairs," he went on, "and they send you this, with their respects and best wishes for Christmas. Do just what you please with it -- it is wholly yours. No thanks," he went on, as she struggled to speak. "It's not from me. Just enjoy it -- that's all. It has done them more good to give than it can you to receive," and before she could speak a word he was gone.

What did the old washerwoman do?

Well, first she fell on her knees and buried her agitated face in the bedclothes. After a while she became aware of a storm of words from her husband, and she got up, subdued as much as possible her agitation, and tried to answer his frantic questions.

"How much did he give you, old stupid?" he screamed; "can't you speak, or are you struck dumb? Wake up! I just wish I could reach you! I'd shake you till your teeth rattled!"

His vicious looks were a sign, it was evident that he only lacked the strength to be as good as his word. Ann roused herself from her stupour and spoke at last.

"I don't know. I'll count it." She unrolled the bills and began.

"O Lord!" she exclaimed excitedly, "here's ten-dollar bills! One, two, three, and a twenty-that makes five -- and five are fifty-five -- sixty -- seventy -- eighty -- eighty-five -- ninety -- one hundred -- and two and five are seven, and two and one are ten, twenty -- twenty-five -- one hundred and twenty-five! Why, I'm rich!" she shouted. "Bless the Lord! Oh, this is the glorious Christmas Day! I knew He'd provide. Katey! Katey!" she screamed at the door of the other room, where the child lay asleep. "Merry Christmas to you, darlin'! Now you can have some shoes! and a new dress! and -- and -- breakfast, and a regular Christmas dinner! Oh! I believe I shall go crazy!"

But she did not. Joy seldom hurts people, and she was brought back to everyday affairs by the querulous voice of her husband.

"Now I will have my tea, an' a new blanket, an' some tobacco -- how I have wanted a pipe!" and he went on enumerating his wants while Ann bustled about, putting away most of her money, and once more getting ready to go out.

"I'll run out and get some breakfast," she said, "but don't you tell a soul about the money."

"No! they'll rob us!" shrieked the old man.

"Nonsense! I'll hide it well, but I want to keep it a secret for another reason. Mind, Katey, don't you tell?"

"No!" said Katey, with wide eyes. "But can I truly have a new frock, Mammy, and new shoes -- and is it really Christmas?"

"It's really Christmas, darlin'," said Ann, "and you'll see what mammy'll bring home to you, after breakfast."

The luxurious meal of sausages, potatoes, and hot tea was soon smoking on the table, and was eagerly devoured by Katey and her father. But Ann could not eat much. She was absent-minded, and only drank a cup of tea. As soon as breakfast was over, she left Katey to wash the dishes, and started out again.

She walked slowly down the street, revolving a great plan in her mind.

"Let me see," she said to herself. "They shall have a happy day for once. I suppose John'll grumble, but the Lord has sent me this money, and I mean to use part of it to make one good day for them."

Having settled this in her mind, she walked on more quickly, and visited various shops in the neighbourhood. When at last she went home, her big basket was stuffed as full as it could hold, and she carried a bundle besides.

"Here's your tea, John," she said cheerfully, as she unpacked the basket, "a whole pound of it, and sugar, and tobacco, and a new pipe."

"Give me some now," said the old man eagerly; "don't wait to take out the rest of the things."

"And here's a new frock for you, Katey," old Ann went on, after making John happy with his treasures, "a real bright one, and a pair of shoes, and some real woollen stockings; oh! how warm you'll be!"

"Oh, how nice, Mammy!" cried Katey, jumping about. "When will you make my frock?"

"To-morrow," answered the mother, "and you can go to school again."

"Oh, goody!" she began, but her face fell. "If only Molly Parker could go too!"

"You wait and see," answered Ann, with a knowing look. "Who knows what Christmas will bring to Molly Parker?"

"Now here's a nice big roast," the happy woman went on, still unpacking, "and potatoes and turnips and cabbage and bread and butter and coffee and -- "

"What in the world! You goin' to give a party?" asked the old man between the puffs, staring at her in wonder.

"I'll tell you just what I am going to do," said Ann firmly, bracing herself for opposition, "and it's as good as done, so you needn't say a word about it. I'm going to have a Christmas dinner, and I'm going to invite every blessed soul in this house to come. They shall be warm and full for once in their lives, please God! And, Katey," she went on breathlessly, before the old man had sufficiently recovered from his astonishment to speak, "go right upstairs now, and invite every one of 'em from the fathers down to Mrs. Parker's baby to come to dinner at three o'clock; we'll have to keep fashionable hours, it's so late now; and mind, Katey, not a word about the money. And hurry back, child, I want you to help me."

To her surprise, the opposition from her husband was less than she expected. The genial tobacco seemed to have quieted his nerves, and even opened his heart. Grateful for this, Ann resolved that his pipe should never lack tobacco while she could work.

But now the cares of dinner absorbed her. The meat and vegetables were prepared, the pudding made, and the long table spread, though she had to borrow every table in the house, and every dish to have enough to go around.

At three o'clock when the guests came in, it was really a very pleasant sight. The bright warm fire, the long table, covered with a substantial, and, to them, a luxurious meal, all smoking hot. John, in his neatly brushed suit, in an armchair at the foot of the table, Ann in a bustle of hurry and welcome, and a plate and a seat for every one.

How the half-starved creatures enjoyed it; how the children stuffed and the parents looked on with a happiness that was very near to tears; how old John actually smiled and urged them to send back their plates again and again, and how Ann, the washerwoman, was the life and soul of it all, I can't half tell.

After dinner, when the poor women lodgers insisted on clearing up, and the poor men sat down by the fire to smoke, for old John actually passed around his beloved tobacco, Ann quietly slipped out for a few minutes, took four large bundles from a closet under the stairs, and disappeared upstairs. She was scarcely missed before she was back again.

Well, of course it was a great day in the house on the alley, and the guests sat long into the twilight before the warm fire, talking of their old homes in the fatherland, the hard winter, and prospects for work in the spring.

When at last they returned to the chilly discomfort of their own rooms, each family found a package containing a new warm dress and pair of shoes for every woman and child in the family.

"And I have enough left,"' said Ann the washerwoman, to herself, when she was reckoning up the expenses of the day, "to buy my coal and pay my rent till spring, so I can save my old bones a bit. And sure John can't grumble at their staying now, for it's all along of keeping them that I had such a blessed Christmas day at all."



XVII. A Christmas Star

Katherine Pyle

"Come now, my dear little stars," said Mother Moon, "and I will tell you the Christmas story."

Every morning for a week before Christmas, Mother Moon used to call all the little stars around her and tell them a story.

It was always the same story, but the stars never wearied of it. It was the story of the Christmas star -- the Star of Bethlehem.

When Mother Moon had finished the story the little stars always said: "And the star is shining still, isn't it, Mother Moon, even if we can't see it?"

And Mother Moon would answer: "Yes, my dears, only now it shines for men's hearts instead of their eyes."

Then the stars would bid the Mother Moon good-night and put on their little blue nightcaps and go to bed in the sky chamber; for the stars' bedtime is when people down on the earth are beginning to waken and see that it is morning.

But that particular morning when the little stars said good-night and went quietly away, one golden star still lingered beside Mother Moon.

"What is the matter, my little star?" asked the Mother Moon. "Why don't you go with your little sisters?"

"Oh, Mother Moon," said the golden star. "I am so sad! I wish I could shine for some one's heart like that star of wonder that you tell us about."

"Why, aren't you happy up here in the sky country?" asked Mother Moon.

"Yes, I have been very happy," said the star; "but to-night it seems just as if I must find some heart to shine for."

"Then if that is so," said Mother Moon, "the time has come, my little star, for you to go through the Wonder Entry."

"The Wonder Entry? What is that?" asked the star. But the Mother Moon made no answer.

Rising, she took the little star by the hand and led it to a door that it had never seen before.

The Mother Moon opened the door, and there was a long dark entry; at the far end was shining a little speck of light.

"What is this?" asked the star.

"It is the Wonder Entry; and it is through this that you must go to find the heart where you belong," said the Mother Moon.

Then the little star was afraid.

It longed to go through the entry as it had never longed for anything before; and yet it was afraid and clung to the Mother Moon.

But very gently, almost sadly, the Mother Moon drew her hand away. "Go, my child," she said.

Then, wondering and trembling, the little star stepped into the Wonder Entry, and the door of the sky house closed behind it.

The next thing the star knew it was hanging in a toy shop with a whole row of other stars blue and red and silver. It itself was gold. The shop smelled of evergreen, and was full of Christmas shoppers, men and women and children; but of them all, the star looked at no one but a little boy standing in front of the counter; for as soon as the star saw the child it knew that he was the one to whom it belonged.

The little boy was standing beside a sweet-faced woman in a long black veil and he was not looking at anything in particular.

The star shook and trembled on the string that held it, because it was afraid lest the child would not see it, or lest, if he did, he would not know it as his star.

The lady had a number of toys on the counter before her, and she was saying: "Now I think we have presents for every one: There's the doll for Lou, and the game for Ned, and the music box for May; and then the rocking horse and the sled."

Suddenly the little boy caught her by the arm. "Oh, mother," he said. He had seen the star.

"Well, what is it, darling?" asked the lady.

"Oh, mother, just see that star up there! I wish -- oh, I do wish I had it."

"Oh, my dear, we have so many things for the Christmas-tree," said the mother.

"Yes, I know, but I do want the star," said the child.

"Very well," said the mother, smiling; "then we will take that, too."

So the star was taken down from the place where it hung and wrapped up in a piece of paper, and all the while it thrilled with joy, for now it belonged to the little boy.

It was not until the afternoon before Christmas, when the tree was being decorated, that the golden star was unwrapped and taken out from the paper.

"Here is something else," said the sweet-faced lady. "We must hang this on the tree. Paul took such a fancy to it that I had to get it for him. He will never be satisfied unless we hang it on too."

"Oh, yes," said some one else who was helping to decorate the tree; "we will hang it here on the very top."

So the little star hung on the highest branch of the Christmas-tree.

That evening all the candles were lighted on the Christmas-tree, and there were so many that they fairly dazzled the eyes; and the gold and silver balls, the fairies and the glass fruits, shone and twinkled in the light; and high above them all shone the golden star.

At seven o'clock a bell was rung, and then the folding doors of the room where the Christmas-tree stood were thrown open, and a crowd of children came trooping in.

They laughed and shouted and pointed, and all talked together, and after a while there was music, and presents were taken from the tree and given to the children.

How different it all was from the great wide, still sky house!

But the star had never been so happy in all its life; for the little boy was there.

He stood apart from the other children, looking up at the star, with his hands clasped behind him, and he did not seem to care for the toys and the games.

At last it was all over. The lights were put out, the children went home, and the house grew still.

Then the ornaments on the tree began to talk among themselves.

"So that is all over," said a silver ball. "It was very gay this evening -- the gayest Christmas I remember."

"Yes," said a glass bunch of grapes; "the best of it is over. Of course people will come to look at us for several days yet, but it won't be like this evening."

"And then I suppose we'll be laid away for another year," said a paper fairy. "Really it seems hardly worth while. Such a few days out of the year and then to be shut up in the dark box again. I almost wish I were a paper doll."

The bunch of grapes was wrong in saying that people would come to look at the Christmas-tree the next few days, for it stood neglected in the library and nobody came near it. Everybody in the house went about very quietly, with anxious faces; for the little boy was ill.

At last, one evening, a woman came into the room with a servant. The woman wore the cap and apron of a nurse.

"That is it," she said, pointing to the golden star. The servant climbed up on some steps and took down the star and put it in the nurse's hand, and she carried it out into the hall and upstairs to a room where the little boy lay.

The sweet-faced lady was sitting by the bed, and as the nurse came in she held out her hand for the star.

"Is this what you wanted, my darling?" she asked, bending over the little boy.

The child nodded and held out his hands for the star; and as he clasped it a wonderful, shining smile came over his face.

The next morning the little boy's room was very still and dark.

The golden piece of paper that had been the star lay on a table beside the bed, its five points very sharp and bright.

But it was not the real star, any more than a person's body is the real person.

The real star was living and shining now in the little boy's heart, and it had gone out with him into a new and more beautiful sky country than it had ever known before -- the sky country where the little child angels live, each one carrying in its heart its own particular star.



XVIII. The Queerest Christmas

Grace Margaret Gallaher

Betty stood at her door, gazing drearily down the long, empty corridor in which the breakfast gong echoed mournfully. All the usual brisk scenes of that hour, groups of girls in Peter Thomson suits or starched shirt-waists, or a pair of energetic ones, red-cheeked and shining-eyed from a run in the snow, had vanished as by the hand of some evil magician. Silent and lonely was the corridor.

"And it's the day before Christmas!" groaned Betty. Two chill little tears hung on her eyelashes.

The night before, in the excitement of getting the girls off with all their trunks and packages intact, she had not realized the homesickness of the deserted school. Now it seemed to pierce her very bones.

"Oh, dear, why did father have to lose his money? 'Twas easy enough last September to decide I wouldn't take the expensive journey home these holidays, and for all of us to promise we wouldn't give each other as much as a Christmas card. But now!" The two chill tears slipped over the edge of her eyelashes. "Well, I know how I'll spend this whole day; I'll come right up here after breakfast and cry and cry and cry!" Somewhat fortified by this cheering resolve, Betty went to breakfast.

Whatever the material joys of that meal might be, it certainly was not "a feast of reason and a flow of soul." Betty, whose sense of humour never perished, even in such a frost, looked round the table at the eight grim-faced girls doomed to a Christmas in school, and quoted mischievously to herself: "On with the dance, let joy be unconfined."

Breakfast bolted, she lagged back to her room, stopping to stare out of the corridor windows.

She saw nothing of the snowy landscape, however. Instead, a picture, the gayest medley of many colours and figures, danced before her eyes: Christmas-trees thumping in through the door, mysterious bundles scurried into dark corners, little brothers and sisters flying about with festoons of mistletoe, scarlet ribbon and holly, everywhere sound and laughter and excitement. The motto of Betty's family was: "Never do to-day what you can put off till to-morrow"; therefore the preparations of a fortnight were always crowded into a day.

The year before, Betty had rushed till her nerves were taut and her temper snapped, had shaken the twins, raged at the housemaid, and had gone to bed at midnight weeping with weariness. But in memory only the joy of the day remained.

"I think I could endure this jail of a school, and not getting one single present, but it breaks my heart not to give one least little thing to any one! Why, who ever heard of such a Christmas!"

"Won't you hunt for that blue -- "

"Broken my thread again!"

"Give me those scissors!"

Betty jumped out of her day-dream. She had wandered into "Cork" and the three O'Neills surrounded her, staring.

"I beg your pardon -- I heard you -- and it was so like home the day before Christmas -- "

"Did you hear the heathen rage?" cried Katherine.

"Dolls for Aunt Anne's mission," explained Constance.

"You're so forehanded that all your presents went a week ago, I suppose," Eleanor swept clear a chair. "The clan O'Neill is never forehanded."

"You'd think I was from the number of thumbs I've grown this morning. Oh, misery!" Eleanor jerked a snarl of thread out on the floor.

Betty had never cared for "Cork" but now the hot worried faces of its girls appealed to her. "Let me help. I'm a regular silkworm."

The O'Neills assented with eagerness, and Betty began to sew in a capable, swift way that made the others stare and sigh with relief.

The dolls were many, the O'Neills slow. Betty worked till her feet twitched on the floor; yet she enjoyed the morning, for it held an entirely new sensation, that of helping some one else get ready for Christmas.

"Done!"

"We never should have finished if you hadn't helped! Thank you, Betty Luther, very, VERY much! You're a duck! Let's run to luncheon together, quick."

Somehow the big corridors did not seem half so bleak echoing to those warm O'Neill voices.

"This morning's just spun by, but, oh, this long, dreary afternoon!" sighed Betty, as she wandered into the library. "Oh, me, there goes Alice Johns with her arms loaded with presents to mail, and I can't give a single soul anything!"

"Do you know where 'Quotations for Occasions' has gone?" Betty turned to face pretty Rosamond Howitt, the only senior left behind.

"Gone to be rebound. I heard Miss Dyce say so."

"Oh, dear, I needed it so."

"Could I help? I know a lot of rhymes and tags of proverbs and things like that."

"Oh, if you would help me, I'd be so grateful! Won't you come to my room? You see, I promised a friend in town, who is to have a Christmas dinner, and who's been very kind to me, that I'd paint the place cards and write some quotation appropriate to each guest. I'm shamefully late over it, my own gifts took such a time; but the painting, at least, is done."

Rosamond led the way to her room, and there displayed the cards which she had painted.

"You can't think of my helplessness! If it were a Greek verb now, or a lost and strayed angle -- but poetry!"

Betty trotted back and forth between the room and the library, delved into books, and even evolved a verse which she audaciously tagged "old play," in imitation of Sir Walter Scott.

"I think they are really and truly very bright, and I know Mrs. Fernell will be delighted." Rosamond wrapped up the cards carefully. "I can't begin to tell you how you've helped me. It was sweet in you to give me your whole afternoon."

The dinner-bell rang at that moment, and the two went down together.

"Come for a little run; I haven't been out all day," whispered Rosamond, slipping her hand into Betty's as they left the table.

A great round moon swung cold and bright over the pines by the lodge.

"Down the road a bit -- just a little way -- to the church," suggested Betty.

They stepped out into the silent country road.

"Why, the little mission is as gay as -- as Christmas! I wonder why?"

Betty glanced at the bright windows of the small plain church. "Oh, some Christmas-eve doings," she answered.

Some one stepped quickly out from the church door.

"Oh, Miss Vernon, I am relieved! I had begun to fear you could not come."

The girls saw it was the tall old rector, his white hair shining silver bright in the moonbeams.

"We're just two girls from the school, sir," said Rosamond.

"Dear, dear!" His voice was both impatient and distressed. "I hoped you were my organist. We are all ready for our Christmas-eve service, but we can do nothing without the music."

"I can play the organ a little," said Betty. "I'd be glad to help."

"You can? My dear child, how fortunate! But -- do you know the service?"

"Yes, sir, it's my church."

No vested choir stood ready to march triumphantly chanting into the choir stalls. Only a few boys and girls waited in the dim old choir loft, where Rosamond seated herself quietly.

Betty's fingers trembled so at first that the music sounded dull and far away; but her courage crept back to her in the silence of the church, and the organ seemed to help her with a brave power of its own. In the dark church only the altar and a great gold star above it shone bright. Through an open window somewhere behind her she could hear the winter wind rattling the ivy leaves and bending the trees. Yet, somehow, she did not feel lonesome and forsaken this Christmas eve, far away from home, but safe and comforted and sheltered. The voice of the old rector reached her faintly in pauses; habit led her along the service, and the star at the altar held her eyes.

Strange new ideas and emotions flowed in upon her brain. Tears stole softly into her eyes, yet she felt in her heart a sweet glow. Slowly the Christmas picture that had flamed and danced before her all day, painted in the glory of holly and mistletoe and tinsel, faded out, and another shaped itself, solemn and beautiful in the altar light.

"My dear child, I thank you very much!" The old rector held Betty's hand in both his. "I cannot have a Christmas morning service -- our people have too much to do to come then -- but I was especially anxious that our evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them, and your music has made it so. You have given me great aid. May your Christmas be a blessed one."

"I was glad to play, sir. Thank you!" answered Betty, simply.

"Let's run!" she cried to Rosamond, and they raced back to school.

She fell asleep that night without one smallest tear.

The next morning Betty dressed hastily, and catching up her mandolin, set out into the corridor.

Something swung against her hand as she opened the door. It was a great bunch of holly, glossy green leaves and glowing berries, and hidden in the leaves a card: "Betty, Merry Christmas," was all, but only one girl wrote that dainty hand.

"A winter rose," whispered Betty, happily, and stuck the bunch into the ribbon of her mandolin.

Down the corridor she ran until she faced a closed door. Then, twanging her mandolin, she burst out with all her power into a gay Christmas carol. High and sweet sang her voice in the silent corridor all through the gay carol. Then, sweeter still, it changed into a Christmas hymn. Then from behind the closed doors sounded voices:

"Merry Christmas, Betty Luther!"

Then Constance O'Neill's deep, smooth alto flowed into Betty's soprano; and at the last all nine girls joined in "Adeste Fideles." Christmas morning began with music and laughter.

"This is your place, Betty. You are lord of Christmas morning."

Betty stood, blushing, red as the holly in her hand, before the breakfast table. Miss Hyle, the teacher at the head of the table, had given up her place.

The breakfast was a merry one. After it somebody suggested that they all go skating on the pond.

Betty hesitated and glanced at Miss Hyle and Miss Thrasher, the two sad-looking teachers.

She approached them and said, "Won't you come skating, too?"

Miss Thrasher, hardly older than Betty herself, and pretty in a white frightened way, refused, but almost cheerfully. "I have a Christmas box to open and Christmas letters to write. Thank you very much."

Betty's heart sank as she saw Miss Hyle's face. "Goodness, she's coming!"

Miss Hyle was the most unpopular teacher in school. Neither ill-tempered nor harsh, she was so cold, remote and rigid in face, voice, and manner that the warmest blooded shivered away from her, the least sensitive shrank.

"I have no skates, but I should like to borrow a pair to learn, if I may. I have never tried," she said.

The tragedies of a beginner on skates are to the observers, especially if such be school-girls, subjects for unalloyed mirth. The nine girls choked and turned their backs and even giggled aloud as Miss Hyle went prone, now backward with a whack, now forward in a limp crumple.

But amusement became admiration. Miss Hyle stumbled, fell, laughed merrily, scrambled up, struck out, and skated. Presently she was swinging up the pond in stroke with Betty and Eleanor O'Neill.

"Miss Hyle, you're great!" cried Betty, at the end of the morning. "I've taught dozens and scores to skate, but never anybody like you. You've a genius for skating."

Miss Hyle's blue eyes shot a sudden flash at Betty that made her whole severe face light up. "I've never had a chance to learn -- at home there never is any ice -- but I have always been athletic."

"Where is your home, Miss Hyle?" asked Betty.

"Cawnpore, India."

"India?" gasped Eleanor. "How delightful! Oh, won't you tell us about it, Miss Hyle?"

So it was that Miss Hyle found herself talking about something besides triangles to girls who really wanted to hear, and so it was that the flash came often into her eyes.

"I have had a happy morning, thank you, Betty -- and all." She said it very simply, yet a quick throb of pity and liking beat in Betty's heart.

"How stupid we are about judging people!" she thought. Yet Betty had always prided herself on her character-reading.

"Hurrah, the mail and express are in!" The girls ran excitedly to their rooms.

Betty alone went to hers without interest. "Why, Hilma, what's happened?"

The little round-faced Swedish maid mopped the big tears with her duster, and choked out:

"Nothings, ma'am!"

"Of course there is! You're crying like everything."

Hilma wept aloud. "Christmas Day it is, and mine family and mine friends have party, now, all day."

"Where?"

Hilma jerked her head toward the window.

"Oh, you mean in town? Why can't you go?"

"I work. And never before am I from home Christmas day."

Betty shivered. "Never before am I from home Christmas day," she whispered.

She went close to the girl, very tall and slim and bright beside the dumpy, flaxen Hilma.

"What work do you do?"

"The cook, he cooks the dinner and the supper; I put it on and wait it on the young ladies and wash the dishes. The others all are gone."

Betty laughed suddenly. "Hilma, go put on your best clothes, quick, and go down to your party. I'm going to do your work."

Hilma's eyes rounded with amazement. "The cook, he be mad."

"No, he won't. He won't care whether it's Hilma or Betty, if things get done all right. I know how to wait on table and wash dishes. There's no housekeeper here to object. Run along, Hilma; be back by nine o'clock -- and -- Merry Christmas!"

Hilma's face beamed through her tears. She was speechless with joy, but she seized Betty's slim brown hand and kissed it loudly.

"What larks!" "Is it a joke?" "Betty, you're the handsomest butler!"

Betty, in a white shirt-waist suit, a jolly red bow pinned on her white apron, and a little cap cocked on her dark hair, waved them to their seats at the holly-decked table.

"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!"

"Nobody is ill, Betty?" Rosamond asked, anxiously.

"If I had three guesses, I should use every one that our maid wanted to go into town for the day, and Betty took her place." It was Miss Hyle's calm voice.

Betty blushed. It was her turn now to flash back a glance; and those two sparks kindled the fire of friendship.

It was a jolly Christmas dinner, with the "butler" eating with the family.

"And now the dishes!" thought Betty. It must be admitted the "washing up" after a Christmas dinner of twelve is not a subject for much joy.

"I propose we all help Betty wash the dishes!" cried Rosamond Howitt.

Out in the kitchen every one laughed and talked and got in the way, and had a good time; and if the milk pitcher was knocked on the floor and the pudding bowl emptied in Betty's lap -- why, it was all "Merry Christmas."

After that they all skated again. When they came in, little Miss Thrasher, looking almost gay in a rose-red gown, met them in the corridor.

"I thought it would be fun," she said, shyly, "to have supper in my room. I have a big box from home. I couldn't possible eat all the things myself, and if you'll bring chafing-dishes and spoons, and those things, I'll cook it, and we can sit round my open fire."

Miss Thrasher's room was homelike, with its fire of white-birch and its easy chairs, and Miss Thrasher herself proved to be a pleasant hostess.

After supper Miss Hyle told a tale of India, Miss Thrasher gave a Rocky Mountain adventure, and the girls contributed ghost and burglar stories till each guest was in a thrill of delightful horror.

"We've had really a fine day!"

"I expected to die of homesickness, but it's been jolly!"

"So did I, but I have actually been happy."

Thus the girls commented as they started for bed.

"I have enjoyed my day," said little Miss Thrasher, "very much."

"Yes, indeed, it's been a merry Christmas." Miss Hyle spoke almost eagerly.

Betty gave a little jump; she realized each one of them was holding her hand and pressing it a little. "Thank you, it's been a lovely evening. Goodnight."

Rosamond had invited Betty to share her roommate's bed, but both girls were too tired and sleepy for any confidence.

"It's been the queerest Christmas!" thought Betty, as she drifted toward sleep. "Why, I haven't given one single soul one single present!"

Yet she smiled, drowsily happy, and then the room seemed to fill with a bright, warm light, and round the bed there danced a great Christmas wreath, made up of the faces of the three O'Neills, and the thin old rector, with his white hair, and pretty Rosamond, and frightened Miss Thrasher and the homesick girls, and lonely Miss Hyle, and tear-dimmed Hilma.

And all the faces smiled and nodded, and called, "Merry Christmas, Betty, Merry Christmas!"



XIX. Old Father Christmas

J.H. Ewing

The custom of Christmas-trees came from Germany. I can remember when they were first introduced into England, and what wonderful things we thought them. Now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars openly discuss whether the presents have been "good," or "mean," as compared with other trees in former years. The first one that I ever saw I believed to have come from Good Father Christmas himself; but little boys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement. They are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back drawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill -- which I feel to this day -- when the folding doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of tapers, mamma, like a Fate, advances with her scissors to give every one what falls to his lot.

Well, young people, when I was eight years old I had not seen a Christmas-tree, and the first picture of one I ever saw was the picture of that held by Old Father Christmas in my godmother's picture-book."

"What are those things on the tree?"" I asked.

"Candles," said my father.

"No, father, not the candles; the other things?"

"Those are toys, my son."

"Are they ever taken off?"

"Yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand around the tree."

Patty and I grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice murmured; "How kind of Old Father Christmas!"

By and by I asked, "How old is Father Christmas?"

My father laughed, and said, "One thousand eight hundred and thirty years, child," which was then the year of our Lord, and thus one thousand eight hundred and thirty years since the first great Christmas Day.

"He LOOKS very old," whispered Patty.

And I, who was, for my age, what Kitty called "Bible-learned," said thoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind, "Then he's older than Methuselah."

But my father had left the room, and did not hear my difficulty.

November and December went by, and still the picture-book kept all its charm for Patty and me; and we pondered on and loved Old Father Christmas as children can love and realize a fancy friend. To those who remember the fancies of their childhood I need say no more.

Christmas week came, Christmas Eve came. My father and mother were mysteriously and unaccountably busy in the parlour (we had only one parlour), and Patty and I were not allowed to go in. We went into the kitchen, but even here was no place of rest for us. Kitty was "all over the place," as she phrased it, and cakes, mince pies, and puddings were with her. As she justly observed, "There was no place there for children and books to sit with their toes in the fire, when a body wanted to be at the oven all along. The cat was enough for HER temper," she added.

As to puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint which drove her out into the Christmas frost, she returned again and again with soft steps, and a stupidity that was, I think, affected, to the warm hearth, only to fly at intervals, like a football, before Kitty's hasty slipper.

We had more sense, or less courage. We bowed to Kitty's behests, and went to the back door.

Patty and I were hardy children, and accustomed to "run out" in all weathers, without much extra wrapping up. We put Kitty's shawl over our two heads, and went outside. I rather hoped to see something of Dick, for it was holiday time; but no Dick passed. He was busy helping his father to bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold sprigs of holly for the morrow -- that was the idea of church decoration in my young days. You have improved on your elders there, young people, and I am candid enough to allow it. Still, the sprigs of red and green were better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious devices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into life and leaf again for very Christmas joy; and, if only one knelt carefully, they did not scratch his nose.

Well, Dick was busy, and not to be seen. We ran across the little yard and looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or anybody. From this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping prettily away to a little hill about three quarters of a mile distant; which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be a place of cure for whooping-cough, or kincough, as it was vulgarly called. Up to the top of this Kitty had dragged me, and carried Patty, when we were recovering from the complaint, as I well remember. It was the only "change of air" we could afford, and I dare say it did as well as if we had gone into badly drained lodgings at the seaside.

This hill was now covered with snow and stood off against the gray sky. The white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk. The only gay things to be seen were the berries on the holly hedge, in the little lane -- which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the Hall -- and the fat robin, that was staring at me. I was looking at the robin, when Patty, who had been peering out of her corner of Kitty's shawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and cried:

"Look!"

I looked. An old man was coming along the lane. His hair and beard were as white as cotton-wool. He had a face like the sort of apple that keeps well in winter; his coat was old and brown. There was snow about him in patches, and he carried a small fir-tree.

The same conviction seized upon us both. With one breath, we exclaimed, "IT's OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS!"

I know now that it was only an old man of the place, with whom we did not happen to be acquainted and that he was taking a little fir-tree up to the Hall, to be made into a Christmas-tree. He was a very good-humoured old fellow, and rather deaf, for which he made up by smiling and nodding his head a good deal, and saying, "aye, aye, to be sure!" at likely intervals.

As he passed us and met our earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so earnestly that I was bold enough to cry, "Good-evening, Father Christmas!"

'same to you!" said he, in a high-pitched voice.

"Then you ARE Father Christmas?" said Patty.

"And a happy New Year," was Father Christmas's reply, which rather put me out. But he smiled in such a satisfactory manner that Patty went on, "You're' very old, aren't you?"

'so I be, miss, so I be," said Father Christmas, nodding.

"Father says you're' eighteen hundred and thirty years old," I muttered.

"Aye, aye, to be sure," said Father Christmas. "I'm a long age."

A VERY long age, thought I, and I added, "You're' nearly twice as old as Methuselah, you know," thinking that this might have struck him.

"Aye, aye," said Father Christmas; but he did not seem to think anything of it. After a pause he held up the tree, and cried, 'd'ye know what this is, little miss?"

"A Christmas-tree," said Patty.

And the old man smiled and nodded.

I leant over the wall, and shouted, "But there are no candles."

"By and by," said Father Christmas, nodding as before. "When it's dark they'll all be lighted up. That'll be a fine sight!"

"Toys, too,there'll be, won't there?" said Patty.

Father Christmas nodded his head. "And sweeties," he added, expressively.

I could feel Patty trembling, and my own heart beat fast. The thought which agitated us both was this: "Was Father Christmas bringing the tree to us?" But very anxiety, and some modesty also, kept us from asking outright.

Only when the old man shouldered his tree, and prepared to move on, I cried in despair, "Oh, are you going?"

"I'm coming back by and by," said he.

"How soon?" cried Patty.

"About four o'clock," said the old man smiling. "I'm only going up yonder."

"Up yonder!" This puzzled us. Father Christmas had pointed, but so indefinitely that he might have been pointing to the sky, or the fields, or the little wood at the end of the Squire's grounds. I thought the latter, and suggested to Patty that perhaps he had some place underground like Aladdin's cave, where he got the candles, and all the pretty things for the tree. This idea pleased us both, and we amused ourselves by wondering what Old Father Christmas would choose for us from his stores in that wonderful hole where he dressed his Christmas-trees.

"I wonder, Patty," said I, "why there's no picture of Father Christmas's dog in the book." For at the old man's heels in the lane there crept a little brown and white spaniel looking very dirty in the snow.

"Perhaps it's a new dog that he's got to take care of his cave," said Patty.

When we went indoors we examined the picture afresh by the dim light from the passage window, but there was no dog there.

My father passed us at this moment, and patted my head. "Father," said I, "I don't know, but I do think Old Father Christmas is going to bring us a Christmas-tree to-night."

"Who's been telling you that?" said my father.

But he passed on before I could explain that we had seen Father Christmas himself, and had had his word for it that he would return at four o'clock, and that the candles on his tree would be lighted as soon as it was dark.

We hovered on the outskirts of the rooms till four o'clock came. We sat on the stairs and watched the big clock, which I was just learning to read; and Patty made herself giddy with constantly looking up and counting the four strokes, toward which the hour hand slowly moved. We put our noses into the kitchen now and then, to smell the cakes and get warm, and anon we hung about the parlour door, and were most unjustly accused of trying to peep. What did we care what our mother was doing in the parlour? -- we, who had seen Old Father Christmas himself, and were expecting him back again every moment!

At last the church clock struck. The sounds boomed heavily through the frost, and Patty thought there were four of them. Then, after due choking and whirring, our own clock struck, and we counted the strokes quite clearly -- one! two! three! four! Then we got Kitty's shawl once more, and stole out into the backyard. We ran to our old place, and peeped, but could see nothing.

"We'd better get up on to the wall," I said; and with some difficulty and distress from rubbing her bare knees against the cold stone, and getting the snow up her sleeves, Patty got on to the coping of the little wall. I was just struggling after her, when something warm and something cold coming suddenly against the bare calves of my legs made me shriek with fright. I came down "with a run" and bruised my knees, my elbows, and my chin; and the snow that hadn't gone up Patty's sleeves went down my neck. Then I found that the cold thing was a dog's nose and the warm thing was his tongue; and Patty cried from her post of observation, "It's Father Christmas's dog and he's licking your legs."

It really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel, and he persisted in licking me, and jumping on me, and making curious little noises, that must have meant something if one had known his language. I was rather harassed at the moment. My legs were sore, I was a little afraid of the dog, and Patty was very much afraid of sitting on the wall without me.

"You won't fall," I said to her. "Get down, will you?" I said to the dog.

"Humpty Dumpty fell off a wall," said Patty.

"Bow! wow!" said the dog.

I pulled Patty down, and the dog tried to pull me down; but when my little sister was on her feet, to my relief, he transferred his attentions to her. When he had jumped at her, and licked her several times, he turned around and ran away.

"He's gone," said I; "I'm so glad."

But even as I spoke he was back again, crouching at Patty's feet, and glaring at her with eyes the colour of his ears.

Now, Patty was very fond of animals, and when the dog looked at her she looked at the dog, and then she said to me, "He wants us to go with him."

On which (as if he understood our language, though we were ignorant of his) the spaniel sprang away, and went off as hard as he could; and Patty and I went after him, a dim hope crossing my mind -- "Perhaps Father Christmas has sent him for us."

The idea was rather favoured by the fact he led us up the lane. Only a little way; then he stopped by something lying in the ditch -- and once more we cried in the same breath, "It's Old Father Christmas!"

Returning from the Hall, the old man had slipped upon a bit of ice, and lay stunned in the snow.

Patty began to cry. "I think he's dead!" she sobbed.

"He is so very old, I don't wonder," I murmured; "but perhaps he's not. I'll fetch father."

My father and Kitty were soon on the spot. Kitty was as strong as a man; and they carried Father Christmas between them into the kitchen. There he quickly revived.

I must do Kitty the justice to say that she did not utter a word of complaint at the disturbance of her labours; and that she drew the old man's chair close up to the oven with her own hand. She was so much affected by the behaviour of his dog that she admitted him even to the hearth; on which puss, being acute enough to see how matters stood, lay down with her back so close to the spaniel's that Kitty could not expel one without kicking both.

For our parts, we felt sadly anxious about the tree; otherwise we could have wished for no better treat than to sit at Kitty's round table taking tea with Father Christmas. Our usual fare of thick bread and treacle was to-night exchanged for a delicious variety of cakes, which were none the worse to us for being "tasters and wasters" -- that is, little bits of dough, or shortbread, put in to try the state of the oven, and certain cakes that had got broken or burnt in the baking.

Well, there we sat, helping Old Father Christmas to tea and cake, and wondering in our hearts what could have become of the tree.

Patty and I felt a delicacy in asking Old Father Christmas about the tree. It was not until we had had tea three times round, with tasters and wasters to match, that Patty said very gently: "It's quite dark now." And then she heaved a deep sigh.

Burning anxiety overcame me. I leaned toward Father Christmas, and shouted -- I had found out that it was needful to shout -- ""I suppose the candles are on the tree now?"

"Just about putting of 'em on," said Father Christmas.

"And the presents, too?" said Patty.

"Aye, aye, TO be sure," said Father Christmas, and he smiled delightfully.

I was thinking what further questions I might venture upon, when he pushed his cup toward Patty saying, 'since you are so pressing, miss, I'll take another dish."

And Kitty, swooping on us from the oven, cried, "make yourself at home, sir; there's more where these came from. Make a long arm, Miss Patty, and hand them cakes."

So we had to devote ourselves to the duties of the table; and Patty, holding the lid with one hand and pouring with the other, supplied Father Christmas's wants with a heavy heart.

At last he was satisfied. I said grace, during which he stood, and, indeed, he stood for some time afterward with his eyes shut -- I fancy under the impression that I was still speaking. He had just said a fervent "amen," and reseated himself, when my father put his head into the kitchen, and made this remarkable statement:

"Old Father Christmas has sent a tree to the young people."

Patty and I uttered a cry of delight, and we forthwith danced round the old man, saying, "How nice; Oh, how kind of you!" which I think must have bewildered him, but he only smiled and nodded.

"Come along," said my father. "Come, children. Come, Reuben. Come, Kitty."

And he went into the parlour, and we all followed him.

My godmother's picture of a Christmas-tree was very pretty; and the flames of the candles were so naturally done in red and yellow that I always wondered that they did not shine at night. But the picture was nothing to the reality. We had been sitting almost in the dark, for, as Kitty said, "Firelight was quite enough to burn at meal-times." And when the parlour door was thrown open, and the tree, with lighted tapers on all the branches, burst upon our view, the blaze was dazzling, and threw such a glory round the little gifts, and the bags of coloured muslin, with acid drops and pink rose drops and comfits inside, as I shall never forget. We all got something; and Patty and I, at any rate, believed that the things came from the stores of Old Father Christmas. We were not undeceived even by his gratefully accepting a bundle of old clothes which had been hastily put together to form his present.

We were all very happy; even Kitty, I think, though she kept her sleeves rolled up, and seemed rather to grudge enjoying herself (a weak point in some energetic characters). She went back to her oven before the lights were out and the angel on the top of the tree taken down. She locked up her present (a little work-box) at once. She often showed it off afterward, but it was kept in the same bit of tissue paper till she died. Our presents certainly did not last so long!

The old man died about a week afterward, so we never made his acquaintance as a common personage. When he was buried, his little dog came to us. I suppose he remembered the hospitality he had received. Patty adopted him, and he was very faithful. Puss always looked on him with favour. I hoped during our rambles together in the following summer that he would lead us at last to the cave where Christmas-trees are dressed. But he never did.

Our parents often spoke of his late master as "old Reuben," but children are not easily disabused of a favourite fancy, and in Patty's thoughts and in mine the old man was long gratefully remembered as Old Father Christmas.



XX. A Christmas Carol

Charles Dickens

Master Peter, and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course -- and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to bear witnesses -- to take the pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out. Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose -- a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered -- flushed, but smiling proudly -- with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been, flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glasses. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

Which all the family re-echoed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.



XXI. How Christmas Came To The Santa Maria Flats

Elia W. Peattie

There were twenty-six flat children, and none of them had ever been flat children until that year. Previously they had all been home children. and as such had, of course, had beautiful Christmases, in which their relations with Santa Claus had been of the most intimate and personal nature.

Now, owing to their residence in the Santa Maria flats, and the Lease, all was changed. The Lease was a strange forbiddance, a ukase issued by a tyrant, which took from children their natural liberties and rights.

Though, to be sure -- as every one of the flat children knew -- they were in the greatest kind of luck to be allowed to live at all, and especially were they fortunate past the lot of children to be permitted to live in a flat. There were many flats in the great city, so polished and carved and burnished and be-lackeyed that children were not allowed to enter within the portals, save on visits of ceremony in charge of parents or governesses. And in one flat, where Cecil de Koven le Baron was born -- just by accident and without intending any harm -- he was evicted, along with his parents, by the time he reached the age where he seemed likely to be graduated from the go-cart. And yet that flat had not nearly so imposing a name as the Santa Maria.

The twenty-six children of the Santa Maria flats belonged to twenty families. All of these twenty families were peculiar, as you might learn any day by interviewing the families concerning one another. But they bore with each other's peculiarities quite cheerfully and spoke in the hall when they met. Sometimes this tolerance would even extend to conversation about the janitor, a thin creature who did the work of five men. The ladies complained that he never smiled.

"I wouldn't so much mind the hot water pipes leaking now and then," the ladies would remark in the vestibule, rustling their skirts to show that they wore silk petticoats, "if only the janitor would smile. But he looks like a cemetery."

"I know it," would be the response. "I told Mr. Wilberforce last night that if he would only get a cheerful janitor I wouldn't mind our having rubber instead of Axminster on the stairs."

"You know we were promised Axminster when we moved in," would be the plaintive response. The ladies would stand together for a moment wrapped in gloomy reflection, and then part.

The kitchen and nurse maids felt on the subject, too.

"If Carl Carlsen would only smile," they used to exclaim in sibilant whispers, as they passed on the way to the laundry. "If he'd come in an' joke while we wus washin'!"

Only Kara Johnson never said anything on the subject because she knew why Carlsen didn't smile, and was sorry for it, and would have made it all right -- if it hadn't been for Lars Larsen.

Dear, dear, but this is a digression from the subject of the Lease. That terrible document was held over the heads of the children as the Herodian pronunciamento concerning small boys was over the heads of the Israelites.

It was in the Lease not to run -- not to jump -- not to yell. It was in the Lease not to sing in the halls, not to call from story to story, not to slide down the banisters. And there were blocks of banisters so smooth and wide and beautiful that the attraction between them and the seats of the little boy's trousers was like the attraction of a magnet for a nail. Yet not a leg, crooked or straight, fat or thin, was ever to be thrown over these polished surfaces!

It was in the Lease, too, that no peddler or agent, or suspicious stranger was to enter the Santa Maria, neither by the front door nor the back. The janitor stood in his uniform at the rear, and the lackey in his uniform at the front, to prevent any such intrusion upon the privacy of the aristocratic Santa Marias. The lackey, who politely directed people, and summoned elevators, and whistled up tubes and rang bells, thus conducting the complex social life of those favoured apartments, was not one to make a mistake, and admit any person not calculated to ornament the front parlours of the flatters.

It was this that worried the children.

For how could such a dear, disorderly, democratic rascal as the children's saint ever hope to gain a pass to that exclusive entrance and get up to the rooms of the flat children?

"You can see for yourself," said Ernest, who lived on the first floor, to Roderick who lived on the fourth, "that if Santa Claus can't get up the front stairs, and can't get up the back stairs, that all he can do is to come down the chimney. And he can't come down the chimney -- at least, he can't get out of the fireplace."

"Why not?" asked Roderick, who was busy with an "all-day sucker" and not inclined to take a gloomy view of anything.

"Goosey!" cried Ernest, in great disdain. "I'll show you!" and he led Roderick, with his sucker, right into the best parlour, where the fireplace was, and showed him an awful thing.

Of course, to the ordinary observer, there was nothing awful about the fireplace. Everything in the way of bric-a-brac possessed by the Santa Maria flatters was artistic. It may have been in the Lease that only people with esthetic tastes were to be admitted to the apartments. However that may be, the fireplace, with its vases and pictures and trinkets, was something quite wonderful. Indian incense burned in a mysterious little dish, pictures of purple ladies were hung in odd corners, calendars in letters nobody could read, served to decorate, if not to educate, and glass vases of strange colours and extraordinary shapes stood about filled with roses. None of these things were awful. At least no one would have dared say they were. But what was awful was the formation of the grate. It was not a hospitable place with andirons, where noble logs of wood could be laid for the burning, nor did it have a generous iron basket where honest anthracite could glow away into the nights. Not a bit of it. It held a vertical plate of stuff that looked like dirty cotton wool, on which a tiny blue flame leaped when the gas was turned on and ignited.

"You can see for yourself!" said Ernest tragically.

Roderick could see for himself. There was an inch-wide opening down which the Friend of the Children could squeeze himself, and, as everybody knows, he needs a good deal of room now, for he has grown portly with age, and his pack every year becomes bigger, owing to the ever-increasing number of girls and boys he has to supply

"Gimini!" said Roderick, and dropped his all-day sucker on the old Bokara rug that Ernest's mamma had bought the week before at a fashionable furnishing shop, and which had given the sore throat to all the family, owing to some cunning little germs that had come over with the rug to see what American throats were like.

Oh, me, yes! but Roderick could see! Anybody could see! And a boy could see better than anybody.

"Let's go see the Telephone Boy," said Roderick. This seemed the wisest thing to do. When in doubt, all the children went to the Telephone Boy, who was the most fascinating person, with knowledge of the most wonderful kind and of a nature to throw that of Mrs. Scheherazade quite, quite in the shade -- which, considering how long that loquacious lady had been a Shade, is perhaps not surprising.

The Telephone Boy knew the answers to all the conundrums in the world, and a way out of nearly all troubles such as are likely to overtake boys and girls. But now he had no suggestions to offer and could speak no comfortable words.

"He can't git inter de front, an' he can't git inter de back, an' he can't come down no chimney in dis here house, an' I tell yer dose," he said, and shut his mouth grimly, while cold apprehension crept around Ernest's heart and took the sweetness out of Roderick's sucker.

Nevertheless, hope springs eternal, and the boys each and individually asked their fathers -- tremendously wise and good men -- if they thought there was any hope that Santa Claus would get into the Santa Maria flats, and each of the fathers looked up from his paper and said he'd be blessed if he did!

And the words sunk deep and deep and drew the tears when the doors were closed and the soft black was all about and nobody could laugh because a boy was found crying! The girls cried too -- for the awful news was whistled up tubes and whistled down tubes, till all the twenty-six flat children knew about it. The next day it was talked over in the brick court, where the children used to go to shout and race. But on this day there was neither shouting nor racing. There was, instead, a shaking of heads, a surreptitious dropping of tears, a guessing and protesting and lamenting. All the flat mothers congratulated themselves on the fact that their children were becoming so quiet and orderly, and wondered what could have come over them when they noted that they neglected to run after the patrol wagon as it whizzed round the block.

It was decided, after a solemn talk, that every child should go to its own fireplace and investigate. In the event of any fireplace being found with an opening big enough to admit Santa Claus, a note could be left directing him along the halls to the other apartments. A spirit of universal brotherhood had taken possession of the Santa Maria flatters. Misery bound them together. But the investigation proved to be disheartening. The cruel asbestos grates were everywhere. Hope lay strangled!

As time went on, melancholy settled upon the flat children. The parents noted it, and wondered if there could be sewer gas in the apartments. One over-anxious mother called in a physician, who gave the poor little child some medicine which made it quite ill. No one suspected the truth, though the children were often heard to say that it was evident that there was to be no Christmas for them! But then, what more natural for a child to say, thus hoping to win protestations -- so the mothers reasoned, and let the remark pass.

The day before Christmas was gray and dismal. There was no wind -- indeed, there was a sort of tightness in the air, as if the supply of freshness had given out. People had headaches -- even the Telephone Boy was cross -- and none of the spirit of the time appeared to enliven the flat children. There appeared to be no stir -- no mystery. No whisperings went on in the corners -- or at least, so it seemed to the sad babies of the Santa Maria.

"It's as plain as a monkey on a hand-organ," said the Telephone Boy to the attendants at his salon in the basement, "that there ain't to be no Christmas for we -- no, not for we!"

Had not Dorothy produced, at this junction, from the folds of her fluffy silken skirts several substantial sticks of gum, there is no saying to what depths of discouragement the flat children would have fallen!

About six o'clock it seemed as if the children would smother for lack of air! It was very peculiar. Even the janitor noticed it. He spoke about it to Kara at the head of the back stairs, and she held her hand so as to let him see the new silver ring on her fourth finger, and he let go of the rope on the elevator on which he was standing and dropped to the bottom of the shaft, so that Kara sent up a wild hallo of alarm. But the janitor emerged as melancholy and unruffled as ever, only looking at his watch to see if it had been stopped by the concussion.

The Telephone Boy, who usually got a bit of something hot sent down to him from one of the tables, owing to the fact that he never ate any meal save breakfast at home, was quite forgotten on this day, and dined off two russet apples, and drew up his belt to stop the ache -- for the Telephone Boy was growing very fast indeed, in spite of his poverty, and couldn't seem to stop growing somehow, although he said to himself every day that it was perfectly brutal of him to keep on that way when his mother had so many mouths to feed.

Well, well, the tightness of the air got worse. Every one was cross at dinner and complained of feeling tired afterward, and of wanting to go to bed. For all of that it was not to get to sleep, and the children tossed and tumbled for a long time before they put their little hands in the big, soft shadowy clasp of the Sandman, and trooped away after him to the happy town of sleep.

It seemed to the flat children that they had been asleep but a few moments when there came a terrible burst of wind that shook even that great house to its foundations. Actually, as they sat up in bed and called to their parents or their nurses, their voices seemed smothered with roar. Could it be that the wind was a great wild beast with a hundred tongues which licked at the roof of the building? And how many voices must it have to bellow as it did?

Sounds of falling glass, of breaking shutters, of crashing chimneys greeted their ears -- not that they knew what all these sounds meant. They only knew that it seemed as if the end of the world had come. Ernest, miserable as he was, wondered if the Telephone Boy had gotten safely home, or if he were alone in the draughty room in the basement; and Roderick hugged his big brother, who slept with him and said, "Now I lay me," three times running, as fast as ever his tongue would say it.

After a terrible time the wind settled down into a steady howl like a hungry wolf, and the children went to sleep, worn out with fright and conscious that the bedclothes could not keep out the cold.

Dawn came. The children awoke, shivering. They sat up in bed and looked about them -- yes, they did, the whole twenty-six of them in their different apartments and their different homes. And what do you suppose they saw -- what do you suppose the twenty-six flat children saw as they looked about them?

Why, stockings, stuffed full, and trees hung full, and boxes packed full! Yes, they did! It was Christmas morning, and the bells were ringing, and all the little flat children were laughing, for Santa Claus had come! He had really come! In the wind and wild weather, while the tongues of the wind licked hungrily at the roof, while the wind howled like a hungry wolf, he had crept in somehow and laughing, no doubt, and chuckling, without question, he had filled the stockings and the trees and the boxes! Dear me, dear me, but it was a happy time! It makes me out of breath to think what a happy time it was, and how surprised the flat children were, and how they wondered how it could ever have happened.

But they found out, of course! It happened in the simplest way! Every skylight in the place was blown off and away, and that was how the wind howled so, and how the bedclothes would not keep the children warm, and how Santa Claus got in. The wind corkscrewed down into these holes, and the reckless children with their drums and dolls, their guns and toy dishes, danced around in the maelstrom and sang:

"Here's where Santa Claus came! This is how he got in --  We should count it a sin Yes, count it a shame, If it hurt when he fell on the floor."

Roderick's sister, who was clever for a child of her age, and who had read Monte Cristo ten times, though she was only eleven, wrote this poem, which every one thought very fine.

And of course all the parents thought and said that Santa Claus must have jumped down the skylights. By noon there were other skylights put in, and not a sign left of the way he made his entrance -- not that the way mattered a bit, no, not a bit.

Perhaps you think the Telephone Boy didn't get anything! Maybe you imagine that Santa Claus didn't get down that far. But you are mistaken. The shaft below one of the skylights went away to the bottom of the building, and it stands to reason that the old fellow must have fallen way through. At any rate there was a copy of "Tom Sawyer," and a whole plum pudding, and a number of other things, more useful but not so interesting, found down in the chilly basement room. There were, indeed.

In closing it is only proper to mention that Kara Johnson crocheted a white silk four-in-hand necktie for Carl Carlsen, the janitor -- and the janitor smiled!



XXII. The Legend Of Babouscka

Adapted From The Russian

It was the night the dear Christ-Child came to Bethlehem. In a country far away from Him, an old, old woman named Babouscka sat in her snug little house by her warm fire. The wind was drifting the snow outside and howling down the chimney, but it only made Babouscka's fire burn more brightly.

"How glad I am that I may stay indoors," said Babouscka, holding her hands out to the bright blaze.

But suddenly she heard a loud rap at her door. She opened it and her candle shone on three old men standing outside in the snow. Their beards were as white as the snow, and so long that they reached the ground. Their eyes shone kindly in the light of Babouscka's candle, and their arms were full of precious things -- boxes of jewels, and sweet-smelling oils, and ointments.

"We have travelled far, Babouscka," they said, "and we stop to tell you of the Baby Prince born this night in Bethlehem. He comes to rule the world and teach all men to be loving and true. We carry Him gifts. Come with us, Babouscka."

But Babouscka looked at the drifting snow, and then inside at her cozy room and the crackling fire. "It is too late for me to go with you, good sirs," she said, "the weather is too cold." She went inside again and shut the door, and the old men journeyed on to Bethlehem without her. But as Babouscka sat by her fire, rocking, she began to think about the Little Christ-Child, for she loved all babies.

"To-morrow I will go to find Him," she said; "to-morrow, when it is light, and I will carry Him some toys."

So when it was morning Babouscka put on her long cloak and took her staff, and filled her basket with the pretty things a baby would like -- gold balls, and wooden toys, and strings of silver cobwebs -- and she set out to find the Christ-Child.

But, oh, Babouscka had forgotten to ask the three old men the road to Bethlehem, and they travelled so far through the night that she could not overtake them. Up and down the road she hurried, through woods and fields and towns, saying to whomsoever she met: "I go to find the Christ-Child. Where does He lie? I bring some pretty toys for His sake."

But no one could tell her the way to go, and they all said: "Farther on, Babouscka, farther on." So she travelled on and on and on for years and years -- but she never found the little Christ-Child.

They say that old Babouscka is travelling still, looking for Him. When it comes Christmas Eve, and the children are lying fast asleep, Babouscka comes softly through the snowy fields and towns, wrapped in her long cloak and carrying her basket on her arm. With her staff she raps gently at the doors and goes inside and holds her candle close to the little children's faces.

"Is He here?" she asks. "Is the little Christ-Child here?" And then she turns sorrowfully away again, crying: "Farther on, farther on!" But before she leaves she takes a toy from her basket and lays it beside the pillow for a Christmas gift. "For His sake," she says softly, and then hurries on through the years and forever in search of the little Christ-Child.



XXIII. Christmas In The Barn

F. Arnstein

Only two more days and Christmas would be here! It had been snowing hard, and Johnny was standing at the window, looking at the soft, white snow which covered the ground half a foot deep. Presently he heard the noise of wheels coming up the road, and a wagon turned in at the gate and came past the window. Johnny was very curious to know what the wagon could be bringing. He pressed his little nose close to the cold window pane, and to his great surprise, saw two large Christmas-trees. Johnny wondered why there were TWO trees, and turned quickly to run and tell mamma all about it; but then remembered that mamma was not at home. She had gone to the city to buy some Christmas presents and would not return until quite late. Johnny began to feel that his toes and fingers had grown quite cold from standing at the window so long; so he drew his own little chair up to the cheerful grate fire and sat there quietly thinking. Pussy, who had been curled up like a little bundle of wool, in the very warmest corner, jumped up, and, going to Johnny, rubbed her head against his knee to attract his attention. He patted her gently and began to talk to her about what was in his thoughts.

He had been puzzling over the TWO trees which had come, and at last had made up his mind about them. "I know now, Pussy," said he, "why there are two trees. This morning when I kissed Papa good-bye at the gate he said he was going to buy one for me, and mamma, who was busy in the house, did not hear him say so; and I am sure she must have bought the other. But what shall we do with two Christmas-trees?"

Pussy jumped into his lap and purred and purred. A plan suddenly flashed into Johnny's mind. "Would you like to have one, Pussy?" Pussy purred more loudly, and it seemed almost as though she had said yes.

"Oh! I will, I will! if mamma will let me. I'll have a Christmas-tree out in the bam for you, Pussy, and for all the pets; and then you'll all be as happy as I shall be with my tree in the parlour."

By this time it had grown quite late. There was a ring at the door-bell; and quick as a flash Johnny ran, with happy, smiling face, to meet papa and mamma and gave them each a loving kiss. During the evening he told them all that he had done that day and also about the two big trees which the man had brought. It was just as Johnny had thought. Papa and mamma had each bought one, and as it was so near Christmas they thought they would not send either of them back. Johnny was very glad of this, and told them of the happy plan he had made and asked if he might have the extra tree. Papa and mamma smiled a little as Johnny explained his plan but they said he might have the tree, and Johnny went to bed feeling very happy.

That night his papa fastened the tree into a block of wood so that it would stand firmly and then set it in the middle of the barn floor. The next day when Johnny had finished his lessons he went to the kitchen, and asked Annie, the cook, if she would save the bones and potato parings and all other leavings from the day's meals and give them to him the following morning. He also begged her to give him several cupfuls of salt and cornmeal, which she did, putting them in paper bags for him. Then she gave him the dishes he asked for -- a few chipped ones not good enough to be used at table -- and an old wooden bowl. Annie wanted to know what Johnny intended to do with all these things, but he only said: "Wait until to-morrow, then you shall see." He gathered up all the things which the cook had given him and carried them to the barn, placing them on a shelf in one corner, where he was sure no one would touch them and where they would be all ready for him to use the next morning.

Christmas morning came, and, as soon as he could, Johnny hurried out to the barn, where stood the Christmas-tree which he was going to trim for all his pets. The first thing he did was to get a paper bag of oats; this he tied to one of the branches of the tree, for Brownie the mare. Then he made up several bundles of hay and tied these on the other side of the tree, not quite so high up, where White Face, the cow, could reach them; and on the lowest branches some more hay for Spotty, the calf.

Next Johnny hurried to the kitchen to get the things Annie had promised to save for him. She had plenty to give. With his arms and hands full he went back to the barn. He found three "lovely" bones with plenty of meat on them; these he tied together to another branch of the tree, for Rover, his big black dog. Under the tree he placed the big wooden bowl, and filled it well with potato parings, rice, and meat, left from yesterday's dinner; this was the "full and tempting trough" for Piggywig. Near this he placed a bowl of milk for Pussy, on one plate the salt for the pet lamb, and on another the cornmeal for the dear little chickens. On the top of the tree he tied a basket of nuts; these were for his pet squirrel; and I had almost forgotten to tell you of the bunch of carrots tied very low down where soft white Bunny could reach them.

When all was done, Johnny stood off a little way to look at this wonderful Christmas-tree. Clapping his hands with delight, he ran to call papa and mamma and Annie, and they laughed aloud when they saw what he had done. It was the funniest Christmas-tree they had ever seen. They were sure the pets would like the presents Johnny had chosen.

Then there was a busy time in the barn. Papa and mamma and Annie helped about bringing in the animals, and before long, Brownie, White Face, Spotty, Rover, Piggywig, Pussy, Lambkin, the chickens, the squirrel and Bunny, the rabbit, had been led each to his own Christmas breakfast on and under the tree. What a funny sight it was to see them all standing around looking happy and contented, eating and drinking with such an appetite!

While watching them Johnny had another thought, and he ran quickly to the house, and brought out the new trumpet which papa had given him for Christmas. By this time the animals had all finished their breakfast and Johnny gave a little toot on his trumpet as a signal that the tree festival was over. Brownie went, neighing and prancing, to her stall, White Face walked demurely off with a bellow, which Spotty, the calf, running at her heels, tried to imitate; the little lamb skipped bleating away; Piggywig walked off with a grunt; Pussy jumped on the fence with a mew; the squirrel still sat up in the tree cracking her nuts; Bunny hopped to her snug little quarters; while Rover, barking loudly, chased the chickens back to their coop. Such a hubbub of noises! Mamma said it sounded as if they were trying to say "Merry Christmas to you, Johnny! Merry Christmas to all."



XXIV. The Philanthropist's Christmas

James Weber Linn

"Did you see this committee yesterday, Mr. Mathews?" asked the philanthropist.

His secretary looked up.

"Yes, sir."

"You recommend them then?"

"Yes, sir."

"For fifty thousand?"

"For fifty thousand -- yes, sir."

"Their corresponding subscriptions are guaranteed?"

"I went over the list carefully, Mr. Carter. The money is promised, and by responsible people."

"Very well," said the philanthropist. "You may notify them, Mr. Mathews, that my fifty thousand will be available as the bills come in."

"Yes, sir."

Old Mr. Carter laid down the letter he had been reading, and took up another. As he perused it his white eyebrows rose in irritation.

"Mr. Mathews!" he snapped.

"Yes, sir?"

"You are careless, sir!"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carter?" questioned the secretary, his face flushing.

The old gentleman tapped impatiently the letter he held in his hand. "Do you pay no attention, Mr. Mathews, to my rule that NO personal letters containing appeals for aid are to reach me? How do you account for this, may I ask?"

"I beg your pardon," said the secretary again. "You will see, Mr. Carter, that that letter is dated three weeks ago. I have had the woman's case carefully investigated. She is undoubtedly of good reputation, and undoubtedly in need; and as she speaks of her father as having associated with you, I thought perhaps you would care to see her letter."

"A thousand worthless fellows associated with me," said the old man, harshly. "In a great factory, Mr. Mathews, a boy works alongside of the men he is put with; he does not pick and choose. I dare say this woman is telling the truth. What of it? You know that I regard my money as a public trust. Were my energy, my concentration, to be wasted by innumerable individual assaults, what would become of them? My fortune would slip through my fingers as unprofitably as sand. You understand, Mr. Mathews? Let me see no more individual letters. You know that Mr. Whittemore has full authority to deal with them. May I trouble you to ring? I am going out."

A man appeared very promptly in answer to the bell.

"Sniffen, my overcoat," said the philanthropist.

"It is 'ere, sir," answered Sniffen, helping the thin old man into the great fur folds.

"There is no word of the dog, I suppose, Sniffen?"

"None, sir. The police was here again yesterday sir, but they said as 'ow -- "

"The police!" The words were fierce with scorn. "Eight thousand incompetents!" He turned abruptly and went toward the door, where he halted a moment.

"Mr. Mathews, since that woman's letter did reach me, I suppose I must pay for my carelessness -- or yours. Send her -- what does she say -- four children? -- send her a hundred dollars. But, for my sake, send it anonymously. Write her that I pay no attention to such claims." He went out, and Sniffen closed the door behind him.

"Takes losin' the little dog 'ard, don't he?" remarked Sniffen, sadly, to the secretary. "I'm afraid there ain't a chance of findin' 'im now. 'E ain't been stole, nor 'e ain't been found, or they'd 'ave brung him back for the reward. 'E's been knocked on the 'ead, like as not. 'E wasn't much of a dog to look at, you see -- just a pup, I'd call 'im. An' after 'e learned that trick of slippin' 'is collar off -- well, I fancy Mr. Carter's seen the last of 'im. I do, indeed."

Mr. Carter meanwhile was making his way slowly down the snowy avenue, upon his accustomed walk. The walk, however, was dull to-day, for Skiddles, his little terrier, was not with him to add interest and excitement. Mr. Carter had found Skiddles in the country a year and a half before. Skiddles, then a puppy, was at the time in a most undignified and undesirable position, stuck in a drain tile, and unable either to advance or to retreat. Mr. Carter had shoved him forward, after a heroic struggle, whereupon Skiddles had licked his hand. Something in the little dog's eye, or his action, had induced the rich philanthropist to bargain for him and buy him at a cost of half a dollar. Thereafter Skiddles became his daily companion, his chief distraction, and finally the apple of his eye.

Skiddles was of no known parentage, hardly of any known breed, but he suited Mr. Carter. What, the millionaire reflected with a proud cynicism, were his own antecedents, if it came to that? But now Skiddles had disappeared.

As Sniffen said, he had learned the trick of slipping free from his collar. One morning the great front doors had been left open for two minutes while the hallway was aired. Skiddles must have slipped down the marble steps unseen, and dodged round the corner. At all events, he had vanished, and although the whole police force of the city had been roused to secure his return, it was aroused in vain. And for three weeks, therefore, a small, straight, white bearded man in a fur overcoat had walked in mournful irritation alone.

He stood upon a corner uncertainly. One way led to the park, and this he usually took; but to-day he did not want to go to the park -- it was too reminiscent of Skiddles. He looked the other way. Down there, if one went far enough, lay "slums," and Mr. Carter hated the sight of slums; they always made him miserable and discontented. With all his money and his philanthropy, was there still necessity for such misery in the world? Worse still came the intrusive question at times: Had all his money anything to do with the creation of this misery? He owned no tenements; he paid good wages in every factory; he had given sums such as few men have given in the history of philanthropy. Still -- there were the slums. However, the worst slums lay some distance off, and he finally turned his back on the park and walked on.

It was the day before Christmas. You saw it in people's faces; you saw it in the holly wreaths that hung in windows; you saw it, even as you passed the splendid, forbidding houses on the avenue, in the green that here and there banked massive doors; but most of all, you saw it in the shops. Up here the shops were smallish, and chiefly of the provision variety, so there was no bewildering display of gifts; but there were Christmas-trees everywhere, of all sizes. It was astonishing how many people in that neighbourhood seemed to favour the old-fashioned idea of a tree.

Mr. Carter looked at them with his irritation softening. If they made him feel a trifle more lonely, they allowed him to feel also a trifle less responsible -- for, after all, it was a fairly happy world.

At this moment he perceived a curious phenomenon a short distance before him -- another Christmas-tree, but one which moved, apparently of its own volition, along the sidewalk. As Mr. Carter overtook it, he saw that it was borne, or dragged, rather by a small boy who wore a bright red flannel cap and mittens of the same peculiar material. As Mr. Carter looked down at him, he looked up at Mr. Carter, and spoke cheerfully:

"Goin' my way, mister?"

"Why," said the philanthropist, somewhat taken back, "I WAS!"

"Mind draggin' this a little way?" asked the boy, confidently, "my hands is cold."

"Won't you enjoy it more if you manage to take it home by yourself?"

"Oh, it ain't for me!" said the boy.

"Your employer," said the philanthropist, severely, "is certainly careless if he allows his trees to be delivered in this fashion."

"I ain't deliverin' it, either," said the boy. "This is Bill's tree."

"Who is Bill?"

"He's a feller with a back that's no good."

"Is he your brother?"

"No. Take the tree a little way, will you, while I warm myself?"

The philanthropist accepted the burden -- he did not know why. The boy, released, ran forward, jumped up and down, slapped his red flannel mittens on his legs, and then ran back again. After repeating these manoeuvres two or three times, he returned to where the old gentleman stood holding the tree.

"Thanks," he said. "Say, mister, you look like Santa Claus yourself, standin' by the tree, with your fur cap and your coat. I bet you don't have to run to keep warm, hey?" There was high admiration in his look. Suddenly his eyes sparkled with an inspiration.

"Say, mister," he cried, "will you do something for me? Come in to Bill's -- he lives only a block from here -- and just let him see you. He's only a kid, and he'll think he's seen Santa Claus, sure. We can tell him you're so busy to-morrow you have to go to lots of places to-day. You won't have to give him anything. We're looking out for all that. Bill got hurt in the summer, and he's been in bed ever since. So we are giving him a Christmas -- tree and all. He gets a bunch of things -- an air gun, and a train that goes around when you wind her up. They're great!"

"You boys are doing this?"

"Well, it's our club at the settlement, and of course Miss Gray thought of it, and she's givin' Bill the train. Come along, mister."

But Mr. Carter declined.

"All right," said the boy. "I guess, what with Pete and all, Bill will have Christmas enough."

"Who is Pete?"

"Bill's dog. He's had him three weeks now -- best little pup you ever saw!"

A dog which Bill had had three weeks -- and in a neighbourhood not a quarter of a mile from the avenue. It was three weeks since Skiddles had disappeared. That this dog was Skiddles was of course most improbable, and yet the philanthropist was ready to grasp at any clue which might lead to the lost terrier.

"How did Bill get this dog?" he demanded.

"I found him myself. Some kids had tin-canned him, and he came into our entry. He licked my hand, and then sat up on his hind legs. Somebody'd taught him that, you know. I thought right away, 'Here's a dog for Bill!' And I took him over there and fed him, and they kept him in Bill's room two or three days, so he shouldn't get scared again and run off; and now he wouldn't leave Bill for anybody. Of course, he ain't much of a dog, Pete ain't," he added "he's just a pup, but he's mighty friendly!"

"Boy," said Mr. Carter, "I guess I'll just go round and" -- he was about to add, "have a look at that dog," but fearful of raising suspicion, he ended -- "and see Bill."

The tenements to which the boy led him were of brick, and reasonably clean. Nearly every window showed some sign of Christmas.

The tree-bearer led the way into a dark hall, up one flight -- Mr. Carter assisting with the tree -- and down another dark hall, to a door, on which he knocked. A woman opened it.

"Here's the tree!" said the boy, in a loud whisper. "Is Bill's door shut?"

Mr. Carter stepped forward out of the darkness. "I beg your pardon, madam," he said. "I met this young man in the street, and he asked me to come here and see a playmate of his who is, I understand, an invalid. But if I am intruding -- "

"Come in," said the woman, heartily, throwing the door open. "Bill will be glad to see you, sir."

The philanthropist stepped inside.

The room was decently furnished and clean. There was a sewing machine in the corner, and in both the windows hung wreaths of holly. Between the windows was a cleared space, where evidently the tree, when decorated, was to stand.

"Are all the things here?" eagerly demanded the tree-bearer.

"They're all here, Jimmy," answered Mrs. Bailey. "The candy just came."

"Say," cried the boy, pulling off his red flannel mittens to blow on his fingers, "won't it be great? But now Bill's got to see Santa Claus. I'll just go in and tell him, an' then, when I holler, mister, you come on, and pretend you're Santa Claus." And with incredible celerity the boy opened the door at the opposite end of the room and disappeared.

"Madam," said Mr. Carter, in considerable embarrassment, "I must say one word. I am Mr. Carter, Mr. Allan Carter. You may have heard my name?"

She shook her head. "No, sir."

"I live not far from here on the avenue. Three weeks ago I lost a little dog that I valued very much I have had all the city searched since then, in vain. To-day I met the boy who has just left us. He informed me that three weeks ago he found a dog, which is at present in the possession of your son. I wonder -- is it not just possible that this dog may be mine?"

Mrs. Bailey smiled. "I guess not, Mr. Carter. The dog Jimmy found hadn't come off the avenue -- not from the look of him. You know there's hundreds and hundreds of dogs without homes, sir. But I will say for this one, he has a kind of a way with him."

"Hark!" said Mr. Carter.

There was a rustling and a snuffing at the door at the far end of the room, a quick scratching of feet. Then:

"Woof! woof! woof!" sharp and clear came happy impatient little barks. The philanthropist's eyes brightened. "Yes," he said, "that is the dog."

"I doubt if it can be, sir," said Mrs. Bailey, deprecatingly.

"Open the door, please," commanded the philanthropist, "and let us see." Mrs. Bailey complied. There was a quick jump, a tumbling rush, and Skiddles, the lost Skiddles, was in the philanthropist's arms. Mrs. Bailey shut the door with a troubled face.

"I see it's your dog, sir," she said, "but I hope you won't be thinking that Jimmy or I -- "

"Madam," interrupted Mr. Carter, "I could not be so foolish. On the contrary, I owe you a thousand thanks."

Mrs. Bailey looked more cheerful. "Poor little Billy!" she said. "It'll come hard on him, losing Pete just at Christmas time. But the boys are so good to him, I dare say he'll forget it."

"Who are these boys?" inquired the philanthropist. "Isn't their action -- somewhat unusual?"

"It's Miss Gray's club at the settlement, sir," explained Mrs. Bailey. "Every Christmas they do this for somebody. It's not charity; Billy and I don't need charity, or take it. It's just friendliness. They're good boys."

"I see," said the philanthropist. He was still wondering about it, though, when the door opened again, and Jimmy thrust out a face shining with anticipation.

"All ready, mister!" he said. "Bill's waitin' for you!"

"Jimmy," began Mrs. Bailey, about to explain, "the gentleman -- "

But the philanthropist held up his hand, interrupting her. "You'll let me see your son, Mrs. Bailey?" he asked, gently.

"Why, certainly, sir."

Mr. Carter put Skiddles down and walked slowly into the inner room. The bed stood with its side toward him. On it lay a small boy of seven, rigid of body, but with his arms free and his face lighted with joy. "Hello, Santa Claus!" he piped, in a voice shrill with excitement.

"Hello, Bill!" answered the philanthropist, sedately.

The boy turned his eyes on Jimmy.

"He knows my name," he said, with glee.

"He knows everybody's name," said Jimmy. "Now you tell him what you want, Bill, and he'll bring it to-morrow.

"How would you like," said the philanthropist, reflectively, "an -- an -- " he hesitated, it seemed so incongruous with that stiff figure on the bed -- "an airgun?"

"I guess yes," said Bill, happily.

"And a train of cars," broke in the impatient Jimmy, "that goes like sixty when you wind her?"

"Hi!" said Bill.

The philanthropist solemnly made notes of this.

"How about," he remarked, inquiringly, "a tree?"

"Honest?" said Bill.

"I think it can be managed," said Santa Claus. He advanced to the bedside.

"I'm glad to have seen you, Bill. You know how busy I am, but I hope -- I hope to see you again."

"Not till next year, of course," warned Jimmy.

"Not till then, of course," assented Santa Claus. "And now, good-bye."

"You forgot to ask him if he'd been a good boy," suggested Jimmy.

"I have," said Bill. "I've been fine. You ask mother."

"She gives you -- she gives you both a high character," said Santa Claus. "Good-bye again," and so saying he withdrew. Skiddles followed him out. The philanthropist closed the door of the bedroom, and then turned to Mrs. Bailey.

She was regarding him with awestruck eyes.

"Oh, sir," she said, "I know now who you are -- the Mr. Carter that gives so much away to people!"

The philanthropist nodded, deprecatingly.

"Just so, Mrs. Bailey," he said. "And there is one gift -- or loan rather -- which I should like to make to you. I should like to leave the little dog with you till after the holidays. I'm afraid I'll have to claim him then; but if you'll keep him till after Christmas -- and let me find, perhaps, another dog for Billy -- I shall be much obliged."

Again the door of the bedroom opened, and Jimmy emerged quietly.

"Bill wants the pup," he explained.

"Pete! Pete!" came the piping but happy voice from the inner room.

Skiddles hesitated. Mr. Carter made no sign.

"Pete! Pete!" shrilled the voice again.

Slowly, very slowly, Skiddles turned and went back into the bedroom.

"You see," said Mr. Carter, smiling, "he won't be too unhappy away from me, Mrs. Bailey."

On his way home the philanthropist saw even more evidences of Christmas gaiety along the streets than before. He stepped out briskly, in spite of his sixty-eight years; he even hummed a little tune.

When he reached the house on the avenue he found his secretary still at work.

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Mathews," he said, "did you send that letter to the woman, saying I never paid attention to personal appeals? No? Then write her, please, enclosing my check for two hundred dollars, and wish her a very Merry Christmas in my name, will you? And hereafter will you always let me see such letters as that one -- of course after careful investigation? I fancy perhaps I may have been too rigid in the past."

"Certainly, sir," answered the bewildered secretary. He began fumbling excitedly for his note-book.

"I found the little dog," continued the philanthropist. "You will be glad to know that."

"You have found him?" cried the secretary. "Have you got him back, Mr. Carter? Where was he?"

"He was -- detained -- on Oak Street, I believe," said the philanthropist. "No, I have not got him back yet. I have left him with a young boy till after the holidays."

He settled himself to his papers, for philanthropists must toil even on the twenty-fourth of December, but the secretary shook his head in a daze. "I wonder what's happened?" he said to himself.



XXV. The First Christmas-Tree

By Lucy Wheelock

Two little children were sitting by the fire one cold winter's night. All at once they heard a timid knock at the door and one ran to open it.

There, outside in the cold and darkness, stood a child with no shoes upon his feet and clad in thin, ragged garments. He was shivering with cold, and he asked to come in and warm himself.

"Yes, come in," cried both the children. "You shall have our place by the fire. Come in."

They drew the little stranger to their warm seat and shared their supper with him, and gave him their bed, while they slept on a hard bench.

In the night they were awakened by strains of sweet music, and looking out, they saw a band of children in shining garments, approaching the house. They were playing on golden harps and the air was full of melody.

Suddenly the Strange Child stood before them: no longer cold and ragged, but clad in silvery light.

His soft voice said: "I was cold and you took Me in. I was hungry and you fed Me. I was tired and you gave Me your bed. I am the Christ-Child, wandering through the world to bring peace and happiness to all good children. As you have given to Me, so may this tree every year give rich fruit to you."

So saying, He broke a branch from the fir-tree that grew near the door, and He planted it in the ground and disappeared. And the branch grew into a great tree, and every year it bore wonderful fruit for the kind children.



XXVI. The First New England Christmas

G. L. Stone And M. G. Fickett

It was a warm and pleasant Saturday -- that twenty-third of December, 1620. The winter wind had blown itself away in the storm of the day before, and the air was clear and balmy. The people on board the Mayflower were glad of the pleasant day. It was three long months since they had started from Plymouth, in England, to seek a home across the ocean. Now they had come into a harbour that they named New Plymouth, in the country of New England.

Other people called these voyagers Pilgrims, which means wanderers. A long while before, the Pilgrims had lived in England; later they made their home with the Dutch in Holland; finally they had said goodbye to their friends in Holland and in England, and had sailed away to America.

There were only one hundred and two of the Pilgrims on the Mayflower, but they were brave and strong and full of hope. Now the Mayflower was the only home they had; yet if this weather lasted they might soon have warm log-cabins to live in. This very afternoon the men had gone ashore to cut down the large trees.

The women of the Mayflower were busy, too. Some were spinning, some knitting, some sewing. It was so bright and pleasant that Mistress Rose Standish had taken out her knitting and had gone to sit a little while on deck. She was too weak to face rough weather, and she wanted to enjoy the warm sunshine and the clear salt air. By her side was Mistress Brewster, the minister's wife. Everybody loved Mistress Standish and Mistress Brewster, for neither of them ever spoke unkindly.

The air on deck would have been warm even on a colder day, for in one corner a bright fire was burning. It would seem strange now, would it not, to see a fire on the deck of a vessel? But in those days, when the weather was pleasant, people on shipboard did their cooking on deck.

The Pilgrims had no stoves, and Mistress Carver's maid had built this fire on a large hearth covered with sand. She had hung a great kettle on the crane over the fire, where the onion soup for supper was now simmering slowly.

Near the fire sat a little girl, busily playing and singing to herself. Little Remember Allerton was only six years old, but she liked to be with Hannah, Mistress Carver's maid. This afternoon Remember had been watching Hannah build the fire and make the soup. Now the little girl was playing with the Indian arrowheads her father had brought her the night before. She was singing the words of the old psalm:

"Shout to Jehovah, all the earth, Serve ye Jehovah with gladness; before Him bow with singing mirth."

"Ah, child, methinks the children of Old England are singing different words from those to-day," spoke Hannah at length, with a faraway look in her eyes.

"Why, Hannah? What songs are the little English children singing now?" questioned Remember in surprise.

"It lacks but two days of Christmas, child, and in my old home everybody is singing Merry Christmas songs."

"But thou hast not told me what is Christmas!' persisted the child.

"Ah, me! Thou dost not know, 'tis true. Christmas, Remember, is the birthday of the Christ-Child, of Jesus, whom thou hast learned to love," Hannah answered softly.

"But what makes the English children so happy then? And we are English, thou hast told me, Hannah. Why don't we keep Christmas, too?"

"In sooth we are English, child. But the reason why we do not sing the Christmas carols or play the Christmas games makes a long, long story, Remember. Hannah cannot tell it so that little children will understand. Thou must ask some other, child."

Hannah and the little girl were just then near the two women on the deck, and Remember said:

"Mistress Brewster, Hannah sayeth she knoweth not how to tell why Love and Wrestling and Constance and the others do not sing the Christmas songs or play the Christmas games. But thou wilt tell me wilt thou not?" she added coaxingly.

A sad look came into Mistress Brewster's eyes, and Mistress Standish looked grave, too. No one spoke for a few seconds, until Hannah said almost sharply:

"Why could we not burn a Yule log Monday, and make some meal into little cakes for the children?"

"Nay, Hannah," answered the gentle voice of Mistress Brewster. "Such are but vain shows and not for those of us who believe in holier things. But," she added, with a kind glance at little Remember, "wouldst thou like to know why we have left Old England and do not keep the Christmas Day? Thou canst not understand it all, child, and yet it may do thee no harm to hear the story. It may help thee to be a brave and happy little girl in the midst of our hard life."

"Surely it can do no harm, Mistress Brewster," spoke Rose Standish, gently. "Remember is a little Pilgrim now, and she ought, methinks, to know something of the reason for our wandering. Come here, child, and sit by me, while good Mistress Brewster tells thee how cruel men have made us suffer. Then will I sing thee one of the Christmas carols."

With these words she held out her hands to little Remember, who ran quickly to the side of Mistress Standish, and eagerly waited for the story to begin.

"We have not always lived in Holland, Remember. Most of us were born in England, and England is the best country in the world. 'Tis a land to be proud of, Remember, though some of its rulers have been wicked and cruel.

"Long before you were born, when your mother was a little girl, the English king said that everybody in the land ought to think as he thought, and go to a church like his. He said he would send us away from England if we did not do as he ordered. Now, we could not think as he did on holy matters, and it seemed wrong to us to obey him. So we decided to go to a country where we might worship as we pleased."

"What became of that cruel king, Mistress Brewster?"

"He ruleth England now. But thou must not think too hardly of him. He doth not understand, perhaps. Right will win some day, Remember, though there may be bloody war before peace cometh. And I thank God that we, at least, shall not be called on to live in the midst of the strife," she went on, speaking more to herself than to the little girl.

"We decided to go to Holland, out of the reach of the king. We were not sure whether it was best to move or not, but our hearts were set on God's ways. We trusted Him in whom we believed. Yes," she went on, "and shall we not keep on trusting Him?"

And Rose Standish, remembering the little stock of food that was nearly gone, the disease that had come upon many of their number, and the five who had died that month, answered firmly: "Yes. He who has led us thus far will not leave us now."

They were all silent a few seconds. Presently Remember said: "Then did ye go to Holland, Mistress Brewster?"

"Yes," she said. "Our people all went over to Holland, where the Dutch folk live and the little Dutch children clatter about with their wooden shoes. There thou wast born, Remember, and my own children, and there we lived in love and peace."

"And yet, we were not wholly happy. We could not talk well with the Dutch, and so we could not set right what was wrong among them. 'Twas so hard to earn money that many had to go back to England. And worst of all, Remember, we were afraid that you and little Bartholomew and Mary and Love and Wrestling and all the rest would not grow to be good girls and boys. And so we have come to this new country to teach our children to be pure and noble."

After another silence Remember spoke again: "I thank thee, Mistress Brewster. And I will try to be a good girl. But thou didst not tell me about Christmas after all."

"Nay, child, but now I will. There are long services on that day in every church where the king's friends go. But there are parts of these services which we cannot approve; and so we think it best not to follow the other customs that the king's friends observe on Christmas.

"They trim their houses with mistletoe and holly so that everything looks gay and cheerful. Their other name for the Christmas time is the Yuletide, and the big log that is burned then is called the Yule log. The children like to sit around the hearth in front of the great, blazing Yule log, and listen to stories of long, long ago.

"At Christmas there are great feasts in England, too. No one is allowed to go hungry, for the rich people on the day always send meat and cakes to the poor folk round about.

"But we like to make all our days Christmas days, Remember. We try never to forget God's gifts to us, and they remind us always to be good to other people."

"And the Christmas carols, Mistress Standish? What are they?"

"On Christmas Eve and early on Christmas morning," Rose Standish answered, "little children go about from house to house, singing Christmas songs. 'Tis what I like best in all the Christmas cheer. And I promised to sing thee one, did I not?"

Then Mistress Standish sang in her dear, sweet voice the quaint old English words:

As Joseph was a-walking, He heard an angel sing: "This night shall be the birth-time Of Christ, the heavenly King.

"He neither shall be born In housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of Paradise, But in an ox's stall.

"He neither shall be clothed In purple nor in pall, But in the fair white linen That usen babies all.

"He neither shall be rocked In silver nor in gold, But in a wooden manger That resteth in the mould."

As Joseph was a-walking There did an angel sing, And Mary's child at midnight Was born to be our King.

Then be ye glad, good people, This night of all the year, And light ye up your candles, For His star it shineth clear.

Before the song was over, Hannah had come on deck again, and was listening eagerly. "I thank thee, Mistress Standish," she said, the tears filling her blue eyes. "'Tis long, indeed, since I have heard that song."

"Would it be wrong for me to learn to sing those words, Mistress Standish?" gently questioned the little girl.

"Nay, Remember, I trow not. The song shall be thy Christmas gift."

Then Mistress Standish taught the little girl one verse after another of the sweet old carol, and it was not long before Remember could say it all.

The next day was dull and cold, and on Monday, the twenty-fifth, the sky was still overcast. There was no bright Yule log in the Mayflower, and no holly trimmed the little cabin.

The Pilgrims were true to the faith they loved. They held no special service. They made no gifts.

Instead, they went again to the work of cutting the trees, and no one murmured at his hard lot.

"We went on shore," one man wrote in his diary, "some to fell timber, some to saw, some to rive, and some to carry; so no man rested all that day."

As for little Remember, she spent the day on board the Mayflower. She heard no one speak of England or sigh for the English home across the sea. But she did not forget Mistress Brewster's story; and more than once that day, as she was playing by herself, she fancied that she was in front of some English home, helping the English children sing their Christmas songs. And both Mistress Allerton and Mistress Standish, whom God was soon to call away from their earthly home, felt happier and stronger as they heard the little girl singing:

He neither shall be born In housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of Paradise, But in an ox's stall.



XXVII. The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner

(Adapted)

Charles Dickens

Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snowstorms.

The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground, which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and wagons; furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off, and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear heart's content. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the dearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.

For the people who were shovelling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee, calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball -- better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest -- laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, potbellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence.

There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish friars, and winking, from their shelves, in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustering high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shop-keeper's benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement.

The grocers'! oh, the grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint, and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humour possible; while the grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at, if they chose.

But soon the steeples called good people all to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood, with Scrooge beside him, in a baker's doorway, and, taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good-humour was restored directly. For they said it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was!

In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners, and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven, where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too.

"Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?" asked Scrooge.

"There is. My own."

"Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked Scrooge.

"To any kindly given. To a poor one most."

"Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge.

"Because it needs it most."

They went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker's) that, notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully, and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall.

And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen "bob" a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house!

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own, and, basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.

"What has ever got your precious father, then?" said Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour!"

"Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's such a goose, Martha!"

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.

"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother!"

"Well, never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!"

"No, no! There's father coming!" cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.

"Hide, Martha, hide!"

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him, and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame!

"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking around.

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.

"Not coming?" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from the church, and had come home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas Day?"

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs -- as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby -- compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds -- a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course -- and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it into the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, "Hurrah!"

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to bear witnesses -- to take the pudding up, and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in turning out? Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose -- a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house and a pastry-cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered -- flushed, but smiling proudly -- with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly, too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody thought or said it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, tipples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass -- two tumblers and a custard-cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

Which all the family reechoed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.



XXVIII. Christmas In Seventeen Seventy-Six

Anne Hollingsworth Wharton

"On Christmas day in Seventy-six, Our gallant troops with bayonets fixed, To Trenton marched away."

Children, have any of you ever thought of what little people like you were doing in this country more than a hundred years ago, when the cruel tide of war swept over its bosom? From many homes the fathers were absent, fighting bravely for the liberty which we now enjoy, while the mothers no less valiantly struggled against hardships and discomforts in order to keep a home for their children, whom you only know as your great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, dignified gentlemen and beautiful ladies, whose painted portraits hang upon the walls in some of your homes. Merry, romping children they were in those far-off times, yet their bright faces must have looked grave sometimes, when they heard the grown people talk of the great things that were happening around them. Some of these little people never forgot the wonderful events of which they heard, and afterward related them to their children and grandchildren, which accounts for some of the interesting stories which you may still hear, if you are good children.

The Christmas story that I have to tell you is about a boy and girl who lived in Bordentown, New Jersey. The father of these children was a soldier in General Washington's army, which was encamped a few miles north of Trenton, on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River. Bordentown, as you can see by looking on your map, if you have not hidden them all away for the holidays, is about seven miles south of Trenton, where fifteen hundred Hessians and a troop of British light horse were holding the town. Thus you see that the British, in force, were between Washington's army and Bordentown, besides which there were some British and Hessian troops in the very town. All this seriously interfered with Captain Tracy's going home to eat his Christmas dinner with his wife and children. Kitty and Harry Tracy, who had not lived long enough to see many wars, could not imagine such a thing as Christmas without their father, and had busied themselves for weeks in making everything ready to have a merry time with him. Kitty, who loved to play quite as much as any frolicsome Kitty of to-day, had spent all her spare time in knitting a pair of thick woollen stockings, which seems a wonderful feat for a little girl only eight years old to perform! Can you not see her sitting by the great chimney-place, filled with its roaring, crackling logs, in her quaint, short-waisted dress, knitting away steadily, and puckering up her rosy, dimpled face over the strange twists and turns of that old stocking? I can see her, and I can also hear her sweet voice as she chatters away to her mother about "how 'sprised papa will be to find that his little girl can knit like a grown-up woman," while Harry spreads out on the hearth a goodly store of shellbarks that he has gathered and is keeping for his share of the 'sprise.

"What if he shouldn't come?" asks Harry, suddenly.

"Oh, he'll come! Papa never stays away on Christmas," says Kitty, looking up into her mother's face for an echo to her words. Instead she sees something very like tears in her mother's eyes.

"Oh, mamma, don't you think he'll come?"

"He will come if he possibly can," says Mrs. Tracy; "and if he cannot, we will keep Christmas whenever dear papa does come home."

"It won't be half so nice," said Kitty, "nothing's so nice as REALLY Christmas, and how's Kriss Kringle going to know about it if we change the day?"

"We'll let him come just the same, and if he brings anything for papa we can put it away for him."

This plan, still, seemed a poor one to Miss Kitty, who went to her bed in a sober mood that night, and was heard telling her dear dollie, Martha Washington, that "wars were mis'able, and that when she married she should have a man who kept a candy-shop for a husband, and not a soldier -- no, Martha, not even if he's as nice as papa!" As Martha made no objection to this little arrangement, being an obedient child, they were both soon fast asleep. The days of that cold winter of 1776 wore on; so cold it was that the sufferings of the soldiers were great, their bleeding feet often leaving marks on the pure white snow over which they marched. As Christmas drew near there was a feeling among the patriots that some blow was about to be struck; but what it was, and from whence they knew not; and, better than all, the British had no idea that any strong blow could come from Washington's army, weak and out of heart, as they thought, after being chased through Jersey by Cornwallis.

Mrs. Tracy looked anxiously each day for news of the husband and father only a few miles away, yet so separated by the river and the enemy's troops that they seemed like a hundred. Christmas Eve came, but brought with it few rejoicings. The hearts of the people were too sad to be taken up with merrymaking, although the Hessian soldiers in the town, good-natured Germans, who only fought the Americans because they were paid for it, gave themselves up to the feasting and revelry.

"Shall we hang up our stockings?" asked Kitty, in rather a doleful voice.

"Yes," said her mother, "Santa Claus won't forget you, I am sure, although he has been kept pretty busy looking after the soldiers this winter."

"Which side is he on?" asked Harry.

"The right side, of course," said Mrs. Tracy, which was the most sensible answer she could possibly have given. So:

"The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there."

Two little rosy faces lay fast asleep upon the pillow when the good old soul came dashing over the roof about one o'clock, and after filling each stocking with red apples, and leaving a cornucopia of sugar-plums for each child, he turned for a moment to look at the sleeping faces, for St. Nicholas has a tender spot in his great big heart for a soldier's children. Then, remembering many other small folks waiting for him all over the land, he sprang up the chimney and was away in a trice.

Santa Claus, in the form of Mrs. Tracy's farmer brother, brought her a splendid turkey; but because the Hessians were uncommonly fond of turkey, it came hidden under a load of wood. Harry was very fond of turkey, too, as well as of all other good things; but when his mother said, "It's such a fine bird, it seems too bad to eat it without father," Harry cried out, "Yes, keep it for papa!" and Kitty, joining in the chorus, the vote was unanimous, and the turkey was hung away to await the return of the good soldier, although it seemed strange, as Kitty told Martha Washington, "to have no papa and no turkey on Christmas Day."

The day passed and night came, cold with a steady fall of rain and sleet. Kitty prayed that her "dear papa might not be out in the storm, and that he might come home and wear his beautiful blue stockings"; "And eat his turkey," said Harry's sleepy voice; after which they were soon in the land of dreams. Toward morning the good people in Bordentown were suddenly aroused by firing in the distance, which became more and more distinct as the day wore on. There was great excitement in the town; men and women gathered together in little groups in the streets to wonder what it was all about, and neighbours came dropping into Mrs. Tracy's parlour, all day long, one after the other, to say what they thought of the firing. In the evening there came a body of Hessians flying into the town, to say that General Washington had surprised the British at Trenton, early that morning, and completely routed them, which so frightened the Hessians in Bordentown that they left without the slightest ceremony.

It was a joyful hour to the good town people when the red-jackets turned their backs on them, thinking every moment that the patriot army would be after them. Indeed, it seemed as if wonders would never cease that day, for while rejoicings were still loud, over the departure of the enemy, there came a knock at Mrs. Tracy's door, and while she was wondering whether she dared open it, it was pushed ajar, and a tall soldier entered. What a scream of delight greeted that soldier, and how Kitty and Harry danced about him and clung to his knees, while Mrs. Tracy drew him toward the warm blaze, and helped him off with his damp cloak!

Cold and tired Captain Tracy was, after a night's march in the streets and a day's fighting; but he was not too weary to smile at the dear faces around him, or to pat Kitty's head when she brought his warm stockings and would put them on the tired feet, herself.

Suddenly there was a sharp, quick bark outside the door. "What's that?" cried Harry.

"Oh, I forgot. Open the door. Here, Fido, Fido!"

Into the room there sprang a beautiful little King Charles spaniel, white, with tan spots, and ears of the longest, softest, and silkiest.

"What a little dear!" exclaimed Kitty; "where did it come from?"

"From the battle of Trenton," said her father. "His poor master was shot. After the red-coats had turned their backs, and I was hurrying along one of the streets where the fight had been the fiercest, I heard a low groan, and, turning, saw a British officer lying among a number of slain. I raised his head; he begged for some water, which I brought him, and bending down my ear I heard him whisper, 'Dying -- last battle -- say a prayer.' He tried to follow me in the words of a prayer, and then, taking my hand, laid it on something soft and warm, nestling close up to his breast -- it was this little dog. The gentleman -- for he was a real gentleman -- gasped out, 'Take care of my poor Fido; good-night,' and was gone. It was as much as I could do to get the little creature away from his dead master; he clung to him as if he loved him better than life. You'll take care of him, won't you, children? I brought him home to you, for a Christmas present."

"Pretty little Fido," said Kitty, taking the soft, curly creature in her arms; "I think it's the best present in the world, and to-morrow is to be real Christmas, because you are home, papa."

"And we'll eat the turkey," said Harry, "and shellbarks, lots of them, that I saved for you. What a good time we'll have! And oh, papa, don't go to war any more, but stay at home, with mother and Kitty and Fido and me."

"What would become of our country if we should all do that, my little man? It was a good day's work that we did this Christmas, getting the army all across the river so quickly and quietly that we surprised the enemy, and gained a victory, with the loss of few men."

Thus it was that some of the good people of 1776 spent their Christmas, that their children and grandchildren might spend many of them as citizens of a free nation.



XXIX. Christmas Under The Snow

Olive Thorne Miller

It was just before Christmas, and Mr. Barnes was starting for the nearest village. The family were out at the door to see him start, and give him the last charges.

"Don't forget the Christmas dinner, papa," said Willie.

"Specially the chickens for the pie!" put in Nora.

"An' the waisins," piped up little Tot, standing on tiptoe to give papa a good-bye kiss.

"I hate to have you go, George," said Mrs. Barnes anxiously. "It looks to me like a storm."

"Oh, I guess it won't be much," said Mr. Barnes lightly; "and the youngsters must have their Christmas dinner, you know."

"Well," said Mrs. Barnes, "remember this, George: if there is a bad storm don't try to come back. Stay in the village till it is over. We can get along alone for a few days, can't we, Willie?" turning to the boy who was giving the last touches to the harness of old Tim, the horse.

"Oh, yes! Papa, I can take care of mamma," said Willie earnestly.

"And get up the Christmas dinner out of nothing?" asked papa, smiling.

"I don't know," said Willie, hesitating, as he remembered the proposed dinner, in which he felt a deep interest.

"What could you do for the chicken pie?" went on papa with a roguish look in his eye, "or the plum-pudding?"

"Or the waisins?" broke in Tot anxiously.

"Tot has set her heart on the raisins," said papa, tossing the small maiden up higher than his head, and dropping her all laughing on the door-step, "and Tot shall have them sure, if papa can find them in S -- . Now good-bye, all! Willie, remember to take care of mamma, and I depend on you to get up a Christmas dinner if I don't get back. Now, wife, don't worry!" were his last words as the faithful old horse started down the road.

Mrs. Barnes turned one more glance to the west, where a low, heavy bank of clouds was slowly rising, and went into the little house to attend to her morning duties.

"Willie," she said, when they were all in the snug little log-cabin in which they lived, "I'm sure there's going to be a storm, and it may be snow. You had better prepare enough wood for two or three days; Nora will help bring it in."

"Me, too!" said grave little Tot.

"Yes, Tot may help too," said mamma.

This simple little home was a busy place, and soon every one was hard at work. It was late in the afternoon before the pile of wood, which had been steadily growing all day, was high enough to satisfy Willie, for now there was no doubt about the coming storm, and it would probably bring snow; no one could guess how much, in that country of heavy storms.

"I wish the village was not so far off, so that papa could get back to-night," said Willie, as he came in with his last load.

Mrs. Barnes glanced out of the window. Broad scattering snowflakes were silently falling; the advance guard, she felt them to be, of a numerous host.

"So do I," she replied anxiously, "or that he did not have to come over that dreadful prairie, where it is so easy to get lost."

"But old Tim knows the way, even in the dark," said Willie proudly. "I believe Tim knows more'n some folks."

"No doubt he does, about the way home," said mamma, "and we won't worry about papa, but have our supper and go to bed. That'll make the time seem short."

The meal was soon eaten and cleared away, the fire carefully covered up on the hearth, and the whole little family quietly in bed. Then the storm, which had been making ready all day, came down upon them in earnest.

The bleak wind howled around the corners, the white flakes by millions and millions came with it, and hurled themselves upon that house. In fact, that poor little cabin alone on the wide prairie seemed to be the object of their sport. They sifted through the cracks in the walls, around the windows, and under the door, and made pretty little drifts on the floor. They piled up against it outside, covered the steps, and then the door, and then the windows, and then the roof, and at last buried it completely out of sight under the soft, white mass.

And all the time the mother and her three children lay snugly covered up in their beds fast asleep, and knew nothing about it.

The night passed away and morning came, but no light broke through the windows of the cabin. Mrs. Barnes woke at the usual time, but finding it still dark and perfectly quiet outside, she concluded that the storm was over, and with a sigh of relief turned over to sleep again. About eight o'clock, however, she could sleep no more, and became wide awake enough to think the darkness strange. At that moment the clock struck, and the truth flashed over her.

Being buried under snow is no uncommon thing on the wide prairies, and since they had wood and cornmeal in plenty, she would not have been much alarmed if her husband had been home. But snow deep enough to bury them must cover up all landmarks, and she knew her husband would not rest till he had found them. To get lost on the trackless prairie was fearfully easy, and to suffer and die almost in sight of home was no unusual thing, and was her one dread in living there.

A few moments she lay quiet in bed, to calm herself and get control of her own anxieties before she spoke to the children.

"Willie," she said at last, "are you awake?"

"Yes, mamma," said Willie; "I've been awake ever so long; isn't it most morning?"

"Willie," said the mother quietly, "we mustn't be frightened, but I think -- I'm afraid -- we are snowed in."

Willie bounded to his feet and ran to the door. "Don't open it!" said mamma hastily; "the snow may fall in. Light a candle and look out the window."

In a moment the flickering rays of the candle fell upon the window. Willie drew back the curtain. Snow was tightly banked up against it to the top.

"Why, mamma," he exclaimed, "so we are! and how can papa find us? and what shall we do?"

"We must do the best we can," said mamma, in a voice which she tried to make steady, "and trust that it isn't very deep, and that Tim and papa will find us, and dig us out."

By this time the little girls were awake and inclined to be very much frightened, but mamma was calm now, and Willie was brave and hopeful. They all dressed, and Willie started the fire. The smoke refused to rise, but puffed out into the room, and Mrs. Barnes knew that if the chimney were closed they would probably suffocate, if they did not starve or freeze.

The smoke in a few minutes choked them, and, seeing that something must be done, she put the two girls, well wrapped in blankets, into the shed outside the back door, closed the door to keep out the smoke, and then went with Willie to the low attic, where a scuttle door opened onto the roof.

"We must try," she said, "to get it open without letting in too much snow, and see if we can manage to clear the chimney."

"I can reach the chimney from the scuttle with a shovel," said Willie. "I often have with a stick."

After much labour, and several small avalanches of snow, the scuttle was opened far enough for Willie to stand on the top round of the short ladder, and beat a hole through to the light, which was only a foot above. He then shovelled off the top of the chimney, which was ornamented with a big round cushion of snow, and then by beating and shovelling he was able to clear the door, which he opened wide, and Mrs. Barnes came up on the ladder to look out. Dreary indeed was the scene! Nothing but snow as far as the eye could reach, and flakes still falling, though lightly.

The storm was evidently almost over, but the sky was gray and overcast.

They closed the door, went down, and soon had a fire, hoping that the smoke would guide somebody to them.

Breakfast was taken by candle-light, dinner -- in time -- in the same way, and supper passed with no sound from the outside world.

Many times Willie and mamma went to the scuttle door to see if any one was in sight, but not a shadow broke the broad expanse of white over which toward night the sun shone. Of course there were no signs of the roads, for through so deep snow none could be broken, and until the sun and frost should form a crust on top there was little hope of their being reached.

The second morning broke, and Willie hurried up to his post of lookout the first thing. No person was in sight, but he found a light crust on the snow, and the first thing he noticed was a few half-starved birds trying in vain to pick up something to eat. They looked weak and almost exhausted, and a thought struck Willie.

It was hard to keep up the courage of the little household. Nora had openly lamented that to-night was Christmas Eve, and no Christmas dinner to be had. Tot had grown very tearful about her "waisins," and Mrs. Barnes, though she tried to keep up heart, had become very pale and silent.

Willie, though he felt unbounded faith in papa, and especially in Tim, found it hard to suppress his own complaints when he remembered that Christmas would probably be passed in the same dismal way, with fears for papa added to their own misery.

The wood, too, was getting low, and mamma dared not let the fire go out, as that was the only sign of their existence to anybody; and though she did not speak of it, Willie knew, too, that they had not many candles, and in two days at farthest they would be left in the dark.

The thought that struck Willie pleased him greatly, and he was sure it would cheer up the rest. He made his plans, and went to work to carry them out without saying anything about it.

He brought out of a corner of the attic an old boxtrap he had used in the summer to catch birds and small animals, set it carefully on the snow, and scattered crumbs of corn-bread to attract the birds.

In half an hour he went up again, and found to his delight he had caught bigger game -- a poor rabbit which had come from no one knows where over the crust to find food.

This gave Willie a new idea; they could save their Christmas dinner after all; rabbits made very nice pies.

Poor Bunny was quietly laid to rest, and the trap set again. This time another rabbit was caught, perhaps the mate of the first. This was the last of the rabbits, but the next catch was a couple of snowbirds. These Willie carefully placed in a corner of the attic, using the trap for a cage, and giving them plenty of food and water.

When the girls were fast asleep, with tears on their cheeks for the dreadful Christmas they were going to have, Willie told mamma about his plans. Mamma was pale and weak with anxiety, and his news first made her laugh and then cry. But after a few moments given to her long pent-up tears, she felt much better and entered into his plans heartily.

The two captives up in the attic were to be Christmas presents to the girls, and the rabbits were to make the long anticipated pie. As for plum-pudding, of course that couldn't be thought of.

"But don't you think, mamma," said Willie eagerly, "that you could make some sort of a cake out of meal, and wouldn't hickory nuts be good in it? You know I have some left up in the attic, and I might crack them softly up there, and don't you think they would be good?" he concluded anxiously.

"Well, perhaps so," said mamma, anxious to please him and help him in his generous plans. "I can try. If I only had some eggs -- but seems to me I have heard that snow beaten into cake would make it light -- and there's snow enough, I'm sure," she added with a faint smile, the first Willie had seen for three days.

The smile alone he felt to be a great achievement, and he crept carefully up the ladder, cracked the nuts to the last one, brought them down, and mamma picked the meats out, while he dressed the two rabbits which had come so opportunely to be their Christmas dinner. "Wish you Merry Christmas!" he called out to Nora and Tot when they waked. "See what Santa Claus has brought you!"

Before they had time to remember what a sorry Christmas it was to be, they received their presents, a live bird, for each, a bird that was never to be kept in a cage, but fly about the house till summer came, and then to go away if it wished.

Pets were scarce on the prairie, and the girls were delighted. Nothing papa could have brought them would have given them so much happiness.

They thought no more of the dinner, but hurried to dress themselves and feed the birds, which were quite tame from hunger and weariness. But after a while they saw preparations for dinner, too. Mamma made a crust and lined a deep dish -- the chicken pie dish -- and then she brought a mysterious something out of the cupboard, all cut up so that it looked as if it might be chicken, and put it in the dish with other things, and then she tucked them all under a thick crust, and set it down in a tin oven before the fire to bake. And that was not all. She got out some more cornmeal, and made a batter, and put in some sugar and something else which she slipped in from a bowl, and which looked in the batter something like raisins; and at the last moment Willie brought her a cup of snow and she hastily beat it into the cake, or pudding, whichever you might call it, while the children laughed at the idea of making a cake out of snow. This went into the same oven and pretty soon it rose up light and showed a beautiful brown crust, while the pie was steaming through little fork holes on top, and sending out most delicious odours.

At the last minute, when the table was set and everything ready to come up, Willie ran up to look out of the scuttle, as he had every hour of daylight since they were buried. In a moment came a wild shout down the ladder.

"They're coming! Hurrah for old Tim!"

Mamma rushed up and looked out, and saw -- to be sure -- old Tim slowly coming along over the crust, drawing after him a wood sled on which were two men.

"It's papa!" shouted Willie, waving his arms to attract their attention.

"Willie!" came back over the snow in tones of agony. "Is that you? Are all well?"

"All well!" shouted Willie, "and just going to have our Christmas dinner."

"Dinner?" echoed papa, who was now nearer.

"Where is the house, then?"

"Oh, down here!" said Willie, "under the snow; but we're all right, only we mustn't let the plum-pudding spoil."

Looking into the attic, Willie found that mamma had fainted away, and this news brought to her aid papa and the other man, who proved to be a good friend who had come to help.

Tim was tied to the chimney, whose thread of smoke had guided them home, and all went down into the dark room. Mrs. Barnes soon recovered, and while Willie dished up the smoking dinner, stories were told on both sides.

Mr. Barnes had been trying to get through the snow and to find them all the time, but until the last night had made a stiff crust he had been unable to do so. Then Mrs. Barnes told her story, winding up with the account of Willie's Christmas dinner. "And if it hadn't been for his keeping up our hearts I don't know what would have become of us," she said at last.

"Well, my son," said papa, "you did take care of mamma, and get up a dinner out of nothing, sure enough; and now we'll eat the dinner, which I am sure is delicious."

So it proved to be; even the cake, or pudding, which Tot christened snow pudding, was voted very nice, and the hickory nuts as good as raisins. When they had finished, Mr. Barnes brought in his packages, gave Tot and the rest some "sure-enough waisins," and added his Christmas presents to Willie's; but though all were overjoyed, nothing was quite so nice in their eyes as the two live birds.

After dinner the two men and Willie dug out passages from the doors, through the snow, which had wasted a good deal, uncovered the windows, and made a slanting way to his shed for old Tim. Then for two or three days Willie made tunnels and little rooms under the snow, and for two weeks, while the snow lasted, Nora and Tot had fine times in the little snow playhouses.



XXX. Mr. Bluff's Experiences Of Holidays

Oliver Bell Bunce

"I hate holidays," said Bachelor Bluff to me, with some little irritation, on a Christmas a few years ago. Then he paused an instant, after which he resumed: "I don't mean to say that I hate to see people enjoying themselves. But I hate holidays, nevertheless, because to me they are always the saddest and dreariest days of the year. I shudder at the name of holiday. I dread the approach of one, and thank heaven when it is over. I pass through, on a holiday, the most horrible sensations, the bitterest feelings, the most oppressive melancholy; in fact, I am not myself at holiday-times."

"Very strange," I ventured to interpose.

"A plague on it!" said he, almost with violence. "I'm not inhuman. I don't wish anybody harm. I'm glad people can enjoy themselves. But I hate holidays all the same. You see, this is the reason: I am a bachelor; I am without kin; I am in a place that did not know me at birth. And so, when holidays come around, there is no place anywhere for me. I have friends, of course; I don't think I've been a very sulky, shut-in, reticent fellow; and there is many a board that has a place for me -- but not at Christmastime. At Christmas, the dinner is a family gathering; and I've no family. There is such a gathering of kindred on this occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is no place for a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas, with all its kindliness and charity and good-will, is, after all, deuced selfish. Each little set gathers within its own circle; and people like me, with no particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on the day of all the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer, I'm without an invitation.

"Oh, it's because I pine for good cheer," said the bachelor, sharply, interrupting my attempt to speak, "that I hate holidays. If I were an infernally selfish fellow, I wouldn't hate holidays. I'd go off and have some fun all to myself, somewhere or somehow. But, you see, I hate to be in the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate holidays because I ought to be merry and happy on holidays and can't.

"Don't tell me," he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips; "I tell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their bright toys and their green branches? The pantomime is crowded with merry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and laughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven't any pretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the show, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their uncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those places; so, if I go, I must go alone. But I don't go. I can't bear the chill of seeing everybody happy, and knowing myself so lonely and desolate. Confound it, sir, I've too much heart to be happy under such circumstances! I'm too humane, sir! And the result is, I hate holidays. It's miserable to be out, and yet I can't stay at home, for I get thinking of Christmases past. I can't read -- the shadow of my heart makes it impossible. I can't walk -- for I see nothing but pictures through the bright windows, and happy groups of pleasure-seekers. The fact is, I've nothing to do but to hate holidays. But will you not dine with me?"

Of course, I had to plead engagement with my own family circle, and I couldn't quite invite Mr. Bluff home that day, when Cousin Charles and his wife, and Sister Susan and her daughter, and three of my wife's kin had come in from the country, all to make a merry Christmas with us. I felt sorry, but it was quite impossible, so I wished Mr. Bluff a "Merry Christmas," and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air.

I did not meet Bachelor Bluff again until a week after Christmas of the next year, when I learned some strange particulars of what occurred to him after our parting on the occasion just described. I will let Bachelor Bluff tell his adventure for himself.

"I went to church," said he, "and was as sad there as everywhere else. Of course, the evergreens were pretty, and the music fine; but all around me were happy groups of people, who could scarcely keep down merry Christmas long enough to do reverence to sacred Christmas. And nobody was alone but me. Every happy paterfamilias in his pew tantalized me, and the whole atmosphere of the place seemed so much better suited to every one else than me that I came away hating holidays worse than ever. Then I went to the play, and sat down in a box all alone by myself. Everybody seemed on the best of terms with everybody else, and jokes and banter passed from one to another with the most good-natured freedom. Everybody but me was in a little group of friends. I was the only person in the whole theatre that was alone. And then there was such clapping of hands, and roars of laughter, and shouts of delight at all the fun going on upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly enjoyable by everybody having somebody with whom to share and interchange the pleasure, that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and I hated holidays infinitely worse than ever.

"By five o'clock the holiday became so intolerable that I said I'd go and get a dinner. The best dinner the town could provide. A sumptuous dinner for one. A dinner with many courses, with wines of the finest brands, with bright lights, with a cheerful fire, with every condition of comfort -- and I'd see if I couldn't for once extract a little pleasure out of a holiday!

"The handsome dining-room at the club looked bright, but it was empty. Who dines at this club on Christmas but lonely bachelors? There was a flutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the few attendants were, no doubt, glad of something to break the monotony of the hours.

"My dinner was well served. The spacious room looked lonely; but the white, snowy cloths, the rich window hangings, the warm tints of the walls, the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate, gave the room an air of elegance and cheerfulness; and then the table at which I dined was close to the window, and through the partly drawn curtains were visible centres of lonely, cold streets, with bright lights from many a window, it is true, but there was a storm, and snow began whirling through the street. I let my imagination paint the streets as cold and dreary as it would, just to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from the brilliant room of which I was apparently sole master.

"I dined well, and recalled in fancy old, youthful Christmases, and pledged mentally many an old friend, and my melancholy was mellowing into a low, sad undertone, when, just as I was raising a glass of wine to my lips, I was startled by a picture at the windowpane. It was a pale, wild, haggard face, in a great cloud of black hair, pressed against the glass. As I looked it vanished. With a strange thrill at my heart, which my lips mocked with a derisive sneer, I finished the wine and set down the glass. It was, of course, only a beggar-girl that had crept up to the window and stole a glance at the bright scene within; but still the pale face troubled me a little, and threw a fresh shadow on my heart. I filled my glass once more with wine, and was again about to drink, when the face reappeared at the window. It was so white, so thin, with eyes so large, wild, and hungry-looking, and the black, unkempt hair, into which the snow had drifted, formed so strange and weird a frame to the picture, that I was fairly startled. Replacing, untasted, the liquor on the table, I rose and went close to the pane. The face had vanished, and I could see no object within many feet of the window. The storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild gusts through the streets, which were empty, save here and there a hurrying wayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild, and desolate, and I could not repress a keen thrill of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose only Christmas was to watch, in cold and storm, the rich banquet ungratefully enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my place at the table; but the dinner was finished, and the wine had no further relish. I was haunted by the vision at the window, and began, with an unreasonable irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth my detestation of holidays. One couldn't even dine alone on a holiday with any sort of comfort, I declared. On holidays one was tormented by too much pleasure on one side, and too much misery on the other. And then, I said, hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, 'How many other people are, like me, made miserable by seeing the fullness of enjoyment others possess!'

"Oh, yes, I know," sarcastically replied the bachelor to a comment of mine; "of course, all magnanimous, generous, and noble-souled people delight in seeing other people made happy, and are quite content to accept this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear little girl -- "

"Dear little girl?"

"Oh, I forgot," said Bachelor Bluff, blushing a little, in spite of a desperate effort not to do so. "I didn't tell you. Well, it was so absurd! I kept thinking, thinking of the pale, haggard, lonely little girl on the cold and desolate side of the window-pane, and the over-fed, discontented, lonely old bachelor on the splendid side of the window-pane, and I didn't get much happier thinking about it, I can assure you. I drank glass after glass of the wine -- not that I enjoyed its flavour any more, but mechanically, as it were, and with a sort of hope thereby to drown unpleasant reminders. I tried to attribute my annoyance in the matter to holidays, and so denounced them more vehemently than ever. I rose once in a while and went to the window, but could see no one to whom the pale face could have belonged.

"At last, in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on my wrappers, and went out; and the first thing I did was to run against a small figure crouching in the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough encounter, and I saw the pale features of the window-pane. I was very irritated and angry, and spoke harshly; and then, all at once, I am sure I don't know how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I, of all men, had no right to utter a harsh word to one oppressed with so wretched a Christmas as this poor creature was. I couldn't say another word, but began feeling in my pocket for some money, and then I asked a question or two, and then I don't quite know how it came about -- isn't it very warm here?" exclaimed Bachelor Bluff, rising and walking about, and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

"Well, you see," he resumed nervously, "it was very absurd, but I did believe the girl's story -- the old story, you know, of privation and suffering, and just thought I'd go home with the brat and see if what she said was all true. And then I remembered that all the shops were closed, and not a purchase could be made. I went back and persuaded the steward to put up for me a hamper of provisions, which the half-wild little youngster helped me carry through the snow, dancing with delight all the way. And isn't this enough?"

"Not a bit, Mr. Bluff. I must have the whole story."

"I declare," said Bachelor Bluff, "there's no whole story to tell. A widow with children in great need, that was what I found; and they had a feast that night, and a little money to buy them a load of wood and a garment or two the next day; and they were all so bright, and so merry, and so thankful, and so good, that, when I got home that night, I was mightily amazed that, instead of going to bed sour at holidays, I was in a state of great contentment in regard to holidays. In fact, I was really merry. I whistled. I sang. I do believe I cut a caper. The poor wretches I had left had been so merry over their unlooked-for Christmas banquet that their spirits infected mine.

"And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had been miserable to me, I said. What right had a well-to-do, lonely old bachelor hovering wistfully in the vicinity of happy circles, when all about there were so many people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want? 'Good gracious!' I exclaimed, 'to think of a man complaining of loneliness with thousands of wretches yearning for his help and comfort, with endless opportunities for work and company, with hundreds of pleasant and delightful things to do. Just to think of it! It put me in a great fury at myself to think of it. I tried pretty hard to escape from myself and began inventing excuses and all that sort of thing, but I rigidly forced myself to look squarely at my own conduct. And then I reconciled my confidence by declaring that, if ever after that day I hated a holiday again, might my holidays end at once and forever!

"Did I go and see my proteges again? What a question! Why -- well, no matter. If the widow is comfortable now, it is because she has found a way to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That's no fault of mine. I would have done more for her, but she wouldn't let me. But just let me tell you about New Year's -- the New-Year's day that followed the Christmas I've been describing. It was lucky for me there was another holiday only a week off. Bless you! I had so much to do that day I was completely bewildered, and the hours weren't half long enough. I did make a few social calls, but then I hurried them over; and then hastened to my little girl, whose face had already caught a touch of colour; and she, looking quite handsome in her new frock and her ribbons, took me to other poor folk, and, -- well, that's about the whole story.

"Oh, as to the next Christmas. Well, I didn't dine alone, as you may guess. It was up three stairs, that's true, and there was none of that elegance that marked the dinner of the year before; but it was merry, and happy, and bright; it was a generous, honest, hearty Christmas dinner, that it was, although I do wish the widow hadn't talked so much about the mysterious way a turkey had been left at her door the night before. And Molly -- that's the little girl -- and I had a rousing appetite. We went to church early; then we had been down to the Five Points to carry the poor outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner; in fact, we had done wonders of work, and Molly was in high spirits, and so the Christmas dinner was a great success.

"Dear me, sir, no! Just as you say. Holidays are not in the least wearisome any more. Plague on it! When a man tells me now that he hates holidays, I find myself getting very wroth. I pin him by the buttonhole at once, and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I were at dinner on a holiday, and anybody should ask me for a sentiment, I should say, 'God bless all holidays!'"



XXXI. Master Sandy's Snapdragon

Eldridge S. Brooks

There was just enough of December in the air and of May in the sky to make the Yuletide of the year of grace 1611 a time of pleasure and delight to every boy and girl in "Merrie England" from the princely children in stately Whitehall to the humblest pot-boy and scullery-girl in the hall of the country squire.

And in the palace at Whitehall even the cares of state gave place to the sports of this happy season. For that "Most High and Mighty Prince James, by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland" -- as you will find him styled in your copy of the Old Version, or what is known as "King James' Bible" -- loved the Christmas festivities, cranky, crabbed, and crusty though he was. And this year he felt especially gracious. For now, first since the terror of the Guy Fawkes plot which had come to naught full seven years before, did the timid king feel secure on his throne; the translation of the Bible, on which so many learned men had been for years engaged, had just been issued from the press of Master Robert Baker; and, lastly, much profit was coming into the royal treasury from the new lands in the Indies and across the sea.

So it was to be a Merry Christmas in the palace at Whitehall. Great were the preparations for its celebration, and the Lord Henry, the handsome, wise and popular young Prince of Wales, whom men hoped some day to hail as King Henry of England, was to take part in a jolly Christmas mask, in which, too, even the little Prince Charles was to perform for the edification of the court when the mask should be shown in the new and gorgeous banqueting hall of the palace.

And to-night it was Christmas Eve. The Little Prince Charles and the Princess Elizabeth could scarcely wait for the morrow, so impatient were they to see all the grand devisings that were in store for them. So good Master Sandy, under-tutor to the Prince, proposed to wise Archie Armstrong, the King's jester, that they play at snapdragon for the children in the royal nursery.

The Prince and Princess clamoured for the promised game at once, and soon the flicker from the flaming bow lighted up the darkened nursery as, around the witchlike caldron, they watched their opportunity to snatch the lucky raisin. The room rang so loudly with fun and laughter that even the King himself, big of head and rickety of legs, shambled in good-humouredly to join in the sport that was giving so much pleasure to the royal boy he so dearly loved, and whom he always called "Baby Charles."

But what was snapdragon, you ask? A simple enough game, but dear for many and many a year to English children. A broad and shallow bowl or dish half-filled with blazing brandy, at the bottom of which lay numerous toothsome raisins -- a rare tidbit in those days -- and one of these, pierced with a gold button, was known as the "lucky raisin." Then, as the flaming brandy flickered and darted from the yawning bowl, even as did the flaming poison tongues of the cruel dragon that St. George of England conquered so valiantly, each one of the revellers sought to snatch a raisin from the burning bowl without singe or scar. And he who drew out the lucky raisin was winner and champion, and could claim a boon or reward for his superior skill. Rather a dangerous game, perhaps it seems, but folks were rough players in those old days and laughed at a burn or a bruise, taking them as part of the fun.

So around Master Sandy's Snapdragon danced the royal children, and even the King himself condescended to dip his royal hands in the flames, while Archie Armstrong the jester cried out: "Now fair and softly, brother Jamie, fair and softly, man. There's ne'er a plum in all that plucking so worth the burning as there was in Signer Guy Fawkes' snapdragon when ye proved not to be his lucky raisin." For King's jesters were privileged characters in the old days, and jolly Archie Armstrong could joke with the King on this Guy Fawkes scare as none other dared.

And still no one brought out the lucky raisin, though the Princess Elizabeth's fair arm was scotched and good Master Sandy's peaked beard was singed, and my Lord Montacute had dropped his signet ring in the fiery dragon's mouth, and even His Gracious Majesty the King was nursing one of his royal fingers.

But just as through the parted arras came young Henry, Prince of Wales, little Prince Charles gave a boyish shout of triumph.

"Hey, huzzoy!" he cried, "'tis mine, 'tis mine! Look, Archie; see, dear dad; I have the lucky raisin! A boon, good folk; a boon for me!" And the excited lad held aloft the lucky raisin in which gleamed the golden button.

"Rarely caught, young York," cried Prince Henry, clapping his hands in applause. "I came in right in good time, did I not, to give you luck, little brother? And now, lad, what is the boon to be?"

And King James, greatly pleased at whatever his dear "Baby Charles" said or did, echoed his eldest son's question. "Ay lad, 'twas a rare good dip; so crave your boon. What does my bonny boy desire?"

But the boy hesitated. What was there that a royal prince, indulged as was he, could wish for or desire? He really could think of nothing, and crossing quickly to his elder brother, whom, boy-fashion, he adored, he whispered, "Ud's fish, Hal, what DO I want?"

Prince Henry placed his hand upon his brother's shoulder and looked smilingly into his questioning eyes, and all within the room glanced for a moment at the two lads standing thus.

And they were well worth looking at. Prince Henry of Wales, tall, comely, open-faced, and well-built, a noble lad of eighteen who called to men's minds, so "rare Ben Jonson" says, the memory of the hero of Agincourt, that other

thunderbolt of war, Harry the Fifth, to whom in face you are So like, as Fate would have you so in worth;

Prince Charles, royal Duke of York, Knight of the Garter and of the Bath, fair in face and form, an active, manly, daring boy of eleven -- the princely brothers made so fair a sight that the King, jealous and suspicious of Prince Henry's popularity though he was, looked now upon them both with loving eyes. But how those loving eyes would have grown dim with tears could this fickle, selfish, yet indulgent father have foreseen the sad and bitter fates of both his handsome boys.

But, fortunately, such foreknowledge is not for fathers or mothers, whatever their rank or station, and King James's only thought was one of pride in the two brave lads now whispering together in secret confidence. And into this he speedily broke.

"Come, come, Baby Charles," he cried, "stand no more parleying, but out and over with the boon ye crave as guerdon for your lucky plum. Ud's fish, lad, out with it; we'd get it for ye though it did rain jeddert staves here in Whitehall."

"So please your Grace," said the little Prince, bowing low with true courtier-like grace and suavity, "I will, with your permission, crave my boon as a Christmas favor at wassail time in to-morrow's revels."

And then he passed from the chamber arm-in-arm with his elder brother, while the King, chuckling greatly over the lad's show of courtliness and ceremony, went into a learned discussion with my lord of Montacute and Master Sandy as to the origin of the snapdragon, which he, with his customary assumption of deep learning, declared was "but a modern paraphrase, my lord, of the fable which telleth how Dan Hercules did kill the flaming dragon of Hesperia and did then, with the apple of that famous orchard, make a fiery dish of burning apple brandy which he did name 'snapdragon.'"

For King James VI of Scotland and I of England was, you see, something too much of what men call a pendant.

Christmas morning rose bright and glorious. A light hoarfrost whitened the ground and the keen December air nipped the noses as it hurried the song-notes of the score of little waifs who, gathered beneath the windows of the big palace, sung for the happy awaking of the young Prince Charles their Christmas carol and their Christmas noel:

A child this day is born, A child of great renown; Most worthy of a sceptre, A sceptre and a crown.

Noel, noel, noel, Noel sing we may Because the King of all Kings Was born this blessed day.

These tidings shepherds heard In field watching their fold, Were by an angel unto them At night revealed and told.

Noel, noel, noel, Noel sing we may Because the King of all Kings Was born this blessed day.

He brought unto them tidings Of gladness and of mirth, Which cometh to all people by This holy infant's birth.

Noel, noel, noel, Noel sing we may Because the King of all Kings Was born this blessed day.

The "blessed day" wore on. Gifts and sports filled the happy hours. In the royal banqueting hall the Christmas dinner was royally set and served, and King and Queen and Princes, with attendant nobles and holiday guests, partook of the strong dishes of those old days of hearty appetites.

"A shield of brawn with mustard, boyl'd capon, a chine of beef roasted, a neat's tongue roasted, a pig roasted, chewets baked, goose, swan and turkey roasted, a haunch of venison roasted, a pasty of venison, a kid stuffed with pudding, an olive-pye, capons and dowsets, sallats and fricases" -- all these and much more, with strong beer and spiced ale to wash the dinner down, crowned the royal board, while the great boar's head and the Christmas pie, borne in with great parade, were placed on the table joyously decked with holly and rosemary and bay. It was a great ceremony -- this bringing in of the boar's head. First came an attendant, so the old record tells us,

"attyr'd in a horseman's coat with a Boares-speare in his hande; next to him another huntsman in greene, with a bloody faulchion drawne; next to him two pages in tafatye sarcenet, each of them with a messe of mustard; next to whom came hee that carried the Boareshead, crosst with a greene silk scarfe, by which hunge the empty scabbard of the faulchion which was carried before him."

After the dinner -- the boar's head having been wrestled for by some of the royal yeomen -- came the wassail or health-drinking. Then the King said:

"And now, Baby Charles, let us hear the boon ye were to crave of us at wassail as the guerdon for the holder of the lucky raisin in Master Sandy's snapdragon."

And the little eleven-year-old Prince stood up before the company in all his brave attire, glanced at his brother Prince Henry, and then facing the King said boldly:

"I pray you, my father and my Hege, grant me as the boon I ask -- the freeing of Walter Raleigh."

At this altogether startling and unlooked-for request, amazement and consternation appeared on the faces around the royal banqueting board, and the King put down his untasted tankard of spiced ale, while surprise, doubt and anger quickly crossed the royal face. For Sir Walter Raleigh, the favourite of Queen Elizabeth, the lord-proprietor and colonizer of the American colonies, and the sworn foe to Spain, had been now close prisoner in the Tower for more than nine years, hated and yet dreaded by this fickle King James, who dared not put him to death for fear of the people to whom the name and valour of Raleigh were dear.

"Hoot, chiel!" cried the King at length, spluttering wrathfully in the broadest of his native Scotch, as was his habit when angered or surprised. "Ye reckless fou, wha hae put ye to sic a jackanape trick? Dinna ye ken that sic a boon is nae for a laddie like you to meddle wi'? Wha hae put ye to't, I say?"

But ere the young Prince could reply, the stately and solemn-faced ambassador of Spain, the Count of Gondemar, arose in the place of honour he filled as a guest of the King.

"My Lord King," he said, "I beg your majesty to bear in memory your pledge to my gracious master King Philip of Spain, that naught save grave cause should lead you to liberate from just durance that arch enemy of Spain, the Lord Raleigh."

"But you did promise me, my lord," said Prince Charles, hastily, "and you have told me that the royal pledge is not to be lightly broken."

"Ma certie, lad," said King James, "ye maunay learn that there is nae rule wi'out its aicciptions." And then he added, "A pledge to a boy in play, like to ours of yester-eve, Baby Charles, is not to be kept when matters of state conflict." Then turning to the Spanish ambassador, he said: "Rest content, my lord count. This recreant Raleigh shall not yet be loosed."

"But, my liege," still persisted the boy prince, "my brother Hal did say -- "

The wrath of the King burst out afresh.

"Ay, said you so? Brother Hal, indeed!" he cried.

"I thought the wind blew from that quarter," and he angrily faced his eldest son. "So, sirrah; 'twas you that did urge this foolish boy to work your traitorous purpose in such coward guise!"

"My liege," said Prince Henry, rising in his place, "traitor and coward are words I may not calmly hear even from my father and my king. You wrong me foully when you use them thus. For though I do bethink me that the Tower is but a sorry cage in which to keep so grandly plumed a bird as my Lord of Raleigh, I did but seek -- "

"Ay, you did but seek to curry favour with the craven crowd," burst out the now thoroughly angry King, always jealous of the popularity of this brave young Prince of Wales. "And am I, sirrah, to be badgered and browbeaten in my own palace by such a thriftless ne'er-do-weel as you, ungrateful boy, who seekest to gain preference with the people in this realm before your liege lord the King? Quit my presence, sirrah, and that instanter, ere that I do send you to spend your Christmas where your great-grandfather, King Henry, bade his astrologer spend his -- in the Tower, there to keep company with your fitting comrade, Raleigh, the traitor!"

Without a word in reply to this outburst, with a son's submission, but with a royal dignity, Prince Henry bent his head before his father's decree and withdrew from the table, followed by the gentlemen of his household.

But ere he could reach the arrased doorway, Prince Charles sprang to his side and cried, valiantly: "Nay then, if he goes so do I! 'Twas surely but a Christmas joke and of my own devising. Spoil not our revel, my gracious liege and father, on this of all the year's red-letter days, by turning my thoughtless frolic into such bitter threatening. I did but seek to test the worth of Master Sandy's lucky raisin by asking for as wildly great a boon as might be thought upon. Brother Hal too, did but give me his advising in joke even as I did seek it. None here, my royal father, would brave your sovereign displeasure by any unknightly or unloyal scheme."

The gentle and dignified words of the young prince -- for Charles Stuart, though despicable as a king, was ever loving and loyal as a friend -- were as oil upon the troubled waters. The ruffled temper of the ambassador of Spain -- who in after years really did work Raleigh's downfall and death -- gave place to courtly bows, and the King's quick anger melted away before the dearly loved voice of his favourite son.

"Nay, resume your place, son Hal," he said, "and you, gentlemen all, resume your seats, I pray. I too did but jest as did Baby Charles here -- a sad young wag, I fear me, is this same young Prince."

But as, after the wassail, came the Christmas mask, in which both Princes bore their parts, Prince Charles said to Archie Armstrong, the King's jester:

"Faith, good Archie; now is Master Sandy's snapdragon but a false beast withal, and his lucky raisin is but an evil fruit that pays not for the plucking."

And wise old Archie only wagged his head and answered, "Odd zooks, Cousin Charlie, Christmas raisins are not the only fruit that burns the fingers in the plucking, and mayhap you too may live to know that a mettlesome horse never stumbleth but when he is reined."

Poor "Cousin Charlie" did not then understand the full meaning of the wise old jester's words, but he did live to learn their full intent. For when, in after years, his people sought to curb his tyrannies with a revolt that ended only with his death upon the scaffold, outside this very banqueting house at Whitehall, Charles Stuart learned all too late that a "mettlesome horse" needed sometimes to be "reined," and heard, too late as well, the stern declaration of the Commons of England that "no chief officer might presume for the future to contrive the enslaving and destruction of the nation with impunity."

But though many a merry and many a happy day had the young Prince Charles before the dark tragedy of his sad and sorry manhood, he lost all faith in lucky raisins. Not for three years did Sir Walter Raleigh -- whom both the Princes secretly admired -- obtain release from the Tower, and ere three more years were past his head fell as a forfeit to the stern demands of Spain. And Prince Charles often declared that naught indeed could come from meddling with luck saving burnt fingers, "even," he said, "as came to me that profitless night when I sought a boon for snatching the lucky raisin from good Master Sandy's Christmas snapdragon."



XXXII. A Christmas Fairy

John Strange Winter

It was getting very near to Christmas time, and all the boys at Miss Ware's school were talking about going home for the holidays.

"I shall go to the Christmas festival," said Bertie Fellows, "and my mother will have a party, and my Aunt will give another. Oh! I shall have a splendid time at home."

"My Uncle Bob is going to give me a pair of skates," remarked Harry Wadham.

"My father is going to give me a bicycle," put in George Alderson.

"Will you bring it back to school with you?" asked Harry.

"Oh! yes, if Miss Ware doesn't say no."

"Well, Tom," cried Bertie, "where are you going to spend your holidays?"

"I am going to stay here," answered Tom in a very forlorn voice.

"Here -- at school -- oh, dear! Why can't you go home?"

"I can't go home to India," answered Tom.

"Nobody said you could. But haven't you any relatives anywhere?"

Tom shook his head. "Only in India," he said sadly.

"Poor fellow! That's hard luck for you. I'll tell you what it is, boys, if I couldn't go home for the holidays, especially at Christmas -- I think I would just sit down and die."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't," said Tom. "You would get ever so homesick, but you wouldn't die. You would just get through somehow, and hope something would happen before next year, or that some kind fairy would -- "

"There are no fairies nowadays," said Bertie.

"See here, Tom, I'll write and ask my mother to invite you to go home with me for the holidays."

"Will you really?"

"Yes, I will. And if she says yes, we shall have such a splendid time. We live in London, you know, and have lots of parties and fun."

"Perhaps she will say no?" suggested poor little Tom.

"My mother isn't the kind that says no," Bertie declared loudly.

In a few days' time a letter arrived from Bertie's mother. The boy opened it eagerly. It said:

My own dear Bertie:

I am very sorry to tell you that little Alice is ill with scarlet fever. And so you cannot come for your holidays. I would have been glad to have you bring your little friend with you if all had been well here.

Your father and I have decided that the best thing that you can do is to stay at Miss Ware's. We shall send your Christmas present to you as well as we can.

It will not be like coming home, but I am sure you will try to be happy, and make me feel that you are helping me in this sad time.

Dear little Alice is very ill, very ill indeed. Tell Tom that I am sending you a box for both of you, with two of everything. And tell him that it makes me so much happier to know that you will not be alone.

Your own mother.

When Bertie Fellows received this letter, which ended all his Christmas hopes and joys, he hid his face upon his desk and sobbed aloud. The lonely boy from India, who sat next to him, tried to comfort his friend in every way he could think of. He patted his shoulder and whispered many kind words to him.

At last Bertie put the letter into Tom's hands. "Read it," he sobbed.

So then Tom understood the cause of Bertie's grief. "Don't fret over it," he said at last. "It might be worse. Why, your father and mother might be thousands of miles away, like mine are. When Alice is better, you will be able to go home. And it will help your mother if she thinks you are almost as happy as if you could go now."

Soon Miss Ware came to tell Bertie how sorry she was for him.

"After all," said she, smiling down on the two boys, "it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Poor Tom has been expecting to spend his holidays alone, and now he will have a friend with him -- Try to look on the bright side, Bertie, and to remember how much worse it would have been if there had been no boy to stay with you."

"I can't help being disappointed, Miss Ware," said Bertie, his eyes filling with tears.

"No; you would be a strange boy if you were not. But I want you to try to think of your poor mother, and write her as cheerfully as you can."

"Yes," answered Bertie; but his heart was too full to say more.

The last day of the term came, and one by one, or two by two, the boys went away, until only Bertie and Tom were left in the great house. It had never seemed so large to either of them before.

"It's miserable," groaned poor Bertie, as they strolled into the schoolroom. "Just think if we were on our way home now -- how different."

"Just think if I had been left here by myself," said Tom.

"Yes," said Bertie, "but you know when one wants to go home he never thinks of the boys that have no home to go to."

The evening passed, and the two boys went to bed. They told stories to each other for a long time before they could go to sleep. That night they dreamed of their homes, and felt very lonely. Yet each tried to be brave, and so another day began.

This was the day before Christmas. Quite early in the morning came the great box of which Bertie's mother had spoken in her letter. Then, just as dinner had come to an end, there was a peal of the bell, and a voice was heard asking for Tom Egerton.

Tom sprang to his feet, and flew to greet a tall, handsome lady, crying, "Aunt Laura! Aunt Laura!"

And Laura explained that she and her husband had arrived in London only the day before. "I was so afraid, Tom," she said, "that we should not get here until Christmas Day was over and that you would be disappointed. So I would not let your mother write you that we were on our way home. You must get your things packed up at once, and go back with me to London. Then uncle and I will give you a splendid time."

For a minute or two Tom's face shone with delight. Then he caught sight of Bertie and turned to his aunt.

"Dear Aunt Laura," he said, "I am very sorry, but I can't go."

"Can't go? and why not?"

"Because I can't go and leave Bertie here all alone," he said stoutly. "When I was going to be alone he wrote and asked his mother to let me go home with him. She could not have either of us because Bertie's sister has scarlet fever. He has to stay here, and he has never been away from home at Christmas time before, and I can't go away and leave him by himself, Aunt Laura."

For a minute Aunt Laura looked at the boy as if she could not believe him. Then she caught him in her arms and kissed him.

"You dear little boy, you shall not leave him. You shall bring him along, and we shall all enjoy ourselves together. Bertie, my boy, you are not very old yet, but I am going to teach you a lesson as well as I can. It is that kindness is never wasted in this world."

And so Bertie and Tom found that there was such a thing as a fairy after all.



XXXIII. The Greatest Of These

Joseph Mills Hanson

The outside door swung open suddenly, letting a cloud of steam into the small, hot kitchen. Charlie Moore, a milk pail in one hand, a lantern in the other, closed the door behind him with a bang, set the pail on the table and stamped the snow from his feet.

"There's the milk, and I near froze gettin' it," said he, addressing his partner, who was chopping potatoes in a pan on the stove.

"Dose vried bodadoes vas burnt," said the other, wielding his knife vigorously.

"Are, eh? Why didn't you watch 'em instead of readin' your old Scandinavian paper?" answered Charlie, hanging his overcoat and cap behind the door and laying his mittens under the stove to dry. Then he drew up a chair and with much exertion pulled off his heavy felt boots and stood them beside his mittens.

"Why didn't you shut the gate after you came in from town? The cows got out and went up to Roney's an' I had to chase 'em; 'tain't any joke runnin' round after cows such a night as this." Having relieved his mind of its grievance, Charlie sat down before the oven door, and, opening it, laid a stick of wood along its outer edge and thrust his feet into the hot interior, propping his heels against the stick.

"Look oud for dese har biscuits!" exclaimed his partner, anxiously.

"Oh, hang the biscuits!" was Charlie's hasty answer. "I'll watch 'em. Why didn't you?"

"Ay tank Ay fergit hem."

"Well, you don't want to forget. A feller forgot his clothes once, an' he got froze."

"Ay gass dose taller vas ketch in a sbring snowstorm. Vas dose biscuits done, Sharlie?"

"You bet they are, Nels," replied Charlie, looking into the pan.

"Dan subbar vas ready. Yom on!"

Nels picked up the frying-pan and Charlie the biscuits, and set them on the oilcloth-covered table, where a plate of butter, a jar of plum jelly, and a coffee-pot were already standing.

Outside the frozen kitchen window the snow-covered fields and meadows stretched, glistening and silent, away to the dark belt of timber by the river. Along the deep-rutted road in front a belated lumber-wagon passed slowly, the wheels crunching through the packed snow with a wavering, incessant shriek.

The two men hitched their chairs up to the table, and without ceremony helped themselves liberally to the steaming food. For a few moments they seemed oblivious to everything but the demands of hunger. The potatoes and biscuits disappeared with surprising rapidity, washed down by large drafts of coffee. These men, labouring steadily through the short daylight hours in the dry, cold air of the Dakota winter, were like engines whose fires had burned low -- they were taking fuel. Presently, the first keen edge of appetite satisfied, they ate more slowly, and Nels, straightening up with a sigh, spoke:

"Ay seen Seigert in town ta-day. Ha vants von hundred fifty fer dose team."

"Come down, eh?" commented Charlie. "Well, they're worth that. We'd better take 'em, Nels. We'll need 'em in the spring if we break the north forty."

"Yas, et's a nice team," agreed Nels. "Ha vas driven ham ta-day."

"Is he haulin' corn?"

"Na; he had his kids oop gettin' Christmas bresents."

"Chris -- By gracious! to-morrow's Christmas!"

Nels nodded solemnly, as one possessing superior knowledge. Charlie became thoughtful.

"We'll come in sort of slim on it here, I reckon, Nels. Christmas ain't right, somehow, out here. Back in Wisconsin, where I came from, there's where you get your Christmas!" Charlie spoke with the unswerving prejudice of mankind for the land of his birth.

"Yas, dose been right. En da ol' kontry dey havin' gret times Christmas."

Their thoughts were all bent now upon the holiday scenes of the past. As they finished the meal and cleared away and washed the dishes they related incidents of their boyhood's time, compared, reiterated, and embellished. As they talked they grew jovial, and laughed often.

"The skee broke an' you went over kerplunk, hey? Haw, haw! That reminds me of one time in Wisconsin -- "

Something of the joyous spirit of the Christmastide seemed to have entered into this little farmhouse set in the midst of the lonely, white fields. In the hearts of these men, moving about in their dim-lighted room, was reechoed the joyous murmur of the great world without: the gayety of the throngs in city streets, where the brilliant shop-windows, rich with holiday spoils, smile out upon the passing crowd, and the clang of street-cars and roar of traffic mingle with the cries of street-venders. The work finished, they drew their chairs to the stove, and filled their pipes, still talking.

"Well, well," said Charlie, after the laugh occasioned by one of Nels' droll stories had subsided. "It's nice to think of those old times. I'd hate to have been one of these kids that can't have any fun. Christmas or any other time."

"Ay gass dere ain't anybody much dot don'd have someding dis tams a year."

"Oh, yes, there are, Nels! You bet there are!"

Charlie nodded at his partner with serious conviction.

"Now, there's the Roneys," he waved his pipe over his shoulder. "The old man told me to-night when I was up after the cows that he's sold all the crops except what they need for feedin' -- wheat, and corn, and everything, and some hogs besides -- and ain't got hardly enough now for feed and clothes for all that family. The rent and the lumber he had to buy to build the new barn after the old one burnt ate up the money like fury. He kind of laughed, and said he guessed the children wouldn't get much Christmas this year. I didn't think about it's being so close when he told me."

"No Christmas!" Nels' round eyes widened with astonishment. "Ay tank dose been pooty bad!" He studied the subject for a few moments, his stolid face suddenly grown thoughtful. Charlie stared at the stove. Far away by the river a lonely coyote set up his quick, howling yelp.

"Dere's been seven kids oop dere," said Nels at last, glancing up as it for corroboration.

"Yes, seven," agreed Charlie.

"Say, do ve need Seigert's team very pad?"

"Well, now that depends," said Charlie. "Why not?"

"Nothin', only Ay vas tankin' ve might tak' some a das veat we vas goin' to sell and -- and -- "

"Yep, what?"

"And dumb it on Roney's granary floor to-night after dere been asleeb."

Charlie stared at his companion for a moment in silence. Then he rose, and, approaching Nels, examined his partner's face with solemn scrutiny.

"By the great horn spoon," he announced, finally, "you've got a head on you like a balloon, my boy! Keep on gettin' ideas like that, and you'll land in Congress or the poor-farm before many years!"

Then, abandoning his pretense of gravity, he slapped the other on the back.

"Why didn't I think of that? It's the best yet. Seigert's team? Oh, hang Seigert's team. We don't need it. We'll have a little merry Christmas out of this yet. Only they mustn't know where it came from. I'll write a note and stick it under the door, 'You'll find some merry wheat -- 'No, that ain't it. 'You'll find some wheat in the granary to give the kids a merry Christmas with,' signed, 'Santa Claus.'"

He wrote out the message in the air with a pointing forefinger. He had entered into the spirit of the thing eagerly.

"It's half-past nine now," he went on, looking at the clock. "It'll be eleven time we get the stuff loaded and hauled up there. Let's go out and get at it. Lucky the bobs are on the wagon; they don't make such a racket as wheels."

He took the lantern from its nail behind the door and lighted it, after which he put on his boots, cap, and mittens, and flung his overcoat across his shoulders. Nels, meanwhile, had put on his outer garments, also.

"Shut up the stove, Nels." Charlie blew out the light and opened the door. "There, hang it!" he exclaimed, turning back. "I forgot the note. Ought to be in ink, I suppose. Well, never mind now; we won't put on any style about it."

He took down a pencil from the shelf, and, extracting a bit of wrapping paper from a bundle behind the woodbox, wrote the note by the light of the lantern.

"There, I guess that will do," he said, finally. "Come on!"

Outside, the night air was cold and bracing, and in the black vault of the sky the winter constellations flashed and throbbed. The shadows of the two men, thrown by the lantern, bobbed huge and grotesque across the snow and among the bare branches of the cottonwoods, as they moved toward the barn.

"Ay tank ve put on dose extra side poards and make her an even fifty pushel," said Nels, after they had backed the wagon up to the granary door. "Ve might as vell do it oop right, skence ve're at it."

Having carried out this suggestion, the two shovelled steadily, with short intervals of rest, for three quarters of an hour, the dark pile of grain in the wagon-box rising gradually until it stood flush with the top.

Good it was to look upon, cold and soft and yielding to the touch, this heaped-up wealth from the inexhaustible treasure-house of the mighty West. Charlie and Nels felt something of this as they viewed the results of their labours for a moment before hitching up the team.

"It's A number one hard," said Charlie, picking up a handful and sifting it slowly through his fingers, "and it'll fetch seventy-four cents. But you can't raise any worse on this old farm of ours if you try," he added, a little proudly. "Nor anywhere else in the Jim River Valley, for that matter."

As they approached the Roney place, looking dim and indistinct in the darkness, their voices hushed apprehensively, and the noise of the sled-runners slipping through the snow seemed to them to increase from a purr to a roar.

"Here, stob a minute!" whispered Nels, in agony of discovery. "Ve're magin' an awful noise. Ay'll go und take a beek."

He slipped away and cautiously approached the house. "Et's all right," he whispered, hoarsely, returning after a moment; "dere all asleeb. But go easy; Ay tank ve pest go easy." They seemed burdened all at once with the consciences of criminals, and went forward with almost guilty timidity.

"Thunder, dere's a bump! Vy don'd you drive garefuller, Sharlie?"

"Drive yourself, if you think you can do any better!" As they came into the yard a dog suddenly ran out from the barn, barking furiously. Charlie reined up with an ejaculation of despair; "Look there, the dog! We're done for now, sure! Stop him, Nels! Throw somethin' at 'im!"

The noise seemed to their excited ears louder than the crash of artillery. Nels threw a piece of snow crust. The dog ran back a few steps, but his barking did not diminish.

"Here, hold the lines. I'll try to catch 'im." Charlie jumped from the wagon and approached the dog with coaxing words: "Come, doggie, good doggie, nice boy, come!"

His manoeuvre, however, merely served to increase the animal's frenzy. As Charlie approached the dog retired slowly toward the house, his head thrown back, and his rapid barking increased to a long-drawn howl.

"Good boy, come! Bother the brute! He'll wake up the whole household! Nice doggie! Phe-e -- "

The noise, however, had no apparent effect upon the occupants of the house. All remained as dark and silent as ever.

"Sharlie, Sharlie, let him go!" cried Nels, in a voice smothered with laughter. "Ay go in dose parn; maype ha'll chase me."

His hope was well founded. The dog, observing this treacherous occupation by the enemy of his last harbour of refuge, gave pursuit and disappeared within the door, which Charlie, hard behind him, closed with a bang. There was the sound of a hurried scuffle within. The dog's barking gave place to terrified whinings, which in turn were suddenly quenched to a choking murmur.

"Gome in, Sharlie, kvick!"

"You got him?" queried Charlie, opening the door cautiously. "Did he bite you?"

"Na, yust ma mitten. Gat a sack or someding da die him oop in."

A sack was procured from somewhere, into which the dog, now silenced from sheer exhaustion and fright, was unceremoniously thrust, after which the sack was tied and flung into the wagon. This formidable obstacle overcome and the Roneys still slumbering peacefully, the rest was easy. The granary door was pried open and the wheat shovelled hurriedly in upon the empty floor. Charlie then crept up to the house and slipped his note under the door.

The sack was lifted from the now empty wagon and opened before the barn, whereupon its occupant slipped meekly out and retreated at once to a far corner, seemingly too much incensed at his discourteous treatment even to fling a volley of farewell barks at his departing captors.

"Vell," remarked Nels, with a sigh of relief as they gained the road, "Ay tank dose Roneys pelieve en Santa Claus now. Dose peen funny vay fer Santa Claus to coom."

Charlie's laugh was good to hear. "He didn't exactly come down the chimney, that's a fact, but it'll do at a pinch. We ought to have told them to get a present for the dog -- collar and chain. I reckon he wouldn't hardly be thankful for it, though, eh?"

"Ay gass not. Ha liges ta haf hes nights ta hemself."

"Well, we had our fun, anyway. Sort of puts me in mind of old Wisconsin, somehow."

From far off over the valley, with its dismantled cornfields and snow-covered haystacks, beyond the ice-bound river, floated slow, and sonorous, the mellow clanging of church bells. They were ushering in the Christmas morn. Overhead the starlit heavens glistened, brooding and mysterious, looking down with luminous, loving eyes upon these humble sons of men doing a good deed, from the impulse of simple, generous hearts, as upon that other Christmas morning, long ago, when the Jewish shepherds, guarding their flocks by night, read in their shining depths that in Bethlehem of Judea the Christ-Child was born.

The rising sun was touching the higher hilltops with a faint rush of crimson the next morning when the back door of the Roney house opened with a creak, and Mr. Roney, still heavy-eyed with sleep, stumbled out upon the porch, stretched his arms above his head, yawned, blinked at the dazzling snow, and then shambled off toward the barn. As he approached, the dog ran eagerly out, gambolled meekly around his feet and caressed his boots. The man patted him kindly.

"Hello, old boy! What were you yappin' around so for last night, huh? Grain-thieves? You needn't worry about them. There ain't nothin' left for them to steal. No, sir! If they got into that granary they'd have to take a lantern along to find a pint of wheat. I don't suppose," he added, reflectively, "that I could scrape up enough to feed the chickens this mornin', but I guess I might's well see."

He passed over to the little building. What he saw when he looked within seemed for a moment to produce no impression upon him whatever. He stared at the hillock of grain in motionless silence. Finally Mr. Roney gave utterance to a single word, "Geewhilikins!" and started for the house on a run. Into the kitchen, where his wife was just starting the fire, the excited man burst like a whirlwind.

"Come out here, Mary!" he cried. "Come out here, quick!"

The worthy woman, unaccustomed to such demonstrations, looked at him in amazement.

"For goodness sake, what's come over you, Peter Roney?" she exclaimed. "Are you daft? Don't make such a noise! You'll wake the young ones, and I don't want them waked till need be, with no Christmas for 'em, poor little things!"

"Never mind the young 'uns," he replied. "Come on!"

As they passed out he noticed the slip of paper under the door and picked it up, but without comment.

He charged down upon the granary, his wife, with a shawl over her head, close behind.

She peered in, apprehensively at first, then with eyes of widening wonder.

"Why, Peter!" she said, turning to him. "Why, Peter! What does -- I thought -- "

"You thought!" he broke in. "Me, too. But it ain't so. It means that we've got some of the best neighbours that ever was, a thinkin' of our young 'uns this way! Read that!" and he thrust the paper into her hand.

"Why, Peter!" she ejaculated again, weakly. Then suddenly she turned, and laying her head on his shoulder, began to sob softly.

"There, there," he said, patting her arm awkwardly.

"Don't you go and cry now. Let's just be thankful to the good Lord for puttin' such fellers into the world as them fellers down the road. And now you run in and hurry up breakfast while I do up the chores. Then we'll hitch up and get into town 'fore the stores close. Tell the young 'uns Santy didn't get round last night with their things, but we've got word to meet him in town. Hey? Yes, I saw just the kind of sled Pete wants when I was up yesterday, and that china doll for Mollie. Yes, tell 'em anything you want. Twon't be too big. Santy Claus has come to Roney's ranch this year, sure!"



XXXIV. Little Gretchen And The Wooden Shoe

Elizabeth Harrison

The following story is one of many which has drifted down to us from the story-loving nurseries and hearthstones of Germany. I cannot recall when I first had it told to me as a child, varied, of course, by different tellers, but always leaving that sweet, tender impression of God's loving care for the least of his children. I have since read different versions of it in at least a half-dozen story books for children.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, far away across the great ocean, in a country called Germany, there could be seen a small log hut on the edge of a great forest, whose fir-trees extended for miles and miles to the north. This little house, made of heavy hewn logs, had but one room in it. A rough pine door gave entrance to this room, and a small square window admitted the light. At the back of the house was built an old-fashioned stone chimney, out of which in winter usually curled a thin, blue smoke, showing that there was not very much fire within.

Small as the house was, it was large enough for the two people who lived in it. I want to tell you a story to-day about these two people. One was an old, gray-haired woman, so old that the little children of the village, nearly half a mile away, often wondered whether she had come into the world with the huge mountains, and the great fir-trees, which stood like giants back of her small hut. Her face was wrinkled all over with deep lines, which, if the children could only have read aright, would have told them of many years of cheerful, happy, self-sacrifice, of loving, anxious watching beside sick-beds, of quiet endurance of pain, of many a day of hunger and cold, and of a thousand deeds of unselfish love for other people; but, of course, they could not read this strange handwriting. They only knew that she was old and wrinkled, and that she stooped as she walked. None of them seemed to fear her, for her smile was always cheerful, and she had a kindly word for each of them if they chanced to meet her on her way to and from the village. With this old, old woman lived a very little girl. So bright and happy was she that the travellers who passed by the lonesome little house on the edge of the forest often thought of a sunbeam as they saw her. These two people were known in the village as Granny Goodyear and Little Gretchen.

The winter had come and the frost had snapped off many of the smaller branches from the pine-trees in the forest. Gretchen and her Granny were up by daybreak each morning. After their simple breakfast of oatmeal, Gretchen would run to the little closet and fetch Granny's old woollen shawl, which seemed almost as old as Granny herself. Gretchen always claimed the right to put the shawl over her Granny's head, even though she had to climb onto the wooden bench to do it. After carefully pinning it under Granny's chin, she gave her a good-bye kiss, and Granny started out for her morning's work in the forest. This work was nothing more nor less than the gathering up of the twigs and branches which the autumn winds and winter frosts had thrown upon the ground. These were carefully gathered into a large bundle which Granny tied together with a strong linen band. She then managed to lift the bundle to her shoulder and trudged off to the village with it. Here she sold the fagots for kindling wood to the people of the village. Sometimes she would get only a few pence each day, and sometimes a dozen or more, but on this money little Gretchen and she managed to live; they had their home, and the forest kindly furnished the wood for the fire which kept them warm in cold weather.

In the summer time Granny had a little garden at the back of the hut where she raised, with little Gretchen's help, a few potatoes and turnips and onions. These she carefully stored away for winter use. To this meagre supply, the pennies, gained by selling the twigs from the forest, added the oatmeal for Gretchen and a little black coffee for Granny. Meat was a thing they never thought of having. It cost too much money. Still, Granny and Gretchen were very happy, because they loved each other dearly. Sometimes Gretchen would be left alone all day long in the hut, because Granny would have some work to do in the village after selling her bundle of sticks and twigs. It was during these long days that little Gretchen had taught herself to sing the song which the wind sang to the pine branches. In the summer time she learned the chirp and twitter of the birds, until her voice might almost be mistaken for a bird's voice; she learned to dance as the swaying shadows did, and even to talk to the stars which shone through the little square window when Granny came home too late or too tired to talk.

Sometimes, when the weather was fine, or her Granny had an extra bundle of newly knitted stockings to take to the village, she would let little Gretchen go along with her. It chanced that one of these trips to the town came just the week before Christmas, and Gretchen's eyes were delighted by the sight of the lovely Christmas-trees which stood in the window of the village store. It seemed to her that she would never tire of looking at the knit dolls, the woolly lambs, the little wooden shops with their queer, painted men and women in them, and all the other fine things. She had never owned a plaything in her whole life; therefore, toys which you and I would not think much of, seemed to her to be very beautiful.

That night, after their supper of baked potatoes was over, and little Gretchen had cleared away the dishes and swept up the hearth, because Granny dear was so tired, she brought her own small wooden stool and placed it very near Granny's feet and sat down upon it, folding her hands on her lap. Granny knew that this meant she wanted to talk about something, so she smilingly laid away the large Bible which she had been reading, and took up her knitting, which was as much as to say: "Well, Gretchen, dear, Granny is ready to listen."

"Granny," said Gretchen slowly, "it's almost Christmas time, isn't it?"

"Yes, dearie," said Granny, "only five more days now," and then she sighed, but little Gretchen was so happy that she did not notice Granny's sigh.

"What do you think, Granny, I'll get this Christmas?" said she, looking up eagerly into Granny's face.

"Ah, child, child," said Granny, shaking her head, "you'll have no Christmas this year. We are too poor for that."

"Oh, but, Granny," interrupted little Gretchen, "think of all the beautiful toys we saw in the village to-day. Surely Santa Claus has sent enough for every little child."

"Ah, dearie," said Granny, "those toys are for people who can pay money for them, and we have no money to spend for Christmas toys."

"Well, Granny," said Gretchen, "perhaps some of the little children who live in the great house on the hill at the other end of the village will be willing to share some of their toys with me. They will be so glad to give some to a little girl who has none."

"Dear child, dear child," said Granny, leaning forward and stroking the soft, shiny hair of the little girl, "your heart is full of love. You would be glad to bring a Christmas to every child; but their heads are so full of what they are going to get that they forget all about anybody else but themselves." Then she sighed and shook her head.

"Well, Granny," said Gretchen, her bright, happy tone of voice growing a little less joyous, "perhaps the dear Santa Claus will show some of the village children how to make presents that do not cost money, and some of them may surprise me Christmas morning with a present. And, Granny, dear," added she, springing up from her low stool, "can't I gather some of the pine branches and take them to the old sick man who lives in the house by the mill, so that he can have the sweet smell of our pine forest in his room all Christmas day?"

"Yes, dearie," said Granny, "you may do what you can to make the Christmas bright and happy, but you must not expect any present yourself."

"Oh, but, Granny," said little Gretchen, her face brightening, "you forget all about the shining Christmas angels, who came down to earth and sang their wonderful song the night the beautiful Christ-Child was born! They are so loving and good that they will not forget any little child. I shall ask my dear stars to-night to tell them of us. You know," she added, with a look of relief, "the stars are so very high that they must know the angels quite well, as they come and go with their messages from the loving God."

Granny sighed, as she half whispered, "Poor child, poor child!" but Gretchen threw her arm around Granny's neck and gave her a hearty kiss, saying as she did so: "Oh, Granny, Granny, you don't talk to the stars often enough, else you wouldn't be sad at Christmas time." Then she danced all around the room, whirling her little skirts about her to show Granny how the wind had made the snow dance that day. She looked so droll and funny that Granny forgot her cares and worries and laughed with little Gretchen over her new snow-dance. The days passed on, and the morning before Christmas Eve came. Gretchen having tidied up the little room -- for Granny had taught her to be a careful little housewife -- was off to the forest, singing a birdlike song, almost as happy and free as the birds themselves. She was very busy that day, preparing a surprise for Granny. First, however, she gathered the most beautiful of the fir branches within her reach to take the next morning to the old sick man who lived by the mill. The day was all too short for the happy little girl. When Granny came trudging wearily home that night, she found the frame of the doorway covered with green pine branches.

"It's to welcome you, Granny! It's to welcome you!" cried Gretchen; "our old dear home wanted to give you a Christmas welcome. Don't you see, the branches of evergreen make it look as if it were smiling all over, and it is trying to say, 'A happy Christmas' to you, Granny!"

Granny laughed and kissed the little girl, as they opened the door and went in together. Here was a new surprise for Granny. The four posts of the wooden bed, which stood in one corner of the room, had been trimmed by the busy little fingers, with smaller and more flexible branches of the pine-trees. A small bouquet of red mountain-ash berries stood at each side of the fireplace, and these, together with the trimmed posts of the bed, gave the plain old room quite a festival look. Gretchen laughed and clapped her hands and danced about until the house seemed full of music to poor, tired Granny, whose heart had been sad as she turned toward their home that night, thinking of the disappointment which must come to loving little Gretchen the next morning.

After supper was over little Gretchen drew her stool up to Granny's side, and laying her soft, little hands on Granny's knee, asked to be told once again the story of the coming of the Christ-Child; how the night that he was born the beautiful angels had sung their wonderful song, and how the whole sky had become bright with a strange and glorious light, never seen by the people of earth before. Gretchen had heard the story many, many times before, but she never grew tired of it, and now that Christmas Eve had come again, the happy little child wanted to hear it once more.

When Granny had finished telling it the two sat quiet and silent for a little while thinking it over; then Granny rose and said that it was time for them to go to bed. She slowly took off her heavy wooden shoes, such as are worn in that country, and placed them beside the hearth. Gretchen looked thoughtfully at them for a minute or two, and then she said, "Granny, don't you think that somebody in all this wide world will think of us to-night?"

"Nay, Gretchen," said Granny, "I don't think any one will."

"Well, then, Granny," said Gretchen, "the Christmas angels will, I know; so I am going to take one of your wooden shoes, and put it on the windowsill outside, so that they may see it as they pass by. I am sure the stars will tell the Christmas angels where the shoe is."

"Ah, you foolish, foolish child," said Granny, "you are only getting ready for a disappointment To-morrow morning there will be nothing whatever in the shoe. I can tell you that now."

But little Gretchen would not listen. She only shook her head and cried out: "Ah, Granny, you don't talk enough to the stars." With this she seized the shoe, and, opening the door, hurried out to place it on the windowsill. It was very dark without, and something soft and cold seemed to gently kiss her hair and face. Gretchen knew by this that it was snowing, and she looked up to the sky, anxious to see if the stars were in sight, but a strong wind was tumbling the dark, heavy snow-clouds about and had shut away all else.

"Never mind," said Gretchen softly to herself, "the stars are up there, even if I can't see them, and the Christmas angels do not mind snowstorms."

Just then a rough wind went sweeping by the little girl, whispering something to her which she could not understand, and then it made a sudden rush up to the snow-clouds and parted them, so that the deep, mysterious sky appeared beyond, and shining down out of the midst of it was Gretchen's favourite star.

"Ah, little star, little star!" said the child, laughing aloud, "I knew you were there, though I couldn't see you. Will you whisper to the Christmas angels as they come by that little Gretchen wants so very much to have a Christmas gift to-morrow morning, if they have one to spare, and that she has put one of Granny's shoes upon the windowsill ready for it?"

A moment more and the little girl, standing on tiptoe, had reached the windowsill and placed the shoe upon it, and was back again in the house beside Granny and the warm fire.

The two went quietly to bed, and that night as little Gretchen knelt to pray to the Heavenly Father, she thanked him for having sent the Christ-Child into the world to teach all mankind how to be loving and unselfish, and in a few moments she was quietly sleeping, dreaming of the Christmas angels.

The next morning, very early, even before the sun was up, little Gretchen was awakened by the sound of sweet music coming from the village. She listened for a moment and then she knew that the choir-boys were singing the Christmas carols in the open air of the village street. She sprang up out of bed and began to dress herself as quickly as possible, singing as she dressed. While Granny was slowly putting on her clothes, little Gretchen, having finished dressing herself, unfastened the door and hurried out to see what the Christmas angels had left in the old wooden shoe.

The white snow covered everything -- trees, stumps, roads, and pastures -- until the whole world looked like fairyland. Gretchen climbed up on a large stone which was beneath the window and carefully lifted down the wooden shoe. The snow tumbled off of it in a shower over the little girl's hands, but she did not heed that; she ran hurriedly back into the house, putting her hand into the toe of the shoe as she ran.

"Oh, Granny! Oh, Granny!" she exclaimed, "you didn't believe the Christmas angels would think about us, but see, they have, they have! Here is a dear little bird nestled down in the toe of your shoe! Oh, isn't he beautiful?"

Granny came forward and looked at what the child was holding lovingly in her hand. There she saw a tiny chick-a-dee, whose wing was evidently broken by the rough and boisterous winds of the night before, and who had taken shelter in the safe, dry toe of the old wooden shoe. She gently took the little bird out of Gretchen's hands, and skilfully bound his broken wing to his side, so that he need not hurt himself by trying to fly with it. Then she showed Gretchen how to make a nice warm nest for the little stranger, close beside the fire, and when their breakfast was ready she let Gretchen feed the little bird with a few moist crumbs.

Later in the day Gretchen carried the fresh, green boughs to the old sick man by the mill, and on her way home stopped to see and enjoy the Christmas toys of some other children whom she knew, never once wishing that they were hers. When she reached home she found that the little bird had gone to sleep. Soon, however, he opened his eyes and stretched his head up, saying just as plain as a bird could say, "Now, my new friends, I want you to give me something more to eat." Gretchen gladly fed him again, and then, holding him in her lap, she softly and gently stroked his gray feathers until the little creature seemed to lose all fear of her. That evening Granny taught her a Christmas hymn and told her another beautiful Christmas story. Then Gretchen made up a funny little story to tell to the birdie. He winked his eyes and turned his head from side to side in such a droll fashion that Gretchen laughed until the tears came.

As Granny and she got ready for bed that night, Gretchen put her arms softly around Granny's neck, and whispered: "What a beautiful Christmas we have had to-day, Granny! Is there anything in the world more lovely than Christmas?"

"Nay, child, nay," said Granny, "not to such loving hearts as yours."



XXXV. Christmas On Big Rattle

Theodore Goodridge Roberts

Archer sat by the rude hearth of his Big Rattle camp, brooding in a sort of tired contentment over the spitting fagots of var and glowing coals of birch.

It was Christmas Eve. He had been out on his snowshoes all that day, and all the day before, springing his traps along the streams and putting his deadfalls out of commission -- rather queer work for a trapper to be about.

But Archer, despite all his gloomy manner, was really a sentimentalist, who practised what he felt.

"Christmas is a season of peace on earth," he had told himself, while demolishing the logs of a sinister deadfall with his axe; and now the remembrance of his quixotic deed added a brightness to the fire and to the rough, undecorated walls of the camp.

Outside, the wind ran high in the forest, breaking and sweeping tidelike over the reefs of treetops. The air was bitterly cold. Another voice, almost as fitful as the sough of the wind, sounded across the night. It was the waters of Stone Arrow Falls, above Big Rattle.

The frosts had drawn their bonds of ice and blankets of silencing snow over all the rest of the stream, but the white and black face of the falls still flashed from a window in the great house of crystal, and threw out a voice of desolation.

Sacobie Bear, a full-blooded Micmac, uttered a grunt of relief when his ears caught the bellow of Stone Arrow Falls. He stood still, and turned his head from side to side, questioningly.

"Good!" he said. "Big Rattle off there, Archer's camp over there. I go there. Good 'nough!"

He hitched his old smooth-bore rifle higher under his arm and continued his journey. Sacobie had tramped many miles -- all the way from ice-imprisoned Fox Harbor. His papoose was sick. His squaw was hungry. Sacobie's belt was drawn tight.

During all that weary journey his old rifle had not banged once, although few eyes save those of timberwolf and lynx were sharper in the hunt than Sacobie's. The Indian was reeling with hunger and weakness, but he held bravely on.

A white man, no matter how courageous and sinewy, would have been prone in the snow by that time.

But Sacobie, with his head down and his round snowshoes padding! padding! like the feet of a frightened duck, raced with death toward the haven of Archer's cabin.

Archer was dreaming of a Christmas-time in a great faraway city when he was startled by a rattle of snowshoes at his threshold and a soft beating on his door, like weak blows from mittened hands. He sprang across the cabin and pulled open the door.

A short, stooping figure shuffled in and reeled against him. A rifle in a woollen case clattered at his feet.

"Mer' Christmas! How-do?" said a weary voice.

"Merry Christmas, brother!" replied Archer. Then, "Bless me, but it's Sacobie Bear! Why, what's the matter, Sacobie?"

"Heap tired! Heap hungry!" replied the Micmac, sinking to the floor.

Archer lifted the Indian and carried him over to the bunk at the farther end of the room. He filled his iron-pot spoon with brandy, and inserted the point of it between Sacobie's unresisting jaws. Then he loosened the Micmac's coat and shirt and belt.

He removed his moccasins and stockings and rubbed the straight thin feet with brandy.

After a while Sacobie Bear opened his eyes and gazed up at Archer.

"Good!" he said. "John Archer, he heap fine man, anyhow. Mighty good to poor Injun Sacobie, too. Plenty tobac, I s'pose. Plenty rum, too."

"No more rum, my son," replied Archer, tossing what was left in the mug against the log wall, and corking the bottle, "and no smoke until you have had a feed. What do you say to bacon and tea! Or would tinned beef suit you better?"

"Bacum," replied Sacobie.

He hoisted himself to his elbow, and wistfully sniffed the fumes of brandy that came from the direction of his bare feet. "Heap waste of good rum, me t'ink," he said.

"You ungratefu' little beggar!" laughed Archer, as he pulled a frying pan from under the bunk.

By the time the bacon was fried and the tea steeped, Sacobie was sufficiently revived to leave the bunk and take a seat by the fire.

He ate as all hungry Indians do; and Archer looked on in wonder and whimsical regret, remembering the miles and miles he had tramped with that bacon on his back.

"Sacobie, you will kill yourself!" he protested.

"Sacobie no kill himself now," replied the Micmac, as he bolted a brown slice and a mouthful of hard bread. "Sacobie more like to kill himself when he empty. Want to live when he chock-full. Good fun. T'ank you for more tea."

Archer filled the extended mug and poured in the molasses -- "long sweet'nin'" they call it in that region.

"What brings you so far from Fox Harbor this time of year?" inquired Archer.

"Squaw sick. Papoose sick. Bote empty. Wan' good bacum to eat."

Archer smiled at the fire. "Any luck trapping?" he asked.

His guest shook his head and hid his face behind the upturned mug.

"Not much," he replied, presently.

He drew his sleeve across his mouth, and then produced a clay pipe from a pocket in his shirt.

"Tobac?" he inquired.

Archer passed him a dark and heavy plug of tobacco.

"Knife?" queried Sacobie.

"Try your own knife on it," answered Archer, grinning.

With a sigh Sacobie produced his sheath-knife.

"You t'ink Sacobie heap big t'ief," he said, accusingly.

"Knives are easily lost -- in people's pockets," replied Archer.

The two men talked for hours. Sacobie Bear was a great gossip for one of his race. In fact, he had a Micmac nickname which, translated, meant "the man who deafens his friends with much talk." Archer, however, was pleased with his ready chatter and unforced humour.

But at last they both began to nod. The white man made up a bed on the floor for Sacobie with a couple of caribou skins and a heavy blanket. Then he gathered together a few plugs of tobacco, some tea, flour, and dried fish.

Sacobie watched him with freshly aroused interest.

"More tobac, please," he said. "Squaw, he smoke, too."

Archer added a couple of sticks of the black leaf to the pile.

"Bacum, too," said the Micmac. "Bacum better nor fish, anyhow."

Archer shook his head.

"You'll have to do with the fish," he replied; "but I'll give you a tin of condensed milk for the papoose."

"Ah, ah! Him good stuff!" exclaimed Sacobie.

Archer considered the provisions for a second or two. Then, going over to a dunnage bag near his bunk, he pulled its contents about until he found a bright red silk handkerchief and a red flannel shirt. Their colour was too gaudy for his taste. "These things are for your squaw," he said.

Sacobie was delighted. Archer tied the articles into a neat pack and stood it in the corner, beside his guest's rifle.

"Now you had better turn in," he said, and blew out the light.

In ten minutes both men slept the sleep of the weary. The fire, a great mass of red coals, faded and flushed like some fabulous jewel. The wind washed over the cabin and fingered the eaves, and brushed furtive hands against the door.

It was dawn when Archer awoke. He sat up in his bunk and looked about the quiet, gray-lighted room. Sacobie Bear was nowhere to be seen.

He glanced at the corner by the door. Rifle and pack were both gone. He looked up at the rafter where his slab of bacon was always hung. It, too, was gone.

He jumped out of his bunk and ran to the door. Opening it, he looked out. Not a breath of air stirred. In the east, saffron and scarlet, broke the Christmas morning, and blue on the white surface of the world lay the imprints of Sacobie's round snowshoes.

For a long time the trapper stood in the doorway in silence, looking out at the stillness and beauty.

"Poor Sacobie!" he said, after a while. "Well, he's welcome to the bacon, even if it is all I had."

He turned to light the fire and prepare breakfast. Something at the foot of his bunk caught his eye. He went over and took it up. It was a cured skin -- a beautiful specimen of fox. He turned it over, and on the white hide an uncultured hand had written, with a charred stick, "Archer."

"Well, bless that old red-skin!" exclaimed the trapper, huskily. "Bless his puckered eyes! Who'd have thought that I should get a Christmas present?"

<eob>

Five Little Peppers Abroad

By

Margaret Sidney



I

Over The Ocean


"Dear me," said Polly, "I don't see wherever she can be, Jasper. I've searched just everywhere for her." And she gave a little sigh, and pushed up the brown rings of hair under her sailor cap.

"Don't worry, Polly," said Jasper, with a reassuring smile. "She's with Matilda, of course. Come, Polly, let's you and I have a try at the shuffle-board by ourselves, down on the lower deck."

"No, we can't," said Polly, with a dreadful longing at her heart for the charms of a game; "that is, until we've found Phronsie." And she ran down the deck. "Perhaps she is in one of the library corners, though I thought I looked over them all."

"How do you know she isn't with Matilda, Polly?" cried Jasper, racing after, to see Polly's little blue jacket whisking ahead of him up the companion-way.

"Because" -- Polly stopped at the top and looked over her shoulder at him -- "Matilda's in her berth. She's awfully seasick. I was to stay with Phronsie, and now I've lost her!" And the brown head drooped, and Polly clasped her hands tightly together.

"Oh, no, she can't be lost, Polly," said Jasper, cheerfully, as he bounded up the stairs and gained her side; "why, she couldn't be!"

"Well, anyway, we can't find her, Jasper," said Polly, running on. "And it's all my fault, for I forgot, and left her in the library, and went with Fanny Vanderburgh down to her state-room. O dear me!" as she sped on.

"Well, she's in the library now, most likely," said Jasper, cheerfully, hurrying after, "curled up asleep in a corner." And they both ran in, expecting to see Phronsie's yellow head snuggled into one of the pillows.

But there was no one there except a little old gentleman on one of the sofas back of a table, who held his paper upside down, his big spectacles on the end of his nose, almost tumbling off as he nodded drowsily with the motion of the steamer.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Polly; "now we shall wake him up," as they tiptoed around, peering in every cosey corner and behind all the tables for a glimpse of Phronsie's little brown gown.

"No danger," said Jasper, with a glance over at the old gentleman; "he's just as fast asleep as can be. Here, Polly, I think she's probably tucked up in here." And he hurried over to the farther side, where the sofa made a generous angle.

Just then in stalked a tall boy, who rushed up to the little old gentleman. "Here, Granddad, wake up." And he shook his arm smartly. "You're losing your glasses, and then there'll be a beastly row to pay."

"O dear me!" cried Polly aghast, as she and Jasper whirled around.

"Hey -- what -- what!" exclaimed the old gentleman, clutching his paper as he started forward. "Oh, -- why, I haven't been asleep, Tom."

"Ha! Ha! tell that to the marines," cried Tom, loudly, dancing in derision, "You've been sleeping like a log. You'd much better go down and get into your state-room. But give me a sovereign first." He held out his hand as he spoke. "Hurry up, Granddad!" he added impatiently.

The old gentleman put his hand to his head, and then rubbed his eyes.

"Bustle up," cried the boy, with a laugh, "or else I'll run my fist in your pocket and help myself."

"Indeed, you won't," declared the old gentleman, now thoroughly awake.

"Ha! Ha!" laughed the boy. "You see if I won't, Granddad." Yet he dropped his imperious tone, and waited, though impatiently, while the big pocket-book was drawn out.

"What do you want with money on board the boat?" demanded the old gentleman.

"Give me a sovereign, Granddad," cried Tom, controlling his impatience as best he might, with many a cross look at the wrinkled old face under the white hair.

His Grandfather slowly drew out the coin, and Tom twitched it eagerly from the long, thin fingers.

"I don't see how you can need money on board the boat," repeated the old gentleman.

"Never you mind what I want it for, Grand-daddy," said Tom, laughing loudly and shaking the sovereign at him as he ran off; "that's my business, and not yours."

Polly had not taken her eyes off their faces. Now she turned toward Jasper. "Oh, how very dreadful!" she gasped -- then would have given everything if she had kept still, for the old gentleman whirled around and saw them for the first time.

"Hey -- who are you -- and what are you listening there for -- hey?" he demanded sharply. He had little black eyes, and they now snapped in a truly dreadful way at them.

"We came to find her little sister," said Jasper, politely, for Polly was quite beyond speaking.

"Sister? I don't know anything about your sister," said the old gentleman, irascibly. "And this room isn't a place for children, I can tell you," he added, as if he owned the library and the whole ship.

Jasper made no reply.

"Phronsie isn't here." Polly clasped her hands again tighter than ever. "And, oh, Jasper!" and she looked at the angry old face before them with pitying eyes.

"What I say to my grandson, Tom, and what he says to me, is our own business!" exclaimed the old gentleman in a passion, thumping the table with his clenched hand. "And no one else has a right to hear it."

"I am so very sorry we heard it," said Polly, the colour which had quite gone from her cheek now rushing back. "And we are going right away, sir."

"You would much better," said the old man, nodding angrily. "And you, boy, too; I suppose you think yourself better than my Tom. But you are not -- not a bit of it!" And suddenly he tried to start to his feet, but lurched heavily against the table instead.

Polly and Jasper rushed over to him. "Lean on me, sir," said Jasper, putting both arms around him, while Polly ran to his other side, he was shaking so dreadfully.

The old gentleman essayed to wave them off. "Let me alone," he said feebly; "I'm going after my grandson, Tom." His voice sank to a whisper, and his head dropped to his breast. "He's got money -- he's always getting it, and I'm going to see what he's doing with it."

"Polly," said Jasper, "you help me put him back on the sofa; there, that's it," as the old man sank feebly down against the cushions; "and then I'll run and find his grandson."

It was just the time when everybody seemed to be in the state-rooms, or out on deck in steamer chairs, so Polly sat there at the old man's head, feeling as if every minute were an hour, and he kept gurgling, "Tom's a bad boy -- he gets money all the time, and I'm going to see what he's doing with it," with feeble waves of his legs, that put Polly in a fright lest he should roll off the sofa at every lurch of the steamer.

"Tom is coming," at last she said, putting her hand on the hot forehead. "Please stay still, sir; you will be sick."

"But I don't want Tom to come," cried the old gentleman, irritably. "Who said I wanted him to come? Hey?" He turned up his head and looked at her, and Polly's hand shook worse than ever when the little snapping eyes were full on her face, and she had all she could do to keep from running out of the room and up on deck where she could breathe freely.

"I am so sorry," she managed to gasp, feeling if she didn't say something, she should surely run. "Does your head feel better?" And she smoothed his hot forehead gently just as Phronsie always did Grandpapa's when it ached. And when she thought of Phronsie, then it was all she could do to keep the tears back. Where could she be? And would Jasper never come back?

And just then in ran Tom with a great clatter, complaining noisily every step of the way. "I told you you'd much better get off to your stateroom, Granddad!" he exclaimed. "Here, I'll help you down there." And he laid a hasty hand on the feeble old arm.

"I think he is sick," said Polly, gently. Jasper came hurrying in. "Phronsie is all right," he had time to whisper to Polly.

"Oh, Jasper!" the colour rushed into her cheek that had turned quite white. "I am so glad."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Tom, abruptly. "It's only one of his crotchets. You don't know; he gets up plenty of 'em on occasion."

"What did you want a sovereign for?" asked the old gentleman, querulously, taking his sharp little eyes off Polly to fasten them on his grandson's face. "Say, I will know."

"And I say no matter," retorted Tom, roughly. "And you ought to come down to your state-room where you belong. Come, Granddad!" And he tried again to lay hold of his arm. But the little old gentleman sank back, and looked up at Polly again. "I think I'll stay here," he said.

"I say," began the boy, in an embarrassed way, "this is dreadfully rough on you," and then he looked away from Polly to Jasper. "And if you knew him as well as I do," nodding his head at his Grandfather, "you wouldn't get in such a funk."

Polly was busy smoothing the hot forehead under the white hair, and appeared not to notice a word he said.

"Your Grandfather really appears ill," said Jasper. "And the doctor might give him something to help him."

Tom burst into a short laugh and kicked his heel against the table. "Hoh! hoh! I say, you don't know him; oh, what muffs you are! He's well enough, only he's determined not to go to his state-room where he belongs, but to kick up a row here."

"Very well," said Jasper, coolly, "since you are determined to do nothing for his relief, I shall take it upon myself to summon the doctor." He stepped to a table a bit further off, and touched the electric button back of it.

"Here, don't do that," remonstrated Tom, springing forward. But it was too late, and the steward who attended to calls on the library stepped in.

"It isn't the hour for giving out books," he began.

Tom was stamping his foot impatiently, and scowling at Jasper, alternately casting longing glances out the nearest port-hole.

"It isn't books we want," said Jasper, quickly, "but this old gentleman" -- whose head was now heavily sunken on his breast, and whose cheek was quite white -- "appears to be very ill, and to need the doctor."

"Is that so?" The steward leaned over and peered into the old face. "Well, he doesn't look just right, and that's a fact. Is he your father?"

"Oh, no," said Jasper, quickly, "I don't know who he is. But, do hurry, for he's sick, and needs the doctor at once."

"I'll get Dr. Jones." Off ran the steward toward the surgeon's cabin.

"See what you've done," cried Tom, in a towering passion. "Kicked up a pretty mess -- when I tell you I've seen my Grandfather just as bad a hundred times."

Jasper made no reply, and Polly continued to stroke gently the poor head.

"Well -- well -- well!" exclaimed Mr. King, coming in, "to be sure, it's very stupid in me not to think of looking in the library for both of you before. O dear me -- bless me!" And he came to a dead stop of astonishment.

"Father," cried Jasper, "this poor man seems very ill."

"Oh, yes," breathed Polly, pitifully, "he really is, Grandpapa." And she put out her hand to seize one of Mr. King's. "And Jasper has sent for the doctor."

"And none too soon, I should say," remarked Mr. King, grimly, with a keen glance into the old man's face. "Raise his feet a little higher, Jasper; put a pillow under them; there, that's it. Well, the doctor should be hurried up." He glanced quickly around. "Here, you boy," seeing Tom, "run as you never have run before, and tell the doctor to come quickly."

"There isn't any need," began Tom.

"Do you go!" commanded Mr. King, pointing to the door. And Tom went.

"Father, that boy is his grandson," said Jasper, pointing to the sick man.

Mr. King stared into Jasper's face, unable to make a reply.

"He is," declared Polly. "Oh, Grandpapa, he really is!" Then she buried her flushed face up against Mr. King's arm.

"There is no need to waste words," said Mr. King, finding his tongue. "There, there, Polly, child," fondling her brown head, "don't feel badly. I'm sure you've done all you could."

"'Twas Jasper; he did it all -- I couldn't do anything," said Polly.

"Oh, Polly, you did everything," protested Jasper.

"Yes, yes, I know, you both did," said Mr. King. "Well, here's the doctor, thank the Lord!"

And then when nobody wanted them, the library seemed to be full of people, and the news spreading out to the decks, many of the passengers got out of their steamer chairs, and tried to swarm into the two doorways.

Tom, who never knew how he summoned Dr. Jones, being chiefly occupied in astonishment at finding that he obeyed a command from a perfect stranger, did not come back to the library, but kept himself with the same amazed expression on his face, idly kicking his heels in a quiet corner of the deck near by. He never thought of such a thing as being worried over his Grandfather, for he couldn't remember when the old gentleman hadn't been subject to nervous attacks; but somehow since "a row," as he expressed it, "had been kicked up," it was just as well to stay in the vicinity and see the end of it. But he wasn't going inside -- no, not he!

After awhile, Tom was just beginning to yawn, and to feel that no one could expect him to waste time like that, and probably his Grandfather was going to sleep it out on the sofa, and the stupid doctor would find that there was nothing the matter, only the old man was nervous. "And I'm going back to the fellows," decided Tom, shaking his long legs.

"Oh, here you are!" cried Jasper, running up to him. "Come quickly," seizing his arm.

"Hey, here, what are you about?" roared Tom at him, shaking off the hand.

"You must excuse me for wasting no ceremony," said Jasper, sternly. It struck Tom that he looked very much like the old gentleman who had told him to go! "Your Grandfather is very ill; something is the matter with his heart, and the doctor has sent me for you. He says he may not live an hour." It was necessary to tell the whole of the dreadful truth, for Tom was still staring at him in defiance.



II

Two English Friends


"I don't want you," muttered the old gentleman, feebly, turning his head away from Tom, and then he set his lips tightly together. But he held to Polly's hand.

"You would better go out," Dr. Jones nodded to Tom. "It excites him."

The second time Tom was told to go. He stood quite still. "He's my Grandfather!" he blurted out.

"Can't help it," said Dr. Jones, curtly; "he's my patient. So I tell you again it is imperative that you leave this room." Then he turned back to his work of making the sick man comfortable without taking any more notice of the boy.

Tom gave a good long look at as much of his Grandfather's face as he could see, then slunk out, in a dazed condition, trying to make himself as small as possible. Jasper found him a half hour afterward, hanging over the rail away from curious eyes, his head buried on his arms.

"I thought you'd like to know that your Grandfather is better," said Jasper, touching the bent shoulder.

"Get away, will you?" growled Tom, kicking out his leg, unmindful where it struck.

"And the doctor has gotten him into his state-room, and he is as comfortable as he could be made." Jasper didn't add that Dr. Jones had asked him to come back, and that the old man was still insisting that Polly should hold his hand.

"In that case," declared Tom, suddenly twitching up his head, "I will go down there." His face was so drawn that Jasper started, and then looked away over the sea, and did not appear to notice the clenched hand down by the boy's side.

"I -- I -- didn't know he was sick." Tom brought it out in gusts, and his face worked worse than ever in his efforts not to show his distress. The only thing he could do was to double up his hand tighter than ever, as he tried to keep it back of him.

"I understand," nodded Jasper, still looking off over the blue water.

"And now I'll go down," said Tom, drawing a long breath and starting off. Oh! and Dr. Jones had said the last thing to Jasper as he rushed off with the good news to Tom, "On no account let that boy see his Grandfather. I won't answer for the consequences if you do."

"See here," Jasper tore his gaze off from the shimmering water. "The doctor doesn't -- doesn't think you ought to see your Grandfather now."

"Hey!" cried Tom, his drawn lips flying open, and his big blue eyes distending in anger. "He's my Grandfather. I rather think I shall do as I've a mind to," and he plunged off.

"Tom!" Jasper took long steps after him. "Beg your pardon, this is no time for thinking of anything but your Grandfather's life. Dr. Jones said you were not to see him at present." The truth must be told, for in another moment the boy would have been off on the wings of the wind.

"And do you think that I will mind in the least what that beastly doctor says?" cried Tom, getting redder and redder in the face, his rage was so great. "Hoh! no, sir."

"Then your Grandfather's life will be paid as a sacrifice," said Jasper calmly. And he stood quite still; and surveyed the boy before him.

Neither spoke. It seemed to Jasper an age that they stood there in silence. At last Tom wavered, put out his hand unsteadily, leaned against a steamer chair, and turned his face away.

"Let us do a bit of a turn on the deck," said Jasper, suddenly, overcoming by a mighty effort his repugnance to the idea.

Tom shook his head, and swallowed hard.

"Oh, yes," said Jasper, summoning all the cheerfulness he could muster to his aid. "Come, it's the very thing to do, if you really want to help your Grandfather."

Tom raised his head and looked at him. "I never supposed the old man was sick," he said brokenly, and down went his head again, this time upon his hands, which were grasping the top of the chair.

"I don't believe you did," answered Jasper. "But come, Tom, let's walk around the deck; we can talk just as well meanwhile."

Two or three young men, with cigarettes in their mouths, came sauntering up. "Tom Selwyn, you're a pretty fellow -- "

Tom raised his head and looked at them defiantly.

"To give us the slip like this," cried one, with a sneer, in which the others joined, with a curious look at Jasper.

"Well, come on now," said one. "Yes -- yes -- come along," said another; "we've waited long enough for you to get back."

"I'm not coming," declared Tom, shortly.

"Not coming back? Well -- " One of the young men said something under his breath, and the first speaker turned on his heel, tossing his cigarette over the railing.

"No," said Tom, "I'm not coming. Did you hear me?"

"I believe I had that pleasure," said the last named, "as I am not deaf. Come on, fellows; our little boy has got to wait on his Grandpappy. Good-by, kid!" He snapped his fingers; the other two laughed derisively, and sauntered off down the deck as they came.

Tom shook with passion. "I'd like to walk," he said, drawing a long breath, and setting off unsteadily.

"All right," said Jasper, falling into step beside him.

Meantime the old gentleman, in his large handsome state-room, showed no sign of returning to the consciousness that had come back for a brief moment. And he held to Polly's hand so tightly, as she sat at the head of the berth, that there was no chance of withdrawing her fingers had she so desired. And Father Fisher with whom Dr. Jones had of course made acquaintance, before the steamer fairly sailed, sat there keeping watch too, in a professional way, the ship's doctor having called him in consultation over the case. And Phronsie, who had been in deep penitence because she had wandered off from the library with another little girl, to gaze over the railing upon the steerage children below, thereby missing Polly, was in such woe over it all that she was allowed to cuddle up against Polly's side and hold her other hand. And there she sat as still as a mouse, hardly daring to breathe. And Mr. King, feeling as if, after all, the case was pretty much under his supervision, came softly in at intervals to see that all was well, and that the dreadful boy was kept out.

And the passengers all drifted back to their steamer chairs, glad of some new topic to discuss, for the gossip they had brought on board was threadbare now, as they were two days at sea. And the steamer sailed over the blue water that softly lapped the stout vessel's side, careless of the battle that had been waged for a life, even then holding by slender threads. And Fanny Vanderburgh, whose grandfather was a contemporary in the old business days in New York with Mr. King, and who sat with her mother at the next table to the King party, spent most of her time running to Mrs. Pepper's state-room, or interviewing any one who would be able to give her the slightest encouragement as to when she could claim Polly Pepper.

"O dear me!" Fanny cried, on one such occasion, when she happened to run across Jasper. "I've been down to No. 45 four times this morning, and there's nobody there but that stupid Matilda, and she doesn't know or won't tell when Polly will get through reading to that tiresome old man. And they won't let me go to his state-room. Mrs. Fisher and your father are there, too, or I'd get them to make Polly come out on deck. We all want her for a game of shuffle-board."

Jasper sighed. So did he long for a game of shuffle-board. Then he brought himself up, and said as brightly as he could: "Mr. Selwyn begs Polly to stay, and won't have any one else read to him, Miss Vanderburgh, so I don't see as it can be helped. He's been very sick, you know."

Fanny Vanderburgh beat the toe of her boot on the deck floor. "It's a perfect shame. And that horrible old man, he's so seedy and common -- just think of it -- and spoiling all our fun!"

Jasper looked off over the sea, and said nothing.

"As for that dreadful boy, his grandson, I think he's a boor. Goodness me -- I hope nobody will introduce him. I'm sure I never'll recognise him afterward."

Jasper turned uneasily. "Please, Mr. King, do make Polly listen to reason," begged Fanny. "There isn't another girl on board I care to go with -- at least not in the way I would with her. The Griswolds are well enough to play games with, and all that; but you know what I mean. Do make her come out with us this morning, and listen to reason," she repeated, winding up helplessly.

"But I think she is just right," said Jasper, stoutly.

"Right!" cried Fanny, explosively; "oh, how can you say so, Mr. Jasper! Why, she is losing just every bit of the fun."

"I know it," said Jasper, with a twinge at the thought. "Well, there is nothing more to be said or done, Miss Vanderburgh, since Polly has decided the matter. Only I want you to remember that I think she is just right about it."

Fanny Vanderburgh pouted her pretty lips in vexation. "At least, don't try to get that dreadful boy into our own set to play games," she cried venomously, "for I won't speak to him. He's a perfect boor. 'Twas only yesterday he brushed by me like a clumsy elephant, and knocked my book out of my hand, and never even picked it up. Think of that, Mr. King!"

"I know -- that was dreadful," assented Jasper, in dismay at the obstacle to the plan he had formed in his own mind, to do that very thing he was now being warned against. "But you see, Miss Vanderburgh, he's all upset by his Grandfather's sickness."

"And I should think he would be," cried Fanny Vanderburgh, with spirit. "Mrs. Griswold says she's heard him domineering over the old man, and then his Grandfather would snarl and scold like everything. She has the next state-room, you know. I don't see how those Selwyns can afford such a nice cabin," continued Fanny, her aristocratic nose in the air, "they look so poor. Anyway that boy is a perfect beast, Mr. King."

"He's very different now," said Jasper, quickly. "He had no idea his Grandfather was so poorly. Now I'll tell you, Miss Vanderburgh," Jasper turned sharply around on his heel so that he faced her. It was necessary with a girl like her to state plainly what he had to say, and to keep to it. "I am going to ask Tom Selwyn to play games with all us young people. If it distresses you, or any one else, so that you cannot join, of course I will withdraw, and I know Polly will, and we will get up another circle that will play with him."

It was almost impossible to keep from laughing at Fanny's face, but Jasper was very grave as he waited for an answer. "O dear me, Mr. Jasper," she cried, "haven't I told you I don't really care for any one on board but Polly Pepper, and Mamma doesn't want me to mix up much with those Griswolds?" She lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder. "It would make it so awkward if they should be much in New York, and we should meet. So of course I've got to do as Polly and you do. Don't you see? -- it's awfully hard on me, though," and she clasped her hands in vexation.

"Very well, then," said Jasper; "now that's decided. And seeing it is, why the next thing to do, is to bring Tom down, and we'll get up a game of shuffle-board at once. He's not needed by his Grandfather now." He didn't think it necessary to add, "for the old gentleman won't see him, and Tom is forbidden the room by the doctor."

Fanny's aristocratic nose went up in alarm, and her whole face was overspread with dismay. It was one thing to anticipate evil, and quite another to find it precipitated upon one. "I -- I don't -- believe I can play this morning, Mr. Jasper," she began hurriedly, for the first time in her young life finding herself actually embarrassed. She was even twisting her fingers.

"Very well," said Jasper, coolly, "then I understand that you will not play with us at any time, for, as we begin to-day, we shall keep on. I will set about getting up another party at once." He touched his yacht cap lightly, and turned off.

"I'll go right down on the lower deck with you now." Fanny ran after him, her little boot heels clicking excitedly on the hard floor. "The steward has marked it all for us. I got him to, while I ran to find Polly so as to engage the place," she added breathlessly.

"That's fine," said Jasper, a smile breaking over the gloom on his face; "now we'll have a prime game, Miss Vanderburgh."

Fanny swallowed hard the lump in her throat, and tried to look pleasant. "Do you go and collect the Griswolds," cried Jasper, radiantly, "and I'll be back with Tom," and he plunged off. It was all done in a minute. And the thing that had been worrying him -- how to get Tom into good shape, and to keep him there -- seemed fixed in the best way possible. But Tom wouldn't go. Nothing that Jasper could do or say would move him out of the gloom into which he was cast, and at last Jasper ran down for a hurried game with the party awaiting him, to whom he explained matters in the best way he could.

At last, old Mr. Selwyn was able to emerge from his state-room. Mr. King and he were the best of friends by this time, the former always, when Polly read aloud, being one of the listeners. At all such hours, indeed, and whenever Polly went to sit by the invalid, Phronsie would curl up at Polly's side, and fondle the doll that Grandpapa gave her last, which had the honour to take the European trip with the family. Phronsie would smooth the little dress down carefully, and then with her hand in Polly's, she would sit motionless till the reading was over. Mamsie, whose fingers could not be idle, although the big mending basket was left at home, would be over on the sofa, sewing busily; and little Dr. Fisher would run in and out, and beaming at them all through his spectacles, would cry cheerily, "Well, I declare, you have the most comfortable place on the whole boat, Mr. Selwyn." Or Dr. Jones, whom Polly thought, next to Papa Fisher, was the very nicest doctor in all the world, would appear suddenly around the curtain, and smile approval through his white teeth. At last on the fifth day out, the old man was helped up to sun himself in his steamer chair on deck. And then he had a perfect coterie around him, oh-ing and ah-ing over his illness, and expressing sympathy in every shape, for since Mr. King and his party took him up, it was quite the thing for all the other passengers to follow suit.

When a few hours of this sort of thing had been going on, the old man called abruptly to Polly Pepper, who had left him, seeing he had such good company about him, and had now skipped up with Jasper to toss him a merry word, or to see if his steamer rug was all tucked in snugly around him.

"See here, Polly Pepper, do you play chess?"

"What, sir?" Polly thought she had not heard correctly.

"Do you play chess, I say?" demanded old Mr. Selwyn, bringing his sharp little eyes to bear on her.

"No, sir, that is -- only a little," stammered Polly.

"Well, that will do for a start," the old gentleman nodded in satisfaction. "And I'll give you some points later on about the game. Well, and you play backgammon, of course." He didn't wait for her to answer, but finished, "These people here drive me almost crazy, asking me how I feel, and what was the matter with me, and all that rubbish. Now, I'm going into the library, and you shall go too, and we'll have a game of backgammon."

He flung back his steamer rug with a determined hand.

Jasper began, "Oh, Polly!" in dismay, but she broke in, "Yes, indeed, I do play backgammon, Mr. Selwyn, and it will be fine to have a game." And together they helped him up and into a cosey corner of the library.

"There, now," said Polly, with a final little pat on the sofa pillows tucked up at his back. "I believe you are as comfortable as you can be, Mr. Selwyn."

"Indeed I am," he declared.

"And now, Jasper, do get the backgammon board," cried Polly. "There it is over there," spying it on a further table.

Old Mr. Selwyn cast a hungry glance on it as it was brought forward, and his sharp little eyes sparkled, as Polly threw it open. He even chuckled in delight as he set the men.

Tom Selwyn came up to the door, and standing in its shadow, looked in. Jasper flung himself down on the sofa by the old gentleman's side to watch the game. Suddenly he glanced up, caught sight of Tom, although the latter's head was quickly withdrawn, and jumping up, he dashed after him.

"Here -- see here, Tom!" he called to the big figure before him, making good time down the stairs. "I can't go chasing you all over the boat in this fashion. Stop, will you?"

"What do you want?" demanded Tom, crossly, feeling it impossible to elude such a pursuer, and backing up against a convenient angle.

"I want you to come up into the library and watch the game. Do, it'll be the best time," -- he didn't say "to make it all up."

"Can't," said Tom, "he won't see me."

"Oh, yes, he will; I almost know he will," declared Jasper, eagerly feeling this minute as if the most unheard-of things were possible.

"And beside, your sister -- I mean the Pepper girl -- Miss Pepper -- " Tom corrected himself clumsily. "She can't bear me -- I won't come."

"Oh, yes, she can now," said Jasper, just as eagerly, "especially since I've told her all you've told me."

"Well, I hate girls anyway," declared Tom, in his most savage fashion; "always have hated 'em, and always shall. I won't come!"



III

Phronsie Goes Visiting


"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, softly, as she clung to his hand, after they had made the descent to the lower deck, "I think the littlest one can eat some of the fruit, don't you?" she asked anxiously.

"Never you fear," assented old Mr. King, "that child that I saw yesterday can compass anything in the shape of food. Why, it had its mouth full of teeth, Phronsie; it was impossible not to see them when it roared."

"I am so glad its teeth are there," said Phronsie, with a sigh of satisfaction, as she regarded her basket of fruit, "because if it hadn't any, we couldn't give it these nice pears, Grandpapa."

"Well, here we are," said Mr. King, holding her hand tightly. "Bless me -- are those your toes, young man?" this to a big chubby-faced boy, whose fat legs lay across the space as he sprawled on the deck; "just draw them in a bit, will you? -- there. Well, now, Phronsie, this way. Here's the party, I believe," and he led her over to the other side, where a knot of steerage passengers were huddled together. In the midst sat a woman, chubby faced, and big and square, holding a baby. She had a big red shawl wrapped around her, in the folds of which snuggled the baby, who was contentedly chewing one end of it, while his mother had her eyes on the rest of her offspring, of which there seemed a good many. When the baby saw Phronsie, he stopped chewing the old shawl and grinned, showing all the teeth of which Mr. King had spoken. The other children, tow headed and also chubby, looked at the basket hanging on Phronsie's arm, and also grinned.

"There is the baby!" exclaimed Phronsie, in delight, pulling Grandpapa's hand gently. "Oh, Grandpapa, there he is."

"That's very evident," said the old gentleman. "Bless me!" addressing the woman, "how many children have you, pray tell?"

"Nine," she said. Then she twitched the jacket of one of them, and the pinafore of another, to have them mind their manners, while the baby kicked and crowed and gurgled, seeming to be all teeth.

"I have brought you some fruit," said Phronsie, holding out her basket, whereat all the tow headed group except the baby crowded each other dreadfully to see all there was in it. "I'm sorry the flowers are gone, so I couldn't bring any to-day. May the baby have this?" holding out a pear by the stem.

The baby settled that question by lunging forward and seizing the pear with two fat hands, when he immediately sank into the depths of the old shawl again, all his teeth quite busy at work. Phronsie set down her basket on the deck, and the rest of the brood emptied it to their own satisfaction. Their mother's stolid face lighted up with a broad smile that showed all her teeth, and very white and even they were.

"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, turning to him and clasping her hands, "if I only might hold that baby just one little bit of a minute," she begged, keenly excited.

"Oh, Phronsie, he's too big," expostulated Mr. King, in dismay.

"I can hold him just as easy, Grandpapa dear," said Phronsie, her lips drooping mournfully. "See." And she sat down on a big coil of rope near by and smoothed out her brown gown. "Please, Grandpapa dear."

"He'll cry," said Mr. King, quickly. "Oh, no, Phronsie, it wouldn't do to take him away from his mother. You see it would be dreadful to set that child to roaring -- very dreadful indeed." Yet he hung over her in distress at the drooping little face.

"He won't cry." The mother's stolid face lighted up a moment. "And if the little lady wants to hold him, he'll sit there."

"May I, Grandpapa?" cried Phronsie, her red lips curling into a happy smile. "Oh, please say I may, Grandpapa dear," clasping her hands.

"The family seems unusually clean," observed Mr. King to himself. "And the doctor says there's no sickness on board, and it's a very different lot of steerage folks going this way from coming out, all of which I've settled before coming down here," he reflected. "Well, Phronsie -- yes -- I see no reason why you may not hold the baby if you want to." And before the words were hardly out of his mouth, the chubby-faced woman had set the fat baby in the middle of the brown gown smoothed out to receive him. He clung to his pear with both hands and ate away with great satisfaction, regardless of his new resting-place.

"Just come here!" Mrs. Griswold, in immaculately fitting garments, evidently made up freshly for steamer use, beckoned with a hasty hand to her husband. "It's worth getting up to see." He flung down his novel and tumbled out of his steamer chair. "Look down there!"

"Whew!" whistled Mr. Griswold; "that is a sight!"

"And that is the great Horatio King!" exclaimed Mrs. Griswold under her breath; "down there in that dirty steerage -- and look at that child -- Reginald, did you ever see such a sight in your life?"

"On my honour, I never have," declared Mr. Griswold, solemnly, and wanting to whistle again.

"Sh! -- don't speak so loud," warned Mrs. Griswold, who was doing most of the talking herself. And plucking his sleeve, she emphasised every word with fearful distinctness close to his ear. "She's got a dirty steerage baby in her lap, and Mr. King is laughing. Well, I never! O dear me, here come the young people!"

Polly and Jasper came on a brisk trot up the deck length. "Fifteen times around make a mile, don't they, Jasper?" she cried.

"I believe they do," said Jasper, "but it isn't like home miles, is it, Polly?" -- laughing gaily -- "or dear old Badgertown?"

"I should think not," replied Polly, with a little pang at her heart whenever Badgertown was mentioned. "We used to run around the little brown house, and see how many times we could do it without stopping."

"And how many did you, Polly?" asked Jasper, -- "the largest number, I mean."

"Oh, I don't know," said Polly, with a little laugh; "Joel beat us always, I remember that."

"Yes, Joe would get over the ground, you may be sure," said Jasper, "if anybody could."

Polly's laugh suddenly died away and her face fell. "Jasper, you don't know," she said, "how I do want to see those boys."

"I know," said Jasper, sympathisingly, "but you'll get a letter, you know, most as soon as we reach port, for they were going to mail it before we left."

"And I have one every day in my mail-bag," said Polly, "but I want to see them so, Jasper, I don't know what to do." She went up to the rail at a remove from the Griswolds and leaned over it.

"Polly," said Jasper, taking her hand, "you know your mother will feel dreadfully if she knows you are worrying about it."

"I know it," said Polly, bravely, raising her head; "and I won't -- why Jasper Elyot King!" for then she saw Grandpapa and Phronsie and the steerage baby.

Jasper gave a halloo, and waved his hand, and Polly danced up and down and called, and waved her hands too. And Phronsie gave a little crow of delight. "See, Grandpapa, there they are; I want Polly -- and Jasper, too." And old Mr. King whirled around. "O dear me! Come down, both of you," which command it did not take them long to obey.

"Well, I never did in all my life," ejaculated Mrs. Griswold, "see anything like that. Now if some people" -- she didn't say "we" -- "should do anything like that, 'twould be dreadfully erratic and queer. But those Kings can do anything," she added, with venom.

"It's pretty much so," assented Mr. Griswold, giving a lazy shake. "Well, I'm going back to my chair if you've got through with me, Louisa." And he sauntered off.

"Don't go, Reginald," begged his wife; "I haven't got a soul to talk to."

"Oh, well, you can talk to yourself," said her husband, "any woman can." But he paused a moment.

"Haven't those Pepper children got a good berth?" exclaimed Mrs. Griswold, unable to keep her eyes off from the small group below. "And their Mother Pepper, or Fisher, or whatever her name is -- I declare it's just like a novel, the way I heard the story from Mrs. Vanderburgh about it all."

"And I wish you'd let me get back to my book, Louisa," exclaimed Mr. Griswold, tartly, at the mention of the word "novel," beginning to look longingly at his deserted steamer chair, "for it's precious little time I get to read on shore. Seems as if I might have a little peace at sea."

"Do go back and read, then," said his wife, impatiently; "that's just like a man, -- he can't talk of anything but business, or he must have his nose in a book."

"We men want to talk sense," growled her husband, turning off. But Mrs. Griswold was engrossed in her survey of Mr. King and the doings of his party, and either didn't hear or didn't care what was remarked outside of that interest.

Tom Selwyn just then ran up against some one as clumsily as ever. It proved to be the ship's doctor, who surveyed him coldly and passed on. Tom gave a start and swallowed hard, then plunged after him. "Oh, I say."

"What is it?" asked Dr. Jones, pausing.

"Can I -- I'd like -- to see my Grandfather, don't you know?"

Dr. Jones scanned him coolly from top to toe. Tom took it without wincing, but inwardly he felt as if he must shake to pieces.

"If you can so conduct yourself that your Grandfather will not be excited," at last said the doctor, -- what an age it seemed to Tom, -- "I see no reason why you shouldn't see your Grandfather, and go back to your state-room. But let me tell you, young man, it was a pretty close shave for him the other day. Had he slipped away, you'd have had that on your conscience that would have lasted you for many a day." With this, and a parting keen glance, he turned on his heel and strode off.

Tom gave a great gasp, clenched his big hands tightly together, took a long look at the wide expanse of water, then disappeared within.

In about half an hour, the steerage baby having gone to sleep in Phronsie's arms, the brothers and sisters, finding, after the closest inspection, nothing more to eat in the basket, gathered around the centre of attraction in a small bunch.

"I hope they won't wake up the baby," said Phronsie, in gentle alarm.

"Never you fear," said old Mr. King, quite comfortable now in the camp-chair one of the sailors had brought in response to a request from Jasper; "that child knows very well by this time, I should imagine, what noise is."

But after a little, the edge of their curiosity having been worn off, the small group began to get restive, and to clamour and pull at their mother for want of something better to do.

"O dear me!" said Phronsie, in distress.

"Dear, dear!" echoed Polly, vainly trying to induce the child next to the baby to get into her lap; "something must be done. Oh, don't you want to hear about a funny cat, children? I'm going to tell them about Grandma Bascom's, Jasper," she said, seeing the piteous look in Phronsie's eyes.

"Yes, we do," said one of the boys, as spokesman, and he solemnly bobbed his tow head, whereat all the children then bobbed theirs.

"Sit down, then," said Polly, socially making way for them, "all of you in a circle, and I'll tell you of that very funny cat." So the whole bunch of tow-headed children sat down in a ring, and solemnly folded their hands in their laps. Jasper threw himself down where he could edge himself in. Old Mr. King leaned back and surveyed them with great satisfaction. So Polly launched out in her gayest mood, and the big blue eyes in the round faces before her widened, and the mouths flew open, showing the white teeth; and the stolid mother leaned forward, and her eyes and mouth looked just like those of her children, only they were bigger; and at last Polly drew a long breath and wound up with a flourish, "And that's all."

"Tell another," said one of the round-eyed, open-mouthed children, without moving a muscle. All the rest sat perfectly still.

"O dear me," said Polly, with a little laugh, "that was such a good long one, you can't want another."

"I think you've gotten yourself into business, Polly," said Jasper, with a laugh. "Hadn't we better go?"

Polly gave a quick glance at Phronsie. "Phronsie dear," she said, "let us go up to our deck now, dear. Shall we?"

"Oh, no, Polly, please don't go yet," begged Phronsie, in alarm, and patting the baby softly with a gentle little hand. Polly looked off at Grandpapa. He was placidly surveying the water, his eyes occasionally roving over the novel and interesting sights around. On the other side of the deck a returning immigrant was bringing out a jew's-harp, and two or three of his fellow-passengers were preparing to pitch quoits. Old Mr. King was actually smiling at it all. Polly hadn't seen him so contented since they sailed.

"I guess I'll tell another one, Jasper," she said. "Oh, about a dog, you wanted, did you?" nodding at the biggest boy.

"Yes," said the boy, bobbing his tow head, "I did;" and he unfolded and folded his hands back again, then waited patiently.

So Polly flew off on a gay little story about a dog that bade fair to rival Grandma Bascom's cat for cleverness. He belonged to Mr. Atkins who kept store in Badgertown, and the Pepper children used to see a good deal of him, when they took home the sacks and coats that Mamsie sewed for the storekeeper. And in the midst of the story, when the stolid steerage children were actually laughing over the antics of that remarkable dog, Jasper glanced up toward the promenade deck, took a long look, and started to his feet. "Why, Polly Pepper, see!" He pointed upward. There, on the curve, were old Mr. Selwyn and Tom walking arm in arm.



IV

Steamer Life


And after that, it was "My grandson, Thomas," on all occasions, the old gentleman introducing the boy to the right and to the left, as he paraded the deck, his old arm within the younger one. And the little, sharp black eyes snapped proudly and the white head was held up, as he laughed and chattered away sociably to the passengers and the ship's crew, at every good opportunity.

"Yes, my grandson, Thomas, is going back to school. We've been running about in your country a bit, and the boy's mother went home first with the other children -- " Polly heard him say as the two paused in front of her steamer chair.

"Indeed!" ejaculated Mrs. Vanderburgh, as he addressed her, and raising her eyebrows with a supercilious glance for his plain, unprepossessing appearance. "Yes, Madam, and glad shall I be to set my foot on Old England again Hey, Tom, my boy, don't you say so?"

Tom looked off over the sea, but did not speak.

Neither did Mrs. Vanderburgh answer, but turned her face away in disdain that was very plainly marked.

"Home is the best place, Madam," declared old Mr. Selwyn emphatically. "Well, Old England is our home, and nothing will induce me to leave it again, I can assure you."

Again Mrs. Vanderburgh did not reply, but looked him up and down in cold silence. Old Mr. Selwyn, not appearing to notice, chattered on. At last she deliberately turned her back on him.

"Isn't he common and horrid?" whispered Fanny Vanderburgh, in the steamer chair next to Polly, thrusting her face in between her and her book. And she gave a little giggle.

"Hush!" said Polly, warningly, "he will hear you."

"Nonsense -- it's impossible; he is rattling on so; and do look at Mamma's face!"

He didn't hear, but Tom did; and he flashed a glance -- dark and wrathful -- over at the two girls, and started forward, abruptly pulling his Grandfather along.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, in distress, dropping her book in her lap; "now he has heard."

"Oh, that dreadful boy," said Fanny, carelessly, stretching out in her steamer chair comfortably; "well, who cares? he's worse than his Grandfather."

"Yes, he has heard," repeated Polly, sorrowfully looking after the two, Tom still propelling the old gentleman along the deck at a lively rate; "now, what shall we do?"

"It isn't of the least consequence if he has heard," reiterated Fanny, "and Mamma has been frightfully bored, I know. Do tell us, Mamma," she called.

Mrs. Vanderburgh turned away from the rail, where she had paused in her constitutional when addressed by the old gentleman, and came up to the girls.

"Do sit down, Mamma, in your steamer chair," begged Fanny; "I'll tuck you up in your rug." And she jumped lightly out of her own chair. "There, that's nice," as Mrs. Vanderburgh sank gracefully down, and Fanny patted and pulled the rug into shape. "Now tell us, wasn't he the most horrible old bore?"

As she cuddled back into her own nest, Mrs. Vanderburgh laughed in a very high-bred manner. "He was very amusing," she said.

"Amusing! I should say so!" cried Fanny. "I suppose he would have told you all his family history if he had stayed. O dear me, he is such a common, odious old person."

Polly twisted uneasily under her rug.

Mrs. Vanderburgh glanced into the steamer chair on the other side. It had several books on top of the rug. "I don't believe he can take that seat," she said; "still, Fanny, I think it would be well for you to change into it, for that old man may take it into his head, when he makes the turn of the deck, to drop into it and give us the whole of his family history."

"Horrors!" ejaculated Fanny, hopping out of her chair again. "I'll make sure that he doesn't. And yet I did so want to sit next to Polly Pepper," she mourned, ensconcing herself under the neighbouring rug, and putting the books on the floor by her side.

"Don't do that; give them to me," said her mother; "I'll put them in your chair unless Miss Polly will take that place, only I don't like to disturb you, dear," she said with a sweet smile at Polly.

"Why, that would make matters' worse, Mamma," said Fanny. "Don't you see, then, that old bore would put himself into Polly's chair, for he likes her, anyway. Do leave it as it is."

So Mrs. Vanderburgh smiled again. "I don't know but that you are right," she said, and leaned back her head restfully. "Dear me, yes, he is amusing."

"They are terribly common people," said Fanny, her aristocratic nose well in the air, "aren't they, Mamma? And did you ever see such a clumsy thing as that dreadful boy, and such big hands and feet?" She held up her own hands as she spoke, and played with her rings, and let the jingling bracelets run up and down her wrists.

"Fanny, how often must I tell you to wear gloves on shipboard?" said her mother, in a tone of reproof. "Nothing spoils the hands so much as a trip at sea. They won't get over it all summer; they're coarsened already," and she cast an alarmed glance at the long, slender fingers.

"I'm so tired of gloves, Mamma." Fanny gave a restful yawn. "Polly Pepper doesn't wear them," she cried triumphantly, peering past her mother to point to Polly's hands.

Mrs. Vanderburgh hesitated. It wouldn't do to say anything that would reflect against the Peppers -- manners, or customs, or bringing up generally. So she leaned over and touched Polly's fingers with her own gloved ones.

"You don't wear gloves, do you, my dear?" she said, in gentle surprise, quite as if the idea had just struck her for the first time.

"No, Mrs. Vanderburgh, I don't," said Polly, "at least not on shipboard, unless it is cold."

"There, now, Mamma," laughed Fanny, in a pleased way; "you'll stop teasing me about wearing them, I'm sure."

Mrs. Vanderburgh turned and surveyed her daughter; but she didn't smile, and Fanny thought it as well to begin again on the old topic.

"They're awfully common people, aren't they, Mamma, -- those Selwyns?"

"They are, indeed," replied Mrs. Vanderburgh, "quite commonplace, and exceedingly tiresome; be sure and not speak to them, Fanny."

"Trust me for that," said Fanny, with a wise little nod. "The old man stopped me and asked me something this morning, as I was coming out of the dining room, after breakfast, but I pretended I didn't hear, and I skipped upstairs and almost fell on my nose."

"You were fortunate to escape," said her mother, with a little laugh. "Well, let us drop the subject and talk of something else much more important. Polly, my dear." She turned again and surveyed the young girl at her side. "You are coming home this autumn, aren't you?"

"Oh, no," said Polly, "Grandpapa expects to stay over in Europe a year."

"Is that so?" said Mrs. Vanderburgh, and her face fell; "I regret it exceedingly, for I should be glad if you would visit Fanny this winter in New York."

"Thank you; but I couldn't anyway," said Polly. Then the colour flew up to her cheek. "I mean I am in school, you know, Mrs. Vanderburgh, but I thank you, and it is so good of you to want me," she added, hurriedly, feeling that she hadn't said the right thing at all.

"I do want you very much, my dear child," said Mrs. Vanderburgh, "and I am very sorry you are to remain abroad over the winter, for your Grandfather would be persuaded, I feel quite sure, to have you leave school for a while, and come to us for a visit."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't," cried Polly, quickly. "I beg pardon, Mrs. Vanderburgh, but I never leave school for anything unless I am sick, and I am almost never sick."

"Well, then, you could come for the Christmas holidays," said Mrs. Vanderburgh, with ladylike obstinacy like one accustomed to carrying her point.

"The Christmas holidays!" exclaimed Polly, starting forward in her chair. "Oh, I wouldn't leave home for anything, then, Mrs. Vanderburgh. Why, we have the most beautiful times, and we are all together -- the boys come home from school -- and it's just too lovely for anything!" She clasped her hands and sighed -- oh, if she could but see Ben and Joel and David but once!

Mrs. Vanderburgh was a very tall woman, and she gazed down into the radiant face, without speaking; Polly was looking off over the sea, and the colour came and went on her cheek.

"We would soon get her out of all such notions, if we once had her with us, wouldn't we, Mamma?" said Fanny, in a low tone close to her mother's ear.

Mrs. Vanderburgh gave her a warning pinch, but Polly's brown eyes were fastened on the distant horizon, and she hadn't heard a word.

"Well, we'll arrange it sometime," said Fanny's mother, breaking the silence; "so you must remember, Polly dear, that you are engaged to us for a good long visit when you do come home."

"I will tell Grandpapa that you asked me," said Polly, bringing her eyes back with a sigh to look into Mrs. Vanderburgh's face.

"Oh, he will fall into the plan quite readily, I think," said Mrs. Vanderburgh, lightly. "You know we are all very old friends -- that is, the families are -- Mr. Vanderburgh's father and Mr. King were very intimate. Perhaps you don't know, Polly," -- and Fanny's mamma drew herself up to her extreme height; it was impossible for her to loll back in her chair when talking of her family, -- "that we are related to the Earl of Cavendish who owns the old estate in England, and we go back to William the Conqueror; that is, Fanny does on her father's side."

Fanny thereupon came up out of her chair depths to sit quite straight and gaze with importance at Polly's face. But Polly was still thinking of the boys, and she said nothing.

"And my family is just as important," said Mrs. Vanderburgh, and she smiled in great satisfaction. "Really, we could make things very pleasant for you, my child; our set is so exclusive, you could not possibly meet any one but the very best people. Oh, here is your mother." She smiled enchantingly up at Mrs. Fisher, and held out her hand. "Do come and sit here with us, my dear Mrs. Fisher," she begged, "then we shall be a delightful group, we two mothers and our daughters."

"Thank you, Mrs. Vanderburgh." Mrs. Fisher smiled, but she didn't offer to take the steamer chair. "I have come after Polly."

"Mamsie, what is it? I'll come," said Polly, tumbling out of her steamer chair in a twinkling.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Vanderburgh, in regret, "don't take Polly away, I do implore you, my dear Mrs. Fisher -- I am so fond of her."

"I must," said Mother Fisher, smiling again, her hand now in Polly's, and before any more remonstrances were made, they were off.

"Oh, Mamsie!" breathed Polly, hanging to the dear hand, "I am so glad you came, and took me away."

"Polly," said Mother Fisher, suddenly, "Grandpapa asked me to find you; he thinks you could cheer old Mr. Selwyn up a bit, perhaps, with backgammon. I'm afraid Tom has been behaving badly again."

"Oh, Mamsie!" exclaimed Polly, in dismay. And then the story came out.

"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, pulling at his hand gently, as they walked slowly up and down the deck, "does your head ache?" And she peered anxiously up into his face.

"No, child -- that is, not much," said old Mr. King, trying to smooth his brows out. He was thinking -- for it kept obtruding at all times and seasons -- of that dreadful scrap of paper that Cousin Eunice had imposed upon him at the last minute before they sailed, announcing that she had had her way, and would at last compel acceptance of such a gift as she chose to make to Phronsie Pepper.

"If it aches at all," said Phronsie, decidedly, "I wish you would let me rub it for you, Grandpapa. I do, truly."

"Well, it doesn't," said Grandpapa; "that is it won't, now that I have you with me. I was thinking of something unpleasant, Phronsie, and then, to tell you the truth, that old Mr. Selwyn tires me to death. I can't talk to him, and his grandson is a cad."

"What is a cad?" asked Phronsie, wonderingly.

"Oh, well, a boy who isn't nice," said Mr. King, carelessly.

"Grandpapa, why isn't that boy nice to that poor old man?" asked Phronsie, a grieved look coming into her blue eyes.

"Goodness me, child, you ask me too much," said Mr. King, quickly; "oh, a variety of reasons. Well, we must take things as we find them, and do what we can to help matters along; but it seems a hopeless case, -- things were in better shape; and now they seem all tangled up again, thanks to that boy."

"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, earnestly, "I don't believe that boy means to be bad to that poor old man, I don't really and truly, Grandpapa," she added, shaking her head.

"Well, he takes a queer way to show it, if he means to be good," said old Mr. King, grimly.

"Oh, is that you, Master Tom?" as they turned a corner to find themselves face to face with Tom Selwyn.

"Mr. King," Tom began very rapidly so that the words ran all over each other, "I'm no end sorry -- don't think hard things of me -- it's not my fault this time; Grandfather heard it as well as I -- at least, I caught a little and he asked me what it was, and I had to tell him, and it upset him."

Old Mr. King stood gazing into the big boy's face in utter bewilderment. "As I don't know in the least what you are trying to tell me, my boy," at last he said, "I shall have to ask you to repeat it, and go slowly."

So Tom tried again to tell his story, and by the time that it was all out, Mr. King was fuming in righteous indignation.

"Well, well, it's not worth thinking of," at last he said at sight of the flashing eyes before him and the angry light on the young face. "You take my arm, or I'll take yours, Master Tom, -- there, that's better, -- and we'll do a bit of a turn on the deck. Your grandfather'll come out of it, for he's busy over the backgammon board. But it was an ugly thing to do just the same."

Just then Mrs. Vanderburgh and Fanny passed them, all sweet smiles for him and for Phronsie, but with no eyes for the boy.



V

A Fish Story And Other Things


"Oh, Polly! Polly!" Phronsie came running along the deck, and up to the little group playing shuffle-board; "there's such a very big whale." And she clasped her hands in great excitement. "There truly is. Do come and see him."

"Is there, Pet?" cried Polly, throwing down her shovel, "then we must all go and see him. Come, Jasper, and all of you," and she seized Phronsie's hand.

"He is very dreadful big," said Phronsie, as they sped on, Jasper and the other players close behind. "And he puffed, Polly, and the water went up, oh, so high!"

"That's because he came up to breathe," said Polly, as they raced along. "Dear me, I hope he won't be gone when we get there."

"Can't he breathe under the water?" asked Phronsie, finding it rather hard work to perform that exercise herself in such a race. "What does he stay down there for, then, say, Polly?"

"Oh, because he likes it," answered Polly, carelessly. "Take care, Phronsie, you're running into all those steamer chairs."

"I'm sorry he can't breathe," said Phronsie, anxiously trying to steer clear of the bunch of steamer chairs whose occupants had suddenly left them, too, to see the whale. "Poor whale -- I'm sorry for him, Polly."

"Oh, he's happy," said Polly, "he likes it just as it is. He comes up for a little while to blow and -- "

"I thought you said he came up to breathe, Polly," said Phronsie, tugging at Polly's hand, and guilty of interrupting.

"Well, and so he does, and to blow, too, -- it's just the same thing," said Polly, quickly.

"Is it just exactly the same?" asked Phronsie.

"Yes, indeed; that is, in the whale's case," answered Polly, as they ran up to Grandpapa and the rest of their party, and the knots of other passengers, all staring hard at a certain point on the sparkling waste of water.

"I thought you were never coming," said old Mr. King, moving away from the rail to tuck Polly and Phronsie in where they could get a good view. "Oh, there he is -- there he is -- Jasper, look!" cried Polly.

"There he is!" crowed Phronsie, now much excited. "Oh, isn't he big, Grandpapa?"

"I should say he was," declared Mr. King. "I think I never saw a finer whale in my life, Phronsie."

"He comes up to blow," said Phronsie, softly to herself, her face pressed close to the rail, and her yellow hair floating off in the breeze; "and Polly says it doesn't hurt him, and he likes it."

"What is it, Phronsie child?" asked old Mr. King, hearing her voice.

"Grandpapa, has he got any little whales?" asked Phronsie, suddenly raising her face.

"Oh, yes, I imagine so," said old Mr. King; "that is, he ought to have, I'm sure. Porpoises go in schools, -- why shouldn't whales, pray tell?"

"What's a porpoise?" asked Phronsie, with wide eyes.

"Oh, he's a dolphin or a grampus."

"Oh," said Phronsie, much mystified, "and does he go to school?"

"Well, they go ever so many of them together, and they call it a school. Goodness me -- that is a blow!" as the whale spouted valiantly, and looked as if he were making directly for the steamer.

"Oh, Grandpapa, he's coming right here!" screamed Phronsie, clapping her hands in delight, and hopping up and down, -- Polly and Jasper were almost as much excited, -- while the passengers ran hither and thither to get a good view, and levelled their big glasses, and oh-ed and ah-ed. And some of them ran to get their cameras. And Mr. Whale seemed to like it, for he spouted and flirted his long tail and dashed into the water and out again to blow, till they were all quite worn out looking at him. At last, with a final plunge, he bade them all good-by and disappeared.

Phronsie, after her first scream of delight, had pressed her face close to the rail and held her breath. She did not say a word, but gazed in speechless enjoyment at the antics of the big fish. And Grandpapa had to speak two or three times when the show was all over before she heard him.

"Did you like it, Phronsie?" he asked, gathering her hand up closely in his, as he leaned over to see her face.

Phronsie turned away with a sigh. "Oh, Grandpapa, he was so beautiful!" She drew a long breath, then turned back longingly. "Won't he ever come back?" she asked.

"Maybe not this one," said old Mr. King; "but we'll see plenty more, I imagine, Phronsie. At least, if not on this voyage, -- why, some other time."

"Oh, wasn't it splendid!" exclaimed Polly, tossing back the little rings of brown hair from her brow. "Well, he's gone; now we must run back, Jasper, and finish our game." And they were off, the other players following.

"I'd like to see this very whale again," said Phronsie, with a small sigh; "Grandpapa, I would, really; he was a nice whale."

"Yes, he was a fine one," said old Mr. King. "I don't know as I ever put eyes on a better specimen, and I've seen a great many in my life."

"Tell me about them, do, Grandpapa," begged Phronsie, drawing nearer to him.

"Well, I'll get into my steamer chair, and you shall sit in my lap, and then I'll tell you about some of them," said Mr. King, much gratified. As they moved off, Phronsie clinging to his hand, she looked back and saw two children gazing wistfully after them. "Grandpapa," she whispered, pulling his hand gently to attract attention, "may that little boy and girl come, too, and hear about your whales?"

"Yes, to be sure," cried Mr. King. So Phronsie called them, and in a few minutes there was quite a big group around Grandpapa's steamer chair; for when the other children saw what was going on, they stopped, too, and before he knew, there he was perfectly surrounded.

"I should very much like to hear what it is all about." Mrs. Vanderburgh's soft voice broke into a pause, when old Mr. King stopped to rest a bit. "You must be very fascinating, dear Mr. King; you have no idea how pretty your group is." She pulled Fanny forward gently into the outer fringe of the circle. "Pray, what is the subject?"

"Nothing in the world but a fish story, Madam," said the old gentleman.

"Oh, may we stay and hear it?" cried Mrs. Vanderburgh, enthusiastically, clasping her gloved hands. "Fanny adores such things, don't you, dear?" turning to her.

"Yes, indeed, Mamma," answered Fanny, trying to look very much pleased.

"Take my word for it, you will find little to interest either of you," said Mr. King.

"Oh, I should be charmed," cried Mrs. Vanderburgh. "Fanny dear, draw up that steamer chair to the other side." But a stout, comfortable-looking woman coming down the deck stopped directly in front of that same chair, and before Fanny could move it, sat down, saying, "This is my chair, young lady."

"That vulgar old woman has got it," said Fanny, coming back quite crestfallen.

"Ugh!" Mrs. Vanderburgh shrugged her shoulders as she looked at the occupant of the chair, who surveyed her calmly, then fell to reading her book. "Well, you must just bear it, dear; it's one of the annoyances to be endured on shipboard."

"I suppose the lady wanted her own chair," observed Mr. King, dryly.

"Lady? Oh, my dear Mr. King!" Mrs. Vanderburgh gave a soft little laugh. "It's very good of you to put it that way, I'm sure. Well, now do let us hear that delightful story. Fanny dear, you can sit on part of my chair," she added, regardless of the black looks of a gentleman hovering near, who had a sharp glance on the green card hanging to the back of the chair she had appropriated and that bore his name.

So Fanny perched on the end of the steamer chair, and Mr. King, not seeing any way out of it, went on in his recital of the whale story, winding up with an account of some wonderful porpoises he had seen, and a variety of other things, until suddenly he turned his head and keenly regarded Fanny's mother.

"How intensely interesting!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes, and trying not to yawn. "Do go on, and finish about that whale," feeling that she must say something.

"Mamma!" exclaimed Fanny, trying to stop her.

"I ended up that whale some five minutes ago, Madam," said Mr. King. "I think you must have been asleep."

"Oh, no, indeed, I have been charmed every moment," protested Mrs. Vanderburgh sitting quite erect. "You surely have the gift of a raconteur, Mr. King," she said, gracefully recovering herself. "O dear me, here is that odious boy and that tiresome old man!" as Tom Selwyn came up slowly, his Grandfather on his arm.

Mr. King put Phronsie gently off from his lap, still keeping her hand in his. "Now, children, the story-telling is all done, the whales and porpoises are all finished up -- so run away." He touched his sea-cap to Mrs. Vanderburgh and her daughter, then marched up to the old man and Tom.

"I am tired of sitting still," he said. "May my little granddaughter and I join you in a walk?"

Tom shot him a grateful look. Old Mr. Selwyn, who cared most of all for Polly, mumbled out something, but did not seem especially happy. But Mr. King did not appear to notice anything awry, but fell into step, still keeping Phronsie's hand, and they paced off.

"If you know which side your bread is buttered, Mamma," said Fanny Vanderburgh, shrewdly, looking after them as they disappeared, "you'll make up to those dreadful Selwyn people."

"Never!" declared her mother, firmly. "Fanny, are you wild? Why, you are a Vanderburgh and are related to the English nobility, and I am an Ashleigh. What would your father say to such a notion?"

"Well, Papa isn't here," said Fanny, "and if he were, he'd do something to keep in with Mr. King. I hate and detest those dreadful Selwyns as much as you do, Mamma, but I'm going to cultivate them. See if I don't!"

"And I forbid it," said her mother, forgetting herself and raising her voice. "They are low bred and common. And beside that, they are eccentric and queer. Don't you speak to them or notice them in the slightest."

"Madam," said the gentleman of the black looks, advancing and touching his cap politely, "I regret to disturb you, but I believe you have my chair."

Mrs. Vanderburgh begged pardon and vacated the chair, when the gentleman touched his cap again, and immediately drew the chair up to the one where the stout, comfortable-looking woman sat.

"It seems to me there are more ill-bred, low-lived people on board this boat than it has been my lot to meet on any voyage," said Mrs. Vanderburgh, drawing her sea coat around her slight figure and sailing off, her daughter in her wake.



VI

A Little Surprise


"Sir," said little Mr. Selwyn, bringing his sharp black eyes to bear upon old Mr. King, "you've been very good to me, and I've not been always pleasant. But it's my way, sir; it's my way."

Mr. King nodded pleasantly, although deep in his heart he agreed with the choleric old gentleman. "But as for Polly, why, she's good -- good as gold, sir." There was no mistaking Mr. Selwyn's sentiments there, and his old cheek glowed while giving what to him meant the most wonderful praise to be paid to a person.

Old Mr. King straightened up. "You've said the right thing now," he declared.

"And I wish I could see that girl when she's grown up," added the little old gentleman. "I want really to know what sort of a woman she'll make. I do, indeed, sir."

"It isn't necessary to speculate much on it," answered Mr. King, confidently, "when you look at her mother and remember the bringing up that Polly Pepper has had."

The little old gentleman squinted hard at the clouds scudding across the blue sky. "That's so," he said at last. "Well, I'm sorry we are to part," he added. "And, sir, I really wish you would come down to my place with your party and give me a fortnight during your stay in England. I really do, sir, upon me word." There was no mistaking his earnestness as he thrust out one thin, long-fingered hand. With the other, he set a card within Mr. King's fingers.

"Arthur Selwyn, The Earl of Cavendish," met Mr. King's eyes.

"I had a fancy to do this thing," said the little old gentleman, "to run across from America in simple fashion, and it pleased the boy, who hates a fuss. And we've gotten rid of all sorts of nuisances by it; interviews, and tiresome people. And I've enjoyed it mightily." He chuckled away till it seemed as if he were never going to stop. Old Mr. King burst out laughing, too; and the pair were so very jolly that the passengers, grouped together waiting for the Liverpool landing, turned to stare at them.

"Just see how intimate Mr. King is with that tiresome, common, old Mr. Selwyn!" exclaimed Mrs. Vanderburgh to her daughter. "I never was so surprised at anything in all my life, to see that he keeps it up now, for I thought that aristocratic Horatio King was the most fastidious being alive."

"The Kings have awfully nice times," grumbled Fanny, picking her gloves discontentedly. "And you keep me mewed up, and won't let me speak to anybody whose grandfather wasn't born in our set, and I hate and loathe it all."

"You'll be glad when you are a few years older, and I bring you out in society, that I always have been so particular," observed Mrs. Vanderburgh, complacently, lifting her head in its dainty bonnet, higher than ever.

"I want some nice times and a little fun now," whined Fanny, with an envious glance over at Polly and Jasper with the dreadful Selwyn boy between them, and Phronsie running up to join them, and everybody in their party just bubbling over with happiness.

"I wish Mr. King and his party would go to Paris now," said her mother, suddenly.

"Oh, don't I just wish it!" cried Fanny, in a burst. "Did you ask him, Mamma?"

"Yes, indeed; I talked for fully half an hour yesterday, but it was no use. And he doesn't seem to know how long he is going to stay in England; 'only a few days,' he said, vaguely, then they go to Holland."

"Oh, why couldn't we go to Holland!" exclaimed Fanny, impulsively, and her eyes brightened; "splendid Holland, that would be something like, Mamma!"

"You forget the Van Dykes are to be in Paris awaiting us."

"Oh, those stupid Van Dykes!" exploded Fanny. "Mamma, don't go there now. Do change, and let us go to Holland with the Kings. Do, Mamma," she implored.

"Why, Fanny Vanderburgh!" exclaimed her mother, sharply, "what is the matter with you? You know it was settled long ago, that we should meet Mrs. Van Dyke and Eleanor in Paris at just this very time. It would never do to offend them, particularly when Eleanor is going to marry into the Howard set."

"And I'll have the most stupid time imaginable," cried Fanny, passionately, "dragging around while you and the Van Dykes are buying that trousseau."

"Yes, that's one thing that I wanted the Kings to go to Paris for," said Mrs. Vanderburgh; "you could be with them. And really they are much more important than any one to get in with. And I'd keep up the friendship with the Van Dykes. But that Mr. King is so obstinate, you can't do anything with him." A frown settled all across her pretty face, and she beat her foot impatiently on the deck.

"You spoil everything, Mamma, with your sets and your stupid people," declared Fanny, her passion by no means cooled. "When I come out in society I'm going to choose my own friends," she muttered to herself, and set her lips tightly together.

Mr. King was saying, "Thank you, so much, Mr. Selwyn, for I really think I'd prefer to call you so, as I knew you so first."

"So you shall," cried the little Earl, glancing around on the groups, "and it's better just here, at all events," and he chuckled again. "Then you really will come?" and he actually seized Mr. King's hand and wrung it heartily.

"No, I was about to say it is quite impossible."

The Earl of Cavendish stared blankly up out of his sharp little black eyes in utter amazement into the other's face. "My stay in London is short, only a few days," Mr. King was saying, "and then we go directly to Holland. I thank you all the same -- believe me, I appreciate it. It is good of you to ask us," he cordially added.

The little Earl of Cavendish broke away from him, and took a few hasty steps down the deck to get this new idea fairly into his brain that his invitation had not been accepted. Then he hurried back. "My dear sir," he said, laying his hand on Mr. King's arm, "will you do me the favour to try to come at some future time -- to consider your plans before you return to America, and see if you can't manage to give me this great pleasure of welcoming you to my home? Think of it, I beg, and drop me a line; if at home, I shall always be most glad to have you with me. I should esteem it a privilege." The Earl of Cavendish was astonished to find himself beseeching the American gentleman without a title. And then they awaked to the fact that the groups of passengers were merging into a solid mass, and a slow procession was beginning to form for the stairway, and the landing episode was well under way.

Mrs. Vanderburgh, determined not to bid good-by on the steamer but to be with the Kings till the last moment, rushed up to them on the wharf, followed by Fanny.

"Oh, we are so sorry you are not going to Paris with us," cried Mrs. Vanderburgh, while Fanny flew at Polly Pepper and engrossed her hungrily. "Can't you reconsider it now?" she asked, with a pretty earnestness.

"No, it is impossible," answered Mr. King, for about the fiftieth time. "Our plans will not allow it. I hope you and your daughter will have the best of times," he remarked politely.

"Yes, we shall; we meet old friends there, and Paris is always delightful." Mrs. Vanderburgh bit her lip in her vexation. "I was going to see you and beg you even now to change your plans, while we were on the steamer waiting to land," she went on hurriedly, "but you were bored -- I quite pitied you -- by that tiresome, common, old Mr. Selwyn."

"Yes, I was talking with him," said Mr. King, "but excuse me, I was not bored. He is peculiar, but not at all common, and he has many good qualities as a man; and I like the boy immensely."

"How can you?" Mrs. Vanderburgh gave a little high-bred laugh. "They are so insufferably common, Mr. King, those Selwyns are."

"Excuse me," said Mr. King, "that was the Earl of Cavendish; it will do no harm to mention it now, as they have gone."

"Who -- who?" demanded Mrs. Vanderburgh in a bewildered way.

"I did not know it till this morning," Mr. King was explaining, "but our fellow-passenger, Mr. Selwyn, chose to cross over keeping his real identity unknown, and I must say I admire his taste in the matter; and anyway it was his affair and not mine." It was a long speech, and at its conclusion Mrs. Vanderburgh was still demanding, "Who -- who?" in as much of a puzzle as ever.

"The Earl of Cavendish," repeated Mr. King; "Mr. Selwyn is the Earl of Cavendish. As I say, he did not wish it known, and -- "

"Fanny -- Fanny!" called her mother, sitting helplessly on the first thing that presented itself, a box of merchandise by no means clean. "Fan-ny! the -- the Earl of Cavendish!" She could get no further.

Little Dr. Fisher, who administered restoratives and waited on Mrs. Vanderburgh and her daughter to their London train, came skipping back to the Liverpool hotel.

"I hope, wife, I sha'n't grow uncharitable," -- he actually glared through his big spectacles, -- "but Heaven defend us on our travels from any further specimens like that woman."

"We shall meet all sorts, probably, Adoniram," said his wife, calmly; "it really doesn't matter with our party of eight; we can take solid comfort together."

The little doctor came out of his ill temper, but he said ruefully, "That's all very well, wife, for you and the Hendersons; for you steered pretty clear, I noticed, of that woman. Well, she's gone." And he smiled cheerfully. "Now for dinner, for I suppose Mr. King has ordered it."

"Yes, he has," said his wife. "And you have a quarter of an hour. I've put your clothes out all ready."

"All right." The little doctor was already plunging here and there, tearing off his coat and necktie and boots; and exactly at the time set, he joined the party, with a bright and shining face, as if no Mrs. Vanderburgh, or any one in the least resembling her, had ever crossed his path.

"Jasper," cried Polly, as they hurried along out of the Harwich train to the steamer that was to take them to the Hook of Holland, "can you really believe we are almost there?"

*   *   *   *   *

"No, I can't," said Jasper, "for I've wanted to see Holland for such a time."

"Wasn't it good of Grandpapa," cried Polly, "to take us here the first thing after London?"

"Father always does seem to plan things rightly," answered Jasper, with a good degree of pride. "And then 'it's prime,'" "as Joel used to say," he was going to add, but thought better of it, as any reference to the boys always set Polly to longing for them.

"Indeed, he does," exclaimed Polly, in her most earnest fashion; "he's ever and always the most splendid Grandpapa. Oh, I wish I could do things for him, Jasper," she mourned; "he's so good to us."

"You do things for him all the while, Polly," Jasper made haste to say, as they ran along to keep up with the Parson and Mrs. Henderson's comfortable figures just before them; "you are all the while doing something for him."

"Oh, no, I don't," said Polly, "there isn't anything I can do for him. Don't you suppose there ever will be, Jasper?" she asked imploringly.

"Yes, indeed," said Jasper; "there always are things that hop up to be done when people keep their eyes open. But don't you worry about your not doing anything for him, Polly. Promise me that." Jasper took her hand and stopped just a minute to look into her face.

"I'll try not to," promised Polly, "but, oh, Jasper, I do so very much wish there might be something that I could do. I do, indeed, Jasper."

"It was only yesterday," said Jasper, as they began to hurry on once more, "that father said 'you can't begin to think, Jasper, what a comfort Polly Pepper is to me.'"

"Did he, Jasper?" cried Polly, well pleased, the colour flying over her cheek, "that was nice of him, because there isn't anything much I can really do for him. O dear! there is Grandpapa beckoning to us to hurry." So on they sped, having no breath for words. And presently they were on the boat, and little Dr. Fisher and Mr. Henderson went forward into the saloon, where the rooms reserved beforehand were to be given out, and the rest of the party waited and watched the stream of people of all ages and sizes and nationalities who desired to reach Holland the next morning.

To Polly it was a world of delight, and to Jasper, who watched her keenly, it was a revelation to see how nothing escaped her, no matter how noisy and dirty or turbulent the crowd, or how annoying the detention, -- it was all a marvel of happiness from beginning to end. And Jasper looking back over the two times he had been before to Europe with his father, although he had never seen Holland, remembered only a sort of dreary drifting about with many pleasant episodes and experiences, it is true, still with the feeling on the whole of the most distinct gladness when their faces were turned homeward and the journeying was over.

"Mamsie," cried Polly, poking her head out from the upper berth of the stuffy little state-room assigned to Mrs. Fisher, Mrs. Henderson, Phronsie, and herself; "was anything ever so delicious as this boat? -- and to think, Mamsie," -- here Polly paused to add as impressively as if the idea had never been voiced before, -- "that we are really to see Holland to-morrow."

"You'd better go to sleep now, then," said Mrs. Fisher, wisely, "if you want to be bright and ready really to see much of Holland in the morning, Polly."

"That's so," answered Polly, ducking back her head to its pillow, and wriggling her toes in satisfaction; "Phronsie is asleep already, isn't she, Mamsie?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Fisher, "she dropped off as soon as her head touched the pillow. Good night, Polly, you would better do the same."

"Good night, Mamsie," said Polly, with a sleepy little yawn, "and good night, dear Mrs. Henderson," she added, already almost in dreamland.



VII

Off For Holland


It seemed to Polly as if she had only breathed twice, and had not turned over once, when there was Mamsie's voice calling her, and there was Mamsie's face looking into hers over the edge of the berth. "Wake up, Polly, child, you have only about ten minutes to dress in."

"O dear me! what -- where?" exclaimed Polly, springing to a sitting position, thereby giving her brown head a smart thump on the ceiling of the berth, "where are we, Mamsie? why, it is the middle of the night, isn't it?" she cried, not stopping to pity her poor head.

"We are almost at the Hook of Holland," said Mrs. Fisher, busily buttoning Phronsie's shoes. Phronsie sat on the lower berth, her sleepy little legs dangling over the edge, and her sleepy little head going nid-nodding, despite all her efforts to keep herself awake.

"O dear me!" cried Polly, remorsefully, when she saw that. "I ought to have dressed Phronsie. Why didn't you wake me up earlier, Mamsie?"

"Because I wanted you to sleep all you could," said Mrs. Fisher, "and now if you'll only dress Polly Pepper as quickly as possible, that's all I ask."

"I will dress Polly Pepper in a twinkling, Mamsie," declared Polly, laughing merrily; "O dear me, where is my other stocking?" She stuck out one black foot ready for its boot. "Is it down there, Mamsie?" All the while she was shaking the bedclothes violently for any chance glimpse of it in the berth.

"Where did you put it last night when you took it off, Polly?" asked Mrs. Fisher, buttoning away for dear life on Phronsie's shoes. "There now, Pet, those are done; hop out now, and fly into your clothes."

"I thought I put 'em both in the corner here," cried poor Polly, twitching everything loose. Thereupon her big hat, hung carefully upon a high hook, slipped off and fell to the floor.

"Take care, Polly," warned her mother, "haste only makes matters worse."

"But I can't go with only one stocking on," said Polly, quite gone in despair now. "Oh, dear Mrs. Henderson, don't you see it on the floor?" For that good woman had dropped to her knees, and was busily prowling around among the accumulation of bags and clothing.

"That's what I'm hoping to do," she answered, "but I don't see it as yet, Polly."

"I'll help Polly to find it," cried Phronsie, now thoroughly awake and dropping her small skirts to get down on the floor by Mrs. Henderson's side. "Don't feel badly, Polly; I'll find your stocking for you."

"No, Phronsie," said her mother, "you must get into your own clothes. And then Mrs. Henderson is nearly all ready, and you can go out with her, and that will leave more room, so that Polly and I can search more carefully. And the stocking has got to come, for it couldn't walk off of itself," she added cheerily as she saw Polly's face. "Why -- what?" as she happened to look upward. And then Polly looked, too, and there was her stocking dangling from the very high hook where the big hat had been.

"You tossed it up there, I suppose, when you shook up the bedclothes so quickly," said Mrs. Fisher. "Well, now," as Polly pounced on the stocking, "see how fast you can hop into your clothes, daughter." Then she began to put the things for the bags into their places, and Matilda, coming in, finished the work; and Polly flew around, buttoning and tying and patting herself into shape, and by the time that little Dr. Fisher's voice called at the door, "Well, wife, are you ready?" there they all were, trim and tidy as ever for a start.

"Where is it, Grandpapa?" asked Phronsie, peering around on either side, -- Dr. Fisher and Jasper had gone off to attend to the examination of the luggage by the customs inspectors, -- and then coming up gently to pull his arm. "I don't see it anywhere."

"What, child?" answered Grandpapa, looking down at her. "See here, wait a minute," to the others who were ahead, "Phronsie has lost something."

"Oh, no, Grandpapa, I haven't," began Phronsie, in gentle protestation, "all my things are in here." She patted her little bag that hung on her arm, a gift of old Mr. King's for her to carry her very own things in, that yielded her immense satisfaction every time she looked at it, which was very often.

"Didn't you say you wanted to find something, dear?" he asked, quite puzzled, while the others surrounded them wonderingly.

"No," said Phronsie, "only where is the hook, Grandpapa? I don't see it." She lifted her little face and gazed up at him confident that he knew everything.

"She has lost her button-hook!" exclaimed Polly, "the cunning little silver one Auntie Whitney gave her Christmas. I'll run back and get it; it must be in the state-room."

"Stay, Polly," commanded Mr. King. And, "Oh, no, I haven't," piped Phronsie, as Polly was flying off. "It's here in my bag," patting Grandpapa's gift hanging on her arm. "I couldn't lose that, Polly," she cried in horror at the thought, as Polly hurried back.

"Well, what is it, then, you've lost?" demanded Polly, breathlessly.

"I haven't lost anything," reiterated Phronsie, pushing back the yellow hair from her face. "Grandpapa, tell them, please, I haven't lost anything," she kept repeating, appealing to him.

"She says she hasn't lost anything, so we won't say that again," echoed old Mr. King. "Now, Phronsie, child, tell me what it is you mean; what hook you want."

"The hook," said Phronsie; "here, Grandpapa," and she looked all around in a troubled way, "they said it was here; I don't see it, Grandpapa."

"She means the Hook of Holland," burst out Polly, "don't you, Phronsie pet?" And she threw her arms around her while Mr. Henderson exclaimed, "Of course, why didn't we think of it, to be sure?"

"Yes, Polly." Phronsie gave a glad little cry, and wriggled in great satisfaction in her arms. "Grandpapa, where is it, -- the Hook of Holland?"

"Oh, bless me, child!" exclaimed Mr. King, "that is the name of the place; at least, to be accurate, it is Hoek van Holland. Now, just as soon as we get fairly started on our way to Rotterdam, I'll tell you all about it, or Polly shall, since she was clever enough to find out what you meant."

"Oh, no, Grandpapa," cried Polly, "I'd so much rather you told her -- please do, dear Grandfather?"

"And so I will," he promised, very much pleased, for Mr. King dearly loved to be the one to relate the history and anecdotes about the places along which they travelled. And so, when they were steaming off toward Rotterdam, as he sat in the centre of the compartment he had reserved for their use, Phronsie next to him, and Polly and Jasper opposite, he told the whole story. The others tucked themselves in the remaining four seats, and did not lose a word. Matilda and Mr. King's valet, in a second-class compartment, took charge of the luggage.

"I like it very much," declared Phronsie, when the story was all finished, and smoothing down her little brown gown in satisfaction.

"I like it very much, Grandpapa's telling it," said Polly, "but the Hook of Holland isn't anything to what we shall see at Rotterdam, while, as for The Hague and Amsterdam -- oh, Grandpapa!"

That "oh, Grandpapa" just won his heart, and Mr. King beamed at her as her glowing face was turned first to one window and then to the other, that she might not lose anything as the train rumbled on.

"Just wait till we get to Marken," broke in Jasper, gaily, "then if you want to see the Dutch beat the Dutch -- well, you may!" he ended with a laugh.

"Oh, Jasper, do they really beat each other?" cried Phronsie, quite horrified, and slipping away from Grandpapa to regard him closely.

"Oh, no! I mean -- they go ahead of everything that is most Dutch," Jasper hastened to say; "I haven't explained it very well."

"No, I should think not," laughed his father, in high good humour. "Well, Phronsie, I think you will like the folks on the Island of Marken, for they dress in funny quaint costumes, just as their ancestors did, years upon years ago."

"Are there any little children there?" asked Phronsie, slipping back into her place again, and nestling close to his side.

"Hundreds of them, I suppose," replied Mr. King, with his arm around her and drawing her up to him, "and they wear wooden shoes or sabots, or klompen as they call them, and -- "

"Wooden shoes!" cried Phronsie; "oh, Grandpapa," clasping her hands, "how do they stay on?"

"Well, that's what I've always wondered myself when I've been in Holland. A good many have left off the sabots, I believe, and wear leather shoes made just like other people's."

"Oh, Grandpapa," cried Phronsie, leaning forward to peer into his face, "don't let them leave off the wooden shoes, please."

"I can't make them wear anything but what they want to," said old Mr. King, with a laugh; "but don't be troubled, child, you'll see all the wooden shoes you desire, in Rotterdam, and The Hague, too, for that matter."

"Shall I?" cried Phronsie, nestling back again quite pleased. "Grandpapa, I wish I could wear wooden shoes," she whispered presently in a burst of confidence, sticking out her toes to look at them.

"Bless me! you couldn't keep them on," said Mr. King.

"Don't the little Dutch children keep them on?" asked Phronsie. "Oh, Grandpapa, I think I could; I really think I could," she added earnestly.

"Yes, they do, because they are born and brought up to it, although, for the life of me, I don't see how they do it; but you couldn't, child, you'd fall the first minute and break your nose, most likely."

Phronsie gave a sigh. "Should I, Grandpapa?"

"Yes, quite likely; but I'll tell you what I will do. I will buy you a pair, and we will take them home. That will be fine, won't it, dear?"

"Yes," said Phronsie, wriggling in delight. Then she sat quite still.

"Grandpapa," she said, reaching up to whisper again, "I'm afraid it will make Araminta feel badly to see me with my beautiful wooden shoes on, when she can't have any. Do you suppose there are little teenty ones, Grandpapa dear, and I might get her a pair?"

"Yes, indeed," cried Grandpapa, nodding his white head in delight, "there are shoals of them, Phronsie, of all sizes."

"What are shoals?" queried Phronsie.

"Oh, numbers and numbers -- so many we can't count them," answered Mr. King, recklessly.

Phronsie slid down into her place again, and sat quite still lost in thought. So many wooden shoes she couldn't count them was quite beyond her. But Grandpapa's voice roused her. "And I'll buy a bushel of them, Phronsie, and send them home, so that all your dolls at home can each have a pair. Would that suit you, Pet?"

Phronsie screamed with delight and clapped her hands. Polly and Jasper who had changed places, as Dr. Fisher and Mr. Henderson had made them take theirs by one window, now whirled around. "What is it?" cried Polly of Phronsie. "What is it?"

"I'm going to have wooden shoes," announced Phronsie, in a burst of confidence that included everybody in the compartment, "for my very own self, and Araminta is going to have a pair, and every single one of my children at home, too. Grandpapa said so."

"Whew!" whistled Jasper. "Oh, what fun," sighed Polly.

"And you shall have a pair, too, if you want them, Polly," Grandpapa telegraphed over to her in the corner.

"And Jasper can, too, can't he, Grandpapa? And, oh, thank you so much," cried Polly, all in one breath.

"I guess it's as well I shall be on hand to set the broken bones," said little Dr. Fisher, "with all you children capering around in those wooden abominations."

"Oh, Dr. Fisher, we are not going to fall!" exclaimed Jasper, in disdain, at the very thought. And "No, indeed," came merrily from Polly. And then they all fell to work admiring the numberless windmills past which their train was speeding toward Rotterdam.

"To think it is only six o'clock!" exclaimed Polly, looking at her little travelling watch that Grandpapa had given her. "Now, what a fine long day we are going to have, Jasper, for sightseeing in Rotterdam."

As the train came to a standstill, the guards threw open compartment doors, and all the people poured out calling for porters to see to their luggage, and everything was in confusion at once on the platforms.

"Indeed, you won't, Miss Polly," declared Mr. King, overhearing it, as they waited till all was ready for them to get into the hotel coach, -- "we are all going to spend this day at the hotel -- first, in getting a good breakfast, and then, dear me, I shall sleep pretty much all of the morning, and I'd advise the rest of you to jump into your beds and get good naps after the experience on that atrocious steamboat last night."

"Oh, Grandpapa, must we really go to bed?" cried Polly, in horror at the mere thought.

"Well, not exactly into your beds," laughed Mr. King, as Jasper, announcing that all was ready, piloted them into the coach, "but you've got to rest like sensible beings. Make up your mind to that. As for Phronsie," and he gallantly lifted her up to the step, "she's half asleep already. She's got to have a splendid nap, and no mistake."

"I'm not sleepy," declared Phronsie, stumbling into the high coach to sit down next to Mother Fisher. "No, Grandpapa dear, not a bit." And before anybody knew it, and as soon as the coach wheels spun round, she rolled over into Mamsie's lap. There she was as fast asleep as could be!



VIII

"We Will Come Again And Stay A Week"


They had been several days at The Hague, running about in a restful way in the morning, and driving all the long golden afternoons. "Don't you dare to go into a picture-gallery or a museum until I give the word," Grandpapa had laid down the law. "I'm not going to begin by being all tired out." So Polly and Jasper had gone sometimes with Mr. King and Phronsie, who had a habit of wandering off by themselves; or, as the case might be, Mr. Henderson would pilot them about till they learnt the ways of the old town. And Mrs. Fisher and Mrs. Henderson would confess now and then that they would much rather take a few stitches and overlook the travelling clothes than do any more sight-seeing. And then again, they would all come together and go about in a big party. All but Dr. Fisher -- he was for hospitals every time.

"That's what I've come for, wife," he would reply to all remonstrance, "and don't ask me to put my head into a cathedral or a museum." To Mr. King, "Land alive, man, I've got to find out how to take care of living bodies before I stare at bones and relics," and Mr. King would laugh and let him alone. "He's incorrigible, that husband of yours, Mrs. Fisher," he would add, "and we must just let him have his way." And Mamsie would smile, and every night the little doctor would tome from his tramps and medical study, tired but radiant.

At last one morning Grandpapa said, "Now for Scheveningen to-day!"

"Oh, goody!" cried Polly, clapping her hands; then blushed as red as a rose. They were at breakfast, and everybody in the vicinity turned and stared at their table.

"Don't mind it, Polly," said Jasper, her next neighbour, "I want to do the same thing. And it will do some of those starched and prim people good to hear a little enthusiasm." Polly knew whom he meant, -- some young Englishmen. One of them immediately put up his monocle and regarded her as if she had been a new kind of creature displayed for his benefit. Jasper glared back at him.

"Yes, we'll go to Scheveningen this morning," repeated Mr. King, smiling approvingly at poor Polly, which caused her to lift her head; "the carriages are ordered, so as soon as we are through breakfast we will be off."

"Oh, father," exclaimed Jasper, in dismay, "must we go in carriages?"

"How else would you go, Jasper?" asked his father.

"Oh, by the tramway; oh, by all means," cried Jasper, perfectly delighted that he could get his father even to listen to any other plan.

"The dirty tram-cars," ejaculated Mr. King, in disgust. "How can you ask it, Jasper? No, indeed, we must go in carriages, or not at all."

"But, father," and Jasper's face fell, "don't you see the upper deck of the tram-car is so high and there are fine seats there, and we can see so much better than driving in a stupid carriage?"

Polly's face had drooped, too. Mr. King, in looking from one to the other, was dismayed and a good bit annoyed to find that his plan wasn't productive of much happiness after all. He had just opened his mouth to say authoritatively, "No use, Jasper, either you will go in the way I have provided, or stay at home," when Phronsie slipped out of her chair where she happened this morning to be sitting next to Mother Fisher, and running around to his chair, piped out, "Oh, Grandpapa, if you please, do let us sit up top."

"We'll do it now, Polly," whispered Jasper, in a transport, "when Phronsie looks like that. See her face!"

"Do you really want to go in a dirty old tram-car, Phronsie, instead of in a carriage?" Old Mr. King pushed back his chair and looked steadily at her.

"Oh, yes, yes, Grandpapa, please" -- Phronsie beat her hands softly together -- "to ride on top; may we, dear Grandpapa?" That "dear Grandpapa" settled it. Jasper never heard such a welcome command as that Mr. King was just issuing. "Go to the office and countermand the order for the carriages, my son; tell them to put the amount on my bill, the same as if I'd used them, unless they get a chance to let them to some one else. They needn't be the losers. Now then," as Jasper bounded off to execute the command, "get on your bonnets and hats, all of you, and we'll try this wonderful tram-car. I suppose you won't come with us, but will stay behind for the pleasures of some hospital here," he added to Dr. Fisher.

"On the contrary," said the little doctor, throwing down his napkin and getting out of his chair. "I am going, for there is a marine hospital for children there, that I wouldn't miss for the world."

"I warrant you would find one on a desert island," retorted old Mr. King. "Well, hurry now, all of you -- and we will be off."

"Now, then, all scramble up here. Phronsie, you go with me," cried old Mr. King, as they stood in plein, and the tram-car halted before them. He was surprised to find that he liked this sort of thing, mixing with a crowd and hurrying for seats just like common ordinary individuals. And as he toiled up the winding stairs, Phronsie in front of him, he had an exhilaration already that made him feel almost as young as Polly and Jasper, scampering up the circular stairway at the other end. "Well, bless me, we are up, aren't we?" he exclaimed, sitting down and casting a glance around.

"Did you ever see anything so fascinating?" cried Polly Pepper, clasping her hands in delight, and not stopping to sit down, but looking all around.

"You had better sit down," advised Mother Fisher, "else when the car starts you may go over the railing."

"Oh, I can't fall, Mamsie," said Polly, carelessly, yet she sat down, while Jasper got out of his seat and ran up to old Mr. King.

"Now, father, don't you like it?" he cried. "And isn't it better than a stuffy old carriage?"

"Yes, I do, my boy," answered his father, frankly. "Now run off with you, you've planned it well." So Jasper, made happy for the day, rushed back to his seat. A hand not over clean was laid on it, and a tall individual, who was pouring out very bad provincial French at a fearful rate, was just about to worm himself into it. Polly, who sat next, had turned around to view the scenery from the other side, and hadn't seen his advance.

"Excuse me," said Jasper, in another torrent of the same language, only of a better quality, "this is my seat -- I only left it to speak to my father."

But the Frenchman being there, thought that he could get still further into the seat. So he twisted and edged, but Jasper slipped neatly in, and looked calmly up at him. The Frenchman, unable to get his balance, sat down in Jasper's lap. But he bounded up again, blue with rage.

"What's all this?" demanded Mr. King, who never could speak French in a hurry, being very elegant at it, and exceedingly careful as to his accent. Phronsie turned pale and clung to his hand.

"Nothing," said Jasper, in English, "only this person chose to try to take my seat, and I chose to have it myself."

"You take yourself off," commanded Mr. King, in an irate voice to the French individual, "or I'll see that some one attends to your case."

Not understanding the language, all might have gone well, but the French person could interpret the expression of the face under the white hair, and he accordingly left a position in front of Jasper to sidle up toward Mr. King's seat in a threatening attitude. At that Jasper got out of his seat again and went to his father's side. Little Dr. Fisher also skipped up.

"See here you, Frenchy, stop your parley vousing, and march down those stairs double quick," cried the little doctor, standing on his tiptoes and bristling with indignation. His big spectacles had slipped to the end of his nose, his sharp little eyes blazing above them.

"Frenchy" stared at him in amazement, unable to find his tongue. And then he saw another gentleman in the person of the parson, who was just as big as the doctor was small. With one look he glanced around to see if there were any more such specimens. At any rate, it was time to be going, so he took a bee-line for the nearest stairway and plunged down. But he gave the little doctor the compliment of his parting regard.

"Well," ejaculated Mr. King, when his party had regained their seats and the car started off, "if this is to be the style of our companions, I think my plan of carriages might be best after all. Eh, my boy?" with a sly look at Jasper.

"But anything like this might not happen again in a hundred times, father," said Jasper.

"I suppose I must say 'yes, I know it' to that," said his father. And as everybody had regained composure, he was beginning to feel very happy himself as the car rumbled off.

"This is fine," he kept saying to himself, "the boy knew what was best," and he smiled more than once over at Jasper, who was pointing out this and that to Polly. Jasper nodded back again.

"Don't let him bother you to see everything, Polly," called Grandpapa. "Take my advice -- it's a nuisance to try to compass the whole place on the first visit." But Polly laughed back, and the advice went over her head, as he very well knew it would.

"Was anything ever more beautiful?" exclaimed Mother Fisher, drawing in long breaths of delight. The little doctor leaned back in his seat, and beamed at her over his big glasses. She began to look rested and young already. "This journey is the very thing," he declared to himself, and his hard-worked hand slipped itself over her toil-worn one as it lay on her lap. She turned to him with a smile.

"Adoniram, I never imagined anything like this," she said simply.

"No more did I," he answered. "That's the good of our coming, wife."

"Just see those beautiful green trees, so soft and trembling," she exclaimed, as enthusiastically as Polly herself. "And what a perfect arch!" And she bent forward to glance down the shaded avenue. "Oh, Adoniram!"

"What makes the trunks look so green?" Polly was crying as they rumbled along. "See, Jasper, there isn't a brown branch, even. Everything is green."

"That's what makes it so pretty," said Jasper. "I don't wonder these oaks in the Scheveningsche Boschjes -- O dear me, I don't know how to pronounce it in the least -- are so celebrated."

"Don't try," said Polly, "to pronounce it, Jasper. I just mark things in my Baedeker and let it go."

"Our Baedekers will be a sight when we get home, won't they, Polly?" remarked Jasper, in a pause, when eyes had been busy to their utmost capacity.

"I rather think they will," laughed Polly. "Mine is a sight now, Jasper, for I mark all round the edges -- and just everywhere."

"But you are always copying off the things into your journal," said Jasper, "afterward. So do I mark my Baedeker; it's the only way to jot things down in any sort of order. One can't be whipping out a note-book every minute. Halloo, here we are at the château of the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar. Look, Polly! look!"

As they looked back in the distance to the receding ducal estate, Polly said: "It isn't one-half as beautiful as this delicious old wood is, Jasper. Just see that perfectly beautiful walk down there and that cunning little trail. Oh, I do so wish we could stay here."

"Some day, let us ask Dr. Fisher to come out with us, and we will tramp it. Oh, I forgot; he won't leave the hospitals."

"Mr. Henderson might like to," said Polly, in a glow, "let's ask him sometime, anyway, Jasper. And then, just think, we can go all in and out this lovely wood. How fine!"

"Father will come over to Scheveningen again and stay a few days, maybe," said Jasper, "if he takes a fancy to the idea. How would you like that, Polly?"

"I don't know," said Polly, "because I haven't seen it yet, Jasper."

"I know -- I forgot -- 'twas silly in me to ask such a question," said Jasper, with a laugh. "Well, anyway, I think it more than likely that he will."

"I just love The Hague," declared Polly, with a backward glance down the green avenue. "I hope we are going to stay there ever so long, Jasper."

"Then we sha'n't get on to all the other places," said Jasper. "We shall feel just as badly to leave every other one, I suppose, Polly."

"I suppose so," said Polly, with a sigh.

When they left the tram-car at the beginning of the village of Scheveningen they set off on a walk down to the Curhaus and the beach. Old Mr. King, as young as any one, started out on the promenade on the undulating terrace at the top of the Dunes, followed by the rest of his party.

Down below ran a level road. "There is the Boulevard," said Grandpapa. "See, child," pointing to it; but Phronsie had no eyes for anything but the hundreds and hundreds of Bath chairs dotting the sands.

"Oh, Grandpapa, what are they?" she cried, pulling his hand and pointing to them.

"Those are chairs," answered Mr. King, "and by and by we will go down and get into some of them."

"They look just like the big sunbonnets that Grandma Bascom always wore when she went out to feed her hens, don't they, Jasper?"

"Precisely," he said, bursting into a laugh. "How you always do see funny things, Polly."

"And see what queer patches there are all up and down the sides of some of them," cried Polly. "Whatever can they be, Jasper?"

"Oh, those are the advertisements," said Jasper. "You'll find that everything is plastered up in that way abroad."

"Just as the omnibuses in London are all covered over with posters," said Polly; "weren't they funny, Jasper?"

"Yes, indeed, -- Lipton Teas -- I got so tired of that. And these, -- cocoa or chocolate. You know Holland is full of manufactories of it."

"And isn't it good?" cried Polly, smacking her lips, as she had feasted on it since their arrival in Holland, Grandpapa considering it especially good and pure.

"I should say so," echoed Jasper, smacking his lips, too.

"Dr. Fisher -- " The parson turned to address his neighbour, but there was no little doctor.

"Oh, he is off long ago," said his wife, "to his beloved hospital. What is it, Samuel?"

"I was only going to remark that I don't believe I ever saw so many people together before. Just look!" he pointed down to the Boulevard and off to the sands along the beach.

"It is a swarm, isn't it?" said his wife. "Well, we must go, for Mr. King is going down to the Boulevard."

Polly and Jasper, running in and out of the fascinating shops by the Concert terrace, had minds divided by the desire to stay on the sands, and to explore further the tempting interiors. "We must get something for the boys," she declared, jingling her little silver purse; "just let us go in this one now, then we'll run after Grandpapa; he's going down on the sands."

"He's going to sit with Phronsie in some of those big sunbonnets of yours, Polly," said Jasper. "There they are," pointing to them. "Well, we'll go in this shop. I want to get a pair of those wooden shoes for Joel." And they hurried in.

"Oh, how fine!" exclaimed Polly. "Well, I saw a carved bear I think Davie would like, and -- " the rest was lost in the confusing array of tempting things spread out for their choice by deft shopkeepers.

When they emerged, Polly had a china windmill, and an inkstand of Delft ware, and several other things, and Jasper carried all the big bundles. "O dear me," said Polly, "now we must run, or we sha'n't have much time to stay on the beach; and besides, Grandpapa will worry over us if we're not there."

"We can't run much, loaded down with this," said Jasper, looking at his armful and laughing, "or we'd likely drop half of them, and smash them to pieces. Wait a bit, Polly, I'm going to buy you some fruit." They stopped at the top of the stone stairway leading down to the sands, where some comely peasant women, fishermen's wives, held great baskets of fruit, and in one hand was a pair of scales. "Now, then, what will you have, Polly?"

"Oh, some grapes, please, Jasper," said Polly. "Aren't they most beautiful?"

"I should say they were; they are black Hamburgs," declared Jasper. "Now, then, my good woman, give us a couple of pounds." He put down the coin she asked for, and she weighed them out in her scales, and did them up in a piece of a Dutch newspaper.

"We are much worse off now, Jasper," laughed Polly, as they got over the stairs somehow with their burdens, "since we've all these grapes to carry. O dear me, there goes one!"

"Never mind," said Jasper, looking over his armful of presents, to investigate his paper of grapes; "if we don't lose but one, we're lucky."

"And there goes another," announced Polly, as they picked their way over and through the thick sand.

"Well, I declare," exclaimed old Mr. King, peering out of his Bath chair, "if you children aren't loaded down!" He was eating black Hamburg grapes. Phronsie sat opposite him almost lost in the depth of another Bath chair, similarly occupied. And at a little remove was the remainder of the party, and they all were in Bath chairs, and eating black Hamburg grapes.

"We've had such fun," sighed Polly, and she and Jasper cast their bundles on the soft sand; then she threw herself down next to them, and pushed up the little brown rings from her damp brow.

Jasper set his paper of grapes in her lap, then rushed off. "I'll get you a Bath chair," he said, beckoning to the attendant.

"Oh, Jasper, I'd so much rather sit on the sand," called Polly.

"So had I," he confessed, running back and throwing himself down beside her. "Now, then, do begin on your grapes, Polly."

"We'll begin together," she said, poking open the paper. "Oh, aren't they good, though!"

"I should rather say they were," declared Jasper; "dear me, what a bunch!"

"It's not as big as mine," said Polly, holding up hers to the light. "You made me take that one, Jasper."

"It's no better than mine," said Jasper, eating away.

"I'm going to hop into one of the chairs just a minute before we go," said Polly, nodding at the array along the beach, and eating her grapes busily, "to see how they feel."

"Oh, Polly, let me get you a chair now," begged Jasper, setting down the remainder of his bunch of grapes, and springing up.

"Oh, I don't want to, I really and truly don't, Jasper," Polly made haste to cry. "I like the sand ever and ever so much better. I only want to see for a minute what it's like to be in one of those funny old things. Then I should want to hop out with all my might, I just know I should."

"I'm of your mind," said Jasper, coming back to his seat on the sand again. "They must be very stuffy, Polly. Well, now you are here, would you like to come back to Scheveningen for a few days, Polly?"

"I think I should," said Polly, slowly, bringing her gaze around over the sea, to the Dunes, the beach, with the crowds of people of all nationalities, and the peasant folk, "if we could stay just as long, for all that, at the dear old Hague."

And just then old Mr. King was saying to Phronsie, "We will come out here again, child, and stay a week. Yes," he said to himself, "I will engage the rooms before we go back this afternoon."

"Grandpapa," asked Phronsie, laying her hand on his knee, "can I have this very same little house next time we come?"

"Well, I don't know," said Mr. King, peering up and down Phronsie's Bath chair adorned with the most lively descriptions of the merits of cocoa as a food; "they're all alike as two peas, except for the matter of the chocolate and cocoa trimmings. But perhaps I can fix it, Phronsie, so that you can have this identical one," mentally resolving to do that very thing. "Well, come, Phronsie, we must go now and get our luncheon."

"I am so glad if I can have the same little house," said Phronsie, with a sigh of contentment, as she slowly got out of her Bath chair. "It is a nice little house, Grandpapa, and I love it very much."



IX

A Box For The Pepper Boys


"Mamsie, have we been here a whole week in Amsterdam," cried Polly, leaning out of the window to look up and down the canal where the many-coloured boats lay, "beside all those days at Scheveningen? I can't believe it!"

"It doesn't seem possible," Mother Fisher answered musingly, and her hands dropped to her lap, where they lay quietly folded.

"Mamsie," -- Polly suddenly drew in her gaze from the charming old canal and its boats, and sprang to Mrs. Fisher's side, -- "do you know, I think it was just the loveliest thing in all the world for Grandpapa to bring dear Mr. and Mrs. Henderson abroad with us? I do, Mamsie."

"Mr. King is always doing good, kind things," said Mrs. Fisher, coming out of her revery, as Polly threw herself down on the floor and laid her head in her mother's lap, just as she used to do at home. "I haven't done this for so long," she said, "and it is so good!"

"That is the only drawback about travel," observed Mother Fisher, her hand passing soothingly over Polly's head, "that there never seems to be time for the little home ways that are so good. Now we must make the time and keep it, Polly."

"Indeed we will," cried Polly, seizing Mamsie's other hand to cuddle it under her chin, "and I'm going to begin right now. It makes me think of the little brown house, Mamsie, whenever you smooth my hair. What good times we used to have there!"

Mrs. Fisher's hand trembled a bit, but the black eyes were as serene as ever. "You used to work pretty hard, Polly," she said.

"Oh, but it was fun!" said Polly, merrily, "only I didn't like the old stove when it acted badly. But then came my new stove. Mamsie, wasn't Papa Fisher splendid? And then he saved my eyes. Just think, Mamsie, I never can love him half enough. I wish I could do something for him," she mourned, just as she did in the old days.

"You do, Polly; you are doing something every day of your life," said her mother, reassuringly. "Never think that you don't do anything. Why, it was only this very morning that your father told me that you were his little helper, and that he depended on you to cheer him up."

"Did he say that?" asked Polly, much gratified, poking up her head to look at her mother. "Oh, I want to be, but I don't know how to help him. Papa Fisher always seems to be doing something for other people, and not to need anybody to do things for him."

"Ah, Polly, when you have lived longer," said Mrs. Fisher, "you will know that those who are doing things always for other people, are the very ones who need cheering up, for they never complain. Your father, in going about as he does, day after day, to the hospitals and everywhere, where he can learn anything that will make him a better doctor, is working very hard indeed, and yet think how cheerful he is when he comes home! And he says you help to keep him so, Polly." She bent over and set a kiss on Polly's red cheek.

"Mamsie," cried Polly, with a glow where the kiss had dropped, "I'm going to try harder than ever to see wherever I can find a time to help Papa-Doctor. And I hope that one will come soon."

"And you'll find just such a time will come; it never fails to when you watch for it," said Mother Fisher, wisely. Just then the door opened, and Phronsie, fresh from the hands of Matilda, who had been changing her gown, came in with Araminta in her arms. When she saw Polly on the floor with her head in Mamsie's lap, she got down by her side and curled up there, too.

"Smooth my hair, do, Mamsie," she begged.

"Mamsie's got her two bothers," said Polly, with a little laugh.

"Mamsie doesn't mind her bothers," said Mrs. Fisher, her other hand going softly over Phronsie's yellow hair, at which Phronsie gave a small sigh of content, and wriggled her toes as they were stretched out straight before her on the carpet, "if only they grow up a little better every day than they were the day before."

"We'll try to, Mamsie," said Polly, "won't we, Pet?" leaning over and kissing her.

"I'll try to," promised Phronsie, with another wriggle of her small toes.

"That's right," said Mother Fisher, smiling approval.

"Mrs. Fisher!" called Grandpapa's voice at the door. Thereupon Polly and Phronsie sprang to their feet, and a lively race ensued to see which should be there the first to open it. The consequence was that both faces met him at once.

"Bless me!" cried old Mr. King, laughing gaily, as the door flew open, and they both rushed into his arms; "so you did like to have your old Grandfather come to see you," he exclaimed, mightily pleased.

"I should think we did!" cried Polly, as they escorted him in, and led him to the seat of honour, a big carved arm-chair, with a faded tapestry covering.

"I should very much like to get into your lap, Grandpapa dear," said Phronsie, surveying him gravely as he sat down and leaned his head against the chair back.

"So you shall," cried Mr. King, lifting her up to his knee, Araminta and all. She perched there in quiet content, while he set forth his business which he had come to talk over with Mother Fisher.

"Now, you know those three boys of yours are the most splendid boys that ever were in all this world, and they are working away at home, studying and all that, Joel and David are, and Ben is pegging away at business." Old Mr. King thought best to go to the heart of the matter at once without any dallying.

Mrs. Fisher's cheek grew a shade paler, but she said not a word as she fastened her black eyes on his face.

"Hem -- well, we don't talk much about those boys," observed the old gentleman, "because it makes us all homesick after them, and it's best that they should be there, and that we should be here, so that was settled once for all by our coming."

Still Mrs. Fisher said not a word.

"Well, now, the fact of it is," continued old Mr. King, still keeping to the main point with wonderful directness, "I think the time has come for us to act, which is much better than talking, in my opinion; and I want to do something for those boys."

A pin could have been heard to drop. Polly leaned over his chair and hung on his words, while Mrs. Fisher never took her eyes from his face.

"In short," continued old Mr. King, well pleased with the attention of his audience, "I propose that we send a box of good things of various descriptions to Ben and Joel and David."

A small howl of delight from Polly broke the silence. When she heard that, Phronsie gave a little crow. "Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Polly, "do you really mean it?" and she threw her arms around his neck. Phronsie immediately clambered up and did the same thing.

"That's just as your mother shall decide," said Mr. King, immensely pleased with the way his news was received. "She hasn't said a word yet whether she likes the idea or not."

"It's just because I couldn't speak at first," said Mrs. Fisher, wiping her eyes; and her voice trembled. "But it's the very thing; and oh! thank you, sir, for thinking of it. The boys won't be so homesick for us when they get the box. And it will be the best thing in the world for us to keep busy, so we can't worry about them."

"Mamsie has said 'yes'!" exclaimed Polly, flying off to dance around and around in the middle of the room. "Oh, I wish Jasper was here!" she cried regretfully, breaking short off.

"Go and call him, then, -- he's down in the reading room, writing to the boys, -- and bring him up here," said old Mr. King. "No, no, Phronsie, you want to stay and take care of me," as Phronsie showed signs of slipping down from his lap to go too.

"I'll stay and take care of you," said Phronsie, obediently; "just let me lay Araminta down, Grandpapa, on the sofa, and then I'll come back and rub your head."

So she got down and set Araminta up straight against the sofa back, and then came and clambered up again into his lap. By this time Polly and Jasper, racing along the hall, had reached Mother Fisher's room.

"That's regularly splendid, father." Jasper tossed his dark hair back from his forehead, and his eyes sparkled. "Oh, can't we go out right away and begin to buy the presents?"

"I shouldn't think that idea was a half-bad one," said old Mr. King. "What do you say, Mrs. Fisher? If we are going to send the box, why isn't it best to begin the work at once? There's never so good a time as now, in my opinion. I'm sure you agree with me."

On Mother Fisher saying "yes," all three of the young people took hold of hands, and danced around the room in glee. For old Mr. King set Phronsie down, with, "There, go, child, and spin with the others; then all hurry and get your hats on, and we'll be off."

And in less time than it takes to write it, old Mr. King and Mother Fisher and Jasper and Polly and Phronsie all hurried out of the hotel, and began a round of the shops to get the things together for the wonderful box to go home to the boys. And though Polly didn't know it, several other things, that boys wouldn't be supposed to care for in the least, were slyly added to the purchases, when she wasn't looking, to be sent home to the hotel in separate parcels to Mr. King. For Polly was going to have a birthday before very long; though she had quite forgotten it in the excitement over this box for Ben and Joel and David.

"It's just like buying things for Christmas, isn't it, Jasper?" said Polly, as they hung over the show-cases and peered into windows; "only everything is so funny here. Oh, no, Phronsie, that won't do; it's too big," as Phronsie protested that nothing was so nice as a huge Delft plate hanging on the wall. There was a big windmill and several little windmills in the distance along a Dutch canal, and two or three cows in the foreground, and a peasant girl with a basket in her hand. Phronsie stood and gazed at it all the time they were in this particular shop.

"I like that little girl," she said, "and those cows; and they are like Deacon Blodgett's cows at home in Badgertown. And Ben would like it, and Joel, and David." And all Polly could do, she would still say, "I like it, Polly, and I want Grandpapa to send it."

At last Polly turned in despair to Jasper. "Oh, what can we do?" she cried; "she is just as determined as she was when she would send the gingerbread boy to Grandpapa."

"Well, I think we would better not try to get her away from the idea," said Jasper, with a look at the rapt little face. Phronsie was now kneeling on a Flemish oak chair, and studying the Delft plate with absorbed attention.

"No," said Polly, with a sigh, "I suppose it isn't any use to try when she looks like that." Just then old Mr. King, who had been busy in a farther corner with the proprietor of the shop, picking out some small articles that struck his fancy, turned and called Phronsie. She didn't hear him, being too absorbed. And so he laid down the little silver paper-cutter he was looking at, and came over to see what was the matter.

"Well, child," he said, looking over her shoulder. "And so you like that, hey?"

Phronsie drew a long breath. "I do, Grandpapa, like it very much indeed," she said.

"Well, then, I don't see but what you must have it. And it shall hang in your own little room at home, Phronsie."

"But I don't want it for my very own, Grandpapa," said Phronsie; "it must go in the box for Ben and Joel and David."

"Dear me! You think they would like it, Phronsie?" he asked doubtfully, and just on the point of saying, like Polly, "it's too big, child," when he stopped himself and finished up -- "and so it pleases you, Phronsie?"

"Yes, it does," said Phronsie, with an emphatic little nod; "I love that nice cow, and that little girl. Grandpapa, I think I should like to live in a windmill."

"Bless me! I think you wouldn't want to live there very long, child. Well, the plate shall go to the boys, and I only hope they will like it," he said to himself, dubiously.

"He is going to send it," Jasper and Polly said to each other, peering round an angle in the shop at the two. "Well, it's a mercy it's got a cow on it instead of a cat," said Jasper. "How Joel would howl if Phronsie sent him the picture of a cat!"

"She would if there were a cat to be found," said Polly; "don't you believe, Jasper, but what she would?"



X

Danger


Well, the box that went home across the seas to the Pepper boys was a marvel, stuffed in every nook and cranny where there was a possibility that the tiniest parcel could be tucked, until Phronsie, who kept bringing up more bundles, had to be told by Polly and Jasper, who did the packing, that no more could go in.

"They are very small," sighed Phronsie, curling up on the floor by the side of the big box, almost overflowing with billows of the soft white paper on top, and holding up two pudgy little bundles.

"So you've said for the last hour, Phronsie," exclaimed Polly, in despair, and sitting quite straight, her hands in her lap. "Jasper, what shall we do?" He was over by the window laying out the long nails that were to fasten the cover on; for no one must touch this precious box, but the loving hands that got it ready.

"Oh, we can't," began Jasper. Then he turned and saw Phronsie's face. "Perhaps one might be crowded in," he added, with a look at Polly. "Which one would you rather have Polly make a try at, Phronsie?"

"This one," she said, holding up the pudgiest bundle, "because this is the china cat, and I want Joel to have that."

Down went Polly's head on the edge of the box. Jasper dropped the long nails and hurried over to her.

"I can't help it." Polly's shoulders were shaking, and she added gustily, "O dear me -- and Joel does so hate cats!"

"Phronsie, I think I can tuck in that parcel," Jasper made haste to say. "There, give it to me, child," and he took it out of her hand. "For Joel" was written across it in unsteady letters.

"Is Polly sick?" asked Phronsie, wonderingly, as she resigned her cat into his hands.

"No, only a bit tired, I think," answered Jasper. "Well, now, Phronsie, I think there is just room enough to tuck that parcel in this corner," said Jasper, crowding his fingers down in between the various bundles to make a space. "There, in it pops!" suiting the action to the word.

"I am so very glad," said Phronsie, smoothing her brown gown in great satisfaction; "for then Joel will know that I sent it all by myself."

"He'll know that nobody else sent it," said Polly to herself. "And I know it's a perfectly awful cat, for Phronsie always picks out the very ugliest she can find."

Well, the box was off, at last, the Pepper children and Jasper seeing it till the very last minute. And old Mr. King was nearly as excited as the young folks, and the Parson and Mrs. Henderson said it reminded them of Christmas times over again, and Mother Fisher and the little doctor were in a great state of happiness.

And that night when Polly was in bed, and Mother Fisher came into her room and Phronsie's, which opened into her own, to say "Good night," Polly turned on her pillow. "Mamsie," she said, "I do so very much wish that we could send a box to the Henderson boys. They must be so homesick for their mother and father."

Mrs. Fisher stopped and thought a bit, "A very good idea, Polly," she said, "and I'm glad you thought of it. I'll speak to your father and see if he approves, before we say anything to Mr. King."

"You see," said Polly, rolling over to get hold of one of Mother Fisher's hands, and speaking very fast, "of course the Henderson boys are having a good time at dear Deacon Blodgett's, but then their mother and father are away off. Oh, Mamsie!" She reached over and threw both arms around her mother and hugged her tightly.

"Yes, I know, Polly," said Mother Fisher, holding her big girl to her heart, "and we must look out for other people's boys; that's what you mean to say, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Polly, happy that Mamsie always understood, "and now that Ben's and Joel's and David's box is off, why, I wish we could, Mamsie, send the other one."

"I really think it can be done," said Mrs. Fisher, "but I must ask your father first. And now, daughter, go to sleep, like Phronsie." She glanced over at the other little bed, where Phronsie's yellow head was lost in dreams.

"You know we are going to Marken tomorrow."

"I know," said Polly, with a happy little wriggle under the bedclothes.

"And it never would do for you to be all tired out in the morning. That would be very unkind to dear Mr. King, who is trying so hard to make us all happy," continued Mrs. Fisher.

"I know," said Polly, again. "Well, good night, Mamsie." She set three or four kisses on Mother Fisher's cheek, then turned over, with her face to the wall.

"I'll shut the door until you get to sleep, Polly," said Mrs. Fisher, "then I will open it again," as she went out.

As Mother Fisher had said, they were going to the Island of Marken to-morrow; and Polly tumbled asleep with her head full of all the strange things they were to see there, and that Jasper and she had been reading about, -- how the people wore the same kind of funny costume that their great-great-ever-so-many-times great-grandfathers and grandmothers had worn; and how the houses were of different colours, and built in different layers or mounds of land, with cunning little windows and scarcely any stairs; and how they were going in the haying season when everybody would be out raking up and gleaning -- and -- and -- Polly was completely lost in her happy dreams.

Somebody seemed to be pulling her arm. What! Oh, she remembered they were going to Marken, and she must hurry and get her bath and fly into her clothes. "Yes, Mamsie!" she cried, flying up to sit straight in the bed. "I'll get right up and dress; oh, won't we have fun!"

"Polly," said Mother Fisher. She had on a dressing-gown, and her black hair was hanging down her back. She looked pale and worried; Polly could see that, although she blinked at the sudden light. "It isn't morning, but the middle of the night. You must get up this minute. Pull on your shoes; don't stop for stockings, and slip into your wrapper. Don't ask questions," as Polly's lips moved.

Polly obeyed with an awful feeling at her heart. She glanced at Phronsie's little bed; she was not there! Mrs. Fisher threw the pink wrapper over her head; Polly thrust her arms into the sleeves, feeling as if she were sinking way down. "Now come." And Mamsie seized her hand and hurried her through her own room without another word. It was empty. Father Fisher and Phronsie were nowhere to be seen. And now for the first time Polly was conscious of a great noise out in the corridor. It seemed to spread and fasten itself to a number of other noises, and something made Polly feel queerly in her throat as if she should choke. She looked up in her mother's eyes, as they sped through the room.

"Yes, Polly," said Mother Fisher, "it is fire. The hotel is on fire; you will be brave, my child, I know."

"Phronsie!" gasped Polly. They were now in the corridor and hurrying along.

"She is safe; her father took her."

"Oh, Mamsie, Jasper and Grandpapa!"

"They know it; your father ran and told them. Obey me, Polly; come!"

Mrs. Fisher's firm hand on her arm really hurt Polly, as they hurried on through the dense waves of smoke that now engulfed them.

"Oh, Mamsie, not this way; we must find the stairs." But Mrs. Fisher held her with firmer fingers than ever, and they turned into a narrower hall, up toward a blinking red light that sent a small bright spark out through the thick smoke, and in a minute, or very much less, they were out on the fire-escape, and looking down to hear -- for they couldn't see -- Jasper's voice calling from below, "We are all here, Polly," and "Be careful, wife, how you come down," from Dr. Fisher.

"Oh," cried Polly, as the little group drew her and Mamsie into their arms, "are we all here?"

"Yes, Polly; yes, yes," answered Jasper. And "Oh, yes," cried old Mr. King, his arm around Phronsie, "but we shouldn't have been but for this doctor of ours."

"And Mr. and Mrs. Henderson?" cried Polly, shivering at Grandpapa's words.

"We are here, dear child," said the parson's wife, pressing forward, and then the crowd surged up against them this way and that, and more people came down the fire-escape, and some were screaming and saying they had lost everything, and they must go back for their jewels, and one woman brought down a big feather pillow, and set it carefully on the grass, she was so crazed with fright.

"O dear, dear, can't we help them?" cried Polly, wringing her hands, "Look at that girl!"

She was about as old as Polly, and she rushed by them plunging into the thickest of the crowd surging up against the fire-escape. "I'm going up," she kept screaming.

Polly remembered her face as she flashed by. She sat at the next table to theirs in the dining room, with a slender, gentle, little old lady whom she called "Grandmamma." "O dear!" groaned Polly, "we must help her!"

Jasper dashed after the girl, and Polly ran, too. He laid his hand on the arm of the flying figure as she broke through the crowd, but she shook him off like a feather. "She's up there," pointing above, "and I must get her."

One of the firemen seized her and held her fast. Jasper sprang for the fire-escape. "Jasper!" called Polly, hoarsely, "it will kill Grandpapa if you go -- oh!" She turned at a cry from the girl, whose arms were around a bent, shaking, little figure, and they had both sunk to the ground.

"I brought her down long ago," said another fireman, who could speak English, pointing to the white-haired old lady, who, on hearing her granddaughter's voice, had pushed her way through the crowd, as Dr. Fisher hurried up.

And then Mr. King and his party gathered his group, and they hurried to another hotel close by, Jasper and Mr. Henderson and Mother Fisher waiting to see to the belongings of the party; for the fire was now subdued, although the guests had to go elsewhere for shelter, and the little doctor was in his element, taking care of the old lady, and then he rushed off to look after a score or more of other fainting women.

But nobody was really hurt -- the smoke and the panic had been the worst, only the poor thing who had dragged down the feather pillow sat by it till the little doctor, discovering her, called two stout men, who took her up in their arms -- she screaming all the while for her treasure -- and bore her to a neighbouring house that kindly opened its doors to some of the people so suddenly thrown out of shelter. And it wasn't till near breakfast time that the little doctor came to the hotel that was now their home.

"Brain-fever patient," he said briefly. "Wife, I must get a cold plunge, or I'll be having it next." And when breakfast was really set before their party, he appeared with the others fresh from his bath, and as cheery as if nothing had happened to break his good night's rest.

"O dear me! How did you ever get so many things over here, in all this world, and why didn't you let me stay with you?" Polly had exclaimed in one breath, looking at the array of dresses, sacks, and hats disposed around the room. And Mamsie was kneeling before an open trunk to take out more.

"It wasn't best, Polly," said her mother, who had longed for Polly as no one knew better than did Mother Fisher herself. "You were really needed here with Grandpapa and Phronsie. You truly were, my dear."

"I know," said Polly. "Well, do let me take those out, Mamsie; you're tired to death, already. Oh, and you've brought my dear little American flag!" She seized it and hugged it with delight.

"Did you suppose I could come back without that flag," exclaimed Mother Fisher in a reproving tone, "when you've put it up in your room every place where we've stopped? -- why, Polly!"

"No, Mamsie, I really didn't think you could," answered Polly, quickly, and running to her, little silk flag and all, to throw her arms around her neck, "only it's so good to see the dear thing again."

"You may take the things from me, and hang them up somewhere," said her mother; "that will help me the most," giving her an armful. "I don't see how you ever thought of so many things, Mamsie!" exclaimed Polly going off with her armful.

"I brought all I thought we needed just at first," said Mother Fisher, diving into the trunk depths again.

"How did you ever do it?" cried Polly, for the fiftieth time, as she sorted, and hung the various garments in their proper places.

"Oh, Jasper helped me pack them, and then he got the hotel porter to bring over the trunks," answered Mother Fisher, her head in the trunk. "I've locked up our rooms, and got the keys, so I can get the rest by and by."

"But how did you first hear of the fire?" asked Polly, when they were all finally seated around the breakfast table, little Mrs. Gray -- for so the white-haired old lady was called -- and her granddaughter Adela being invited to join, "do tell me, Mamsie, I don't understand," she added in a puzzled way.

"No, you were talking about Marken in your sleep," said Mother Fisher, "when I went to call you, and how you would be ready in the morning."

"Marken?" repeated old Mr. King, looking up from the egg he was carefully breaking for Phronsie so that she might eat it from the shell. "So we were going there this morning. Well, we won't see that island now for a good many days; at least, till we get over this fright. Beside, we have things to settle here, and to get comfortably fixed. But we'll have that excursion all in good time, never fear."

"Well, how did you, Mamsie," Polly begged again, "first hear of the fire? Do tell me."

"Somebody made a good deal of noise down in the corridor," said Mother Fisher, "and your father went out to see what was the matter, and then he came back and told me what to do, and he took Phronsie and went for old Mr. King. But he had sent a porter to warn them in 165, and they would tell the Hendersons in the next room, before he ran upstairs to me." It was a long speech for Mother Fisher.

"Mamsie," asked Polly, suddenly, after she had leaned across her mother and beamed at the little doctor, which so delighted him that his big spectacles nearly fell off in his plate, "how did you know where the fire-escape was?"

"Oh, that was your father's doings, too," said Mother Fisher. She couldn't help but show her pride. "He told me all about it the first day we got to the hotel. He always does; he says it's better to know these things."

"Wife -- wife," begged the little doctor, imploringly.

"I'm going to tell, Adoniram," said Mother Fisher, proudly, "the whole story; they ought to know."

"Indeed we had; and so you shall," commanded Mr. King, from the head of the table.

"I can't help it! I really must!" exclaimed Polly, hopping out of her chair, -- there were no other people in the breakfast room beside their party, so really it wasn't so very dreadful after all, -- and she ran back of her mother's chair, and threw her arms around the little doctor's neck. "Oh, Papa Fisher," she cried, setting ever so many kisses on his cheeks under the big spectacles, "you've saved all our lives."

"There -- there, Polly," cried the little doctor, quite overcome.

"And ours, too," said little Mrs. Gray, in a shaking voice.



XI

The Two Birthdays In Old Holland


And Polly never knew about a certain shelf in Grandpapa's closet, nor how full it was getting, when Jasper ran every now and then to add the gifts as fast as the different members of the party picked up pretty things in the shops for the coming birthday -- now very near. And she actually forgot all about the birthday itself; all her mind being set on the Henderson box, so soon to sail off over the sea.

And Mother Fisher would look over at her absorbed face, and smile, to watch her in the shops, picking out things for the Henderson boys; and old Mr. King would send many a keen glance at her, and Jasper had hard work not to exclaim, "Oh, Polly, father has got you a -- " And then he'd pull himself up, and rush off into some great plan to buy Peletiah Henderson something that a Badgertown boy ought to have. And Phronsie was carefully guarded on all sides these days, lest she should let out the great secret, for, of course, she ought to be in the very centre of all these preparations to celebrate Polly's birthday in Old Amsterdam, so she knew everything just as soon as it was planned. But sometimes, with all this care, the whole thing nearly popped out.

"Mr. King!" It was Mother Fisher who called after him, and her voice didn't sound like hers, for it had an excited little ring. "Oh, are you going out?" for she didn't see that he held his hat in his hand till he turned in the corridor.

"I can wait just as well if it's anything you want, Mrs. Fisher," he said gladly, controlling his surprise at her unusual manner. "I was only about to run down to the Kalver-straat for a little matter I just thought of for the birthday. Can I do anything for you?" he begged.

"Yes, it's just that," said Mrs. Fisher, hurriedly; "it's about the birthday -- I must speak quickly -- I've just found out, -- " she glanced up and down the corridor as if fully expecting to see Polly dash around a corner, -- "that Adela Gray's birthday is to-morrow -- "

"The dickens! You don't say so!" exploded Mr. King. "Well, now, I call that very clever on your part to have found it out. Very clever indeed, Mrs. Fisher," he repeated, beaming at her. "And just in time, for it would have been a dreadful thing, indeed, to have had that poor little girl left out, and her birthday too! Dear me!"

"It would, indeed," said Mrs. Fisher, heartily, with a shiver at the mere thought.

"And we might as well have had no celebration in such a case, for Polly wouldn't have enjoyed a single bit of it -- not an atom!" declared old Mr. King, bringing his walking stick heavily down on the floor.

"What is it -- oh, Grandpapa, what is it?" and Polly came hurrying along the corridor, and Jasper after her.

"Here she comes!" exclaimed Grandpapa, in a fright. "Glad you told me -- Hush -- O dear me -- I'll take care of the gifts."

"And I'm to do the rest -- just the same -- Doctor Fisher and I. Remember!" It was all Mrs. Fisher had time to utter. Even then, Polly caught the last words in the flurry.

"Oh, what is it, Mamsie -- Is anything the matter with Papa-Doctor?" And her brown eyes filled with alarm at her mother's unusual manner.

"Polly," Mrs. Fisher looked into the brown eyes with a steady glance, and all the hurry was gone out of her voice, "your father is all right. And now, run away, you and Jasper." She looked over Polly's shoulder at him as she spoke. "No, not another word, child." And away Mrs. Fisher hurried, while old Mr. King slipped off in the opposite direction.

"How funnily they act," said Polly, looking first after one and then another, with a puzzled face. "What can it be, Jasper?"

"Oh, well, I suppose they are in a hurry," said Jasper, as carelessly as he could. "Never mind, Polly, everything is all right. Oh, I say, let's fix our stamp books."

"But I was going to ask Grandpapa to go out with us, and now he's gone by himself," and Polly's face grew more puzzled than ever.

"Polly," said Jasper, desperately, "I really think we ought to fix our stamp books. I really do," and he took her hand. "My stamps are all in heaps in the envelopes, and in a mess generally. Come, let's begin now -- do." And he led her back down the corridor.

"I suppose so," said Polly, with a reluctant little sigh, as they went off.

And that afternoon, there was another narrow escape, when it seemed as if the secret really must pop out. Polly, rushing along to the reading room opposite the big dining room, saw Mother Fisher in consultation with the head waiter, and he was saying "cake," and then he stopped suddenly, and Mrs. Fisher turned and saw her. And Mamsie came across the hall, and into the reading room, and sat there a bit, while Polly tossed off a letter to Alexia Rhys, that had been worrying her for days. And there was a funny little smile tucked away in the corners of Mother Fisher's mouth, and Polly thought that things were getting queerer than ever.

"I am glad you are writing that letter," said Mrs. Fisher, with an approving smile that chased the funny little one all around the strongly curved mouth, "for Alexia will feel badly not to hear often from you, Polly."

"I know it," said Polly, wrinkling her brows, "and I didn't mean to let this wait so long," scribbling away as fast as she could.

"Take care, Polly," warned her mother; "a carelessly written letter is no compliment, and it gets you in a bad way. Don't hurry so, child," as Polly's pen went scratching across the paper at a fearful rate.

"But there are so many letters to write to all the girls," said Polly, stopping a minute to look at her mother, "and I've only just got all the letters in my steamer mail-bag answered. I must write to Cathie and Philena, and Amy Garrett too, to-day, Mamsie," she added, in distress.

"Polly," said Mother Fisher, looking into the flushed face, "I tell you what would be the best way for you to do. All the letters in your mail-bag are answered, you said?"

"Yes, indeed," declared Polly. "Oh, Mamsie, you didn't think I could put those off?" she asked reproachfully.

"No, Polly, I really didn't," Mrs. Fisher made haste to assure her. "Well, now, mother will tell you what will be the best way for you to do. Write as good a letter as you can to Alexia, and tell her to send it around to all the girls, for a kind of a bulletin, and -- "

"Oh, Mamsie Fisher," cried Polly, not stopping to hear the rest, but deserting the writing table to run and throw her arms around her mother's neck, "you're the bestest, dearest mother in all this world -- oh -- oh! Now I sha'n't have but one letter to write! How fine!"

"And you must write that one letter very nicely, Polly, and take ever so much pains with it," said Mother Fisher, her black eyes shining at the happy solution; "and that is much better than to hurry off a good many slovenly ones. Besides, it is not well to take your time and strength for too much letter writing, for there are the boys, and Mrs. Whitney and -- "

"Grandma Bascom and dear Mrs. Beebe," finished Polly. "Oh, I couldn't ever forget them, Mamsie, in all this world." She stopped cuddling Mother Fisher's neck, to peer into the black eyes.

"No, you mustn't ever forget them," repeated Mrs. Fisher, emphatically, "in all this world, Polly. Well, get to work now over your one letter that's to be a bulletin!"

"I shall tear this one up," declared Polly, running back to get into her chair again. "O dear me, what a horrible old scrawl," she cried, with a very red face. "I didn't know it did look so bad" And she tore it clear across the page, and then snipped it into very little bits.

"That's the result of hurry," observed Mother Fisher, wisely, "and I would begin all over again, Polly."

So Polly took a fresh sheet and set to work; and Mrs. Fisher, seeing her so busily occupied, soon stole out. And there was the head waiter waiting for her in the dining room, and Polly never heard a word they said, although "cake" was mentioned a great many times, and several other things too.

But the next morning Polly Pepper woke up to the fact that it was her birthday. For there was Mamsie leaning over her pillow, the first thing she saw the minute her eyes were opened. And Phronsie was sitting on the end of the bed with her hands folded in her lap.

When she saw Polly's eyes open, she gave a little crow and darted forward. "Oh, I thought you never would wake up, Polly," she said, throwing her arms around Polly's neck.

"Yes, this child has been sitting there a whole hour, Polly." Mother Fisher gave a merry little laugh, and then she began to drop kisses on Polly's rosy cheek -- ever so many of them.

Polly's dewy eyes opened wide.

"It's your birthday, don't you know!" exclaimed Phronsie, trying to drop as many kisses and as fast, on Polly's other cheek, and to talk at the same time.

"Mamsie Fisher!" cried Polly, springing up straight in the middle of the bed, nearly knocking Phronsie over. "Why, so it is. Oh, how could I forget -- and sleep over. And I'm fifteen!"

"You're fifteen," repeated Mother Fisher, setting the last little kiss on Polly's cheek, -- "and it's the best thing you could possibly do, to sleep over, child. Now, then, Phronsie, let us help her to get dressed."

Wasn't there a merry time, though, for the next half-hour, till Polly had had her bath, and was arrayed, Mother Fisher and Phronsie here, there, and everywhere, helping to tie and to hook Polly's clothes -- Phronsie bringing her little silver button-hook that Auntie Whitney gave her, declaring that she should button Polly's boots.

"Oh, no, child," protested Polly. "I'll button them myself," flying off for the boots.

But Phronsie piped out, hurrying after her, "I have them, Polly," and, sure enough, there they were, one under each arm; "do let me, Polly -- do, please!" she begged.

"I would, Polly," advised Mrs. Fisher, "for Phronsie really has set her heart on doing it."

So Polly sat down in the low chair, and put out her foot, feeling very queer indeed, and as if she ought to be doing up Phronsie's boots instead. And Phronsie curled up on the floor, and patiently drew every one of the buttons into place, and buttoned them fast. And then on with the other boot.

"There, now, I did do them all by myself," she announced, getting up from the floor, and smoothing down her gown with much importance. "I did truly, Polly."

"So you did, Pet," cried Polly, sticking out both feet to look at them. "You buttoned every single one of those buttons up splendidly, Phronsie Pepper. Now my toes will be just as happy all day; oh, you can't think how happy they'll be." And she seized her, half smothering her with kisses.

"Will they?" cried Phronsie, coming out of the embrace to peer up into Polly's face, in a transport. "Will your toes really and truly be happy, Polly?"

"They'll be so happy," declared Polly, with a little wriggle of each foot, "that they'll want to sing, only they can't," and she burst out into a little laugh.

"Put on your blue dress, Polly," said Mother Fisher, coming out of the closet to hurry operations a bit.

"Oh, Mamsie," begged Phronsie, "mayn't Polly wear her white one? Do, Mamsie, please!" She ran up to her mother pleadingly.

"Polly will wear a white gown to-night," said Mother Fisher, her eyes shining, and the same funny little smile hiding in the corners of her mouth; "but this morning she would better put on her blue gingham."

"Yes, that's best," said Polly, reassuringly, running off to get it out of the big bureau drawer. "It's all done up spick and span," drawing it out. "Mamsie, don't these Dutch women do up things well, though?"

"They do, indeed," assented Mrs. Fisher, with a critical eye for the blue gingham; "but I really suppose the Swiss beat them, Polly."

"Well, they must be just perfect, then," said Polly, putting the blue gown carefully over her head. "Mamsie, I just love this dress."

"Yes, it is pretty," said Mother Fisher, with an approving eye for the dainty ruffles, "and you keep your clothes cleaner than you used to, Polly; you're improving."

"I used to get them all mussed up just as soon as could be," mourned Polly, her cheeks rosy at the remembrance. "Mamsie, how much trouble I've made you." She stopped dressing, and sprang over to Mrs. Fisher. Phronsie, trying to button on the waistband, and clinging to it, went stumbling after.

"Take care," warned Mrs. Fisher, "don't muss it; it looks so nice now."

"There, there, Phronsie, I'll do that," said Polly, a trifle impatiently, looking over her shoulder.

"Oh, I want to, Polly," said Phronsie, fumbling for the button. "Do let me; I want to."

"No, I can do it myself," said Polly, trying to whirl off from the busy little fingers.

"Polly," began Mother Fisher, who saw what Polly couldn't, Phronsie's little face very red with her exertion, and the brown eyes filling with tears.

"Well, I declare," cried Polly, at sound of her mother's tone; "so you shall, Phronsie. Now I'll stand just as still as a mouse, and you shall make that old button fly into its hole."

"So he shall, old button fly into his hole," laughed Phronsie through her tears. And presently she declared it was done. And with a final pat, this time from Mother Fisher's fingers, Polly was released, and the rest of the dressing was soon done.

And there, waiting at the end of their corridor, was Jasper, in every conceivable way trying to get the better of his impatience. When he did finally see Polly, he dashed up to her. "Well, are you really here?"

"Yes," cried Polly, scampering on, with Phronsie clinging to her hand, "I really believe I am, Jasper. But don't let's go faster than Mamsie," looking back for her.

"You all run on," said Mother Fisher, laughing, "I shall get there soon; and really, Mr. King has waited long enough," she added to herself.

And, indeed, Mr. King thought so too, and he couldn't control his delight when the three danced into the little private parlour, opening out from his bedroom, and came up to his side.

"I slept over," said Polly, in a shamefaced little way; "I'm sorry, Grandpapa dear."

"You needn't be; not a bit of it," declared Grandpapa, holding her off at arm's length to scan her rosy face; "the best thing you could possibly do" -- Mamsie's very words. So Polly felt relieved at once. "And now we will wait for Mrs. Fisher," he added, with a glance at the door.

"Here she is," piped Phronsie, who had been regarding the door anxiously.

"Yes, here she is," repeated old Mr. King, in great satisfaction, holding Polly fast. "Well, now, Mrs. Fisher, that you have come, we'll begin our festivities. Our Polly, here, is fifteen years old to-day -- only think of that!" Still he held her fast, and bent his courtly white head to kiss her brown hair.

Polly clung to his other hand. "It can't be a house celebration, Polly, my dear, with a party and all that, but we'll do the best we can. And to add to our pleasure, and to be company for you" (not a suggestion of the pleasure he was to give), "why, we've another little girl with us who has chosen this very day for her birthday, too. Adela, come here."

Adela Gray, who had been standing silently, looking on with a sad heart at finding herself with a birthday on her hands, and no one to celebrate it with her, though for that matter all her birthdays had been rather dismal affairs at the best, in the Paris school, now shrank back at Mr. King's sudden summons, and hid behind her grandmother's black gown.

"Come, Adela," commanded Mr. King, in a tone that brooked no further delay. So she crept out, and stood in front of him.

"Oh, Adela!" exclaimed Polly, in a transport, drawing her up by her other hand, for still Grandpapa held her fast. "Is it your birthday too? How perfectly elegant! oh, oh!"

And everybody said, "How fine!" And they all were smiling at her. And Adela found herself, before she knew it, coming up out of her old despair into brightness and warmth and joy. And she never knew when old Mr. King proclaimed her fourteen years old, and dropped a kiss -- yes, he actually did -- on her head. And then she found herself on his other side, by the big centre table, that was covered with a large cloth. And Polly made her put her hand under it first, saying, "Oh, no, Grandpapa, please let Adela pull out the first parcel." And lo, and behold -- she held a neat little white-papered bundle tied with a blue ribbon.

"Open it," cried Jasper, as she stood stupidly staring at it, in her hand. "Don't you see it's got your name on it?" But Adela didn't see anything, she was so dazed. So Jasper had to open it for her. "We may thank our stars the first parcel happened to be for her," he was thinking busily all the time he was untying the ribbon. And there was just what she had wanted for, oh, so long -- Mrs. Jameson's little books on Art -- her very own, she saw as soon as her trembling fingers opened the cover.

After that, the skies might rain down anything in the shape of gifts, as it seemed to be doing for Polly and for her; it didn't matter to Adela; and she found herself, finally, looking over a heap of white papers and tangled ribbons, at Polly Pepper, who was dancing about, and thanking everybody to right and to left.

"Why don't -- why don't -- you -- thank him?" old Mrs. Gray mumbled in her ear, while the tears were running down her wrinkled cheeks.

"Let her alone," said old Mr. King, hearing her. "She's thanked me enough. Now then, to breakfast, all of us! Come, Polly -- come, Adela -- Jasper, you take Mrs. Gray," and the others falling in, away they all went down to the big dining room, to their own special table in the centre.

"I do so love what Joey sent me, and Ben and Davie," breathed Polly, for about the fiftieth time, patting her little money-bag which she had hung on her belt. Then she looked at the new ring on her finger very lovingly, and the other hand stole up to pinch the pin on her trim necktie, and see if it were really there. "Oh, Jasper, if the boys were only here!" she whispered, under cover of the chatter and bustle around the table.

"Don't let us think of that, Polly," Jasper made haste to say; "it will make father feel so badly if he thinks you are worrying."

"I know it," said Polly, pulling herself out of her gloom in an instant, to be as gay as ever, till the big sombre dining room seemed instinct with life, and the cheeriest place imaginable.

"What good times Americans do have!" exclaimed a lady, passing the door, and sending an envious glance within.

"Yes, if they're the right kind of Americans," said her companion, wisely.

All that wonderful day the sun seemed to shine more brightly than on any other day in the whole long year. And the two girls who had the birthday together, went here and there, arm in arm, to gladden all the tired, and often discontented, eyes of the fellow-travellers they chanced to meet. And when finally it came to the dusk, and Polly and Adela were obliged to say, "Our birthday is almost all over," why then, that was just the very time when Mother Fisher and the little doctor (for he was in the plan, you may be very sure, only he wanted her to make all the arrangements, "It's more in a woman's way, my dear," he had said), -- well, then, that was their turn to celebrate the double birthday!

"Where are those girls?" cried the little doctor, fidgeting about, and knocking down a little table in his prancing across the room. Jasper ran and picked it up. "No harm done," he declared, setting the books straight again.

"O dear, did I knock that over?" asked Dr. Fisher, whirling around to look at the result of his progress. "Bless me, did I really do that?"

"It's all right now," said Jasper, with a laugh at the doctor's face. "Lucky there wasn't anything that could break on the table."

"I should say so," declared the little doctor; "still, I'm sorry I floored these," with a rueful hand on the books. "I'd rather smash some other things that I know of than to hurt the feelings of a book. Dear me!"

"So had I," agreed Jasper, "to tell you the truth; but these aren't hurt; not a bit." He took up each volume, and carefully examined the binding.

When he saw that this was so, the little doctor began to fidget again, and to wonder where the girls were, and in his impatience he was on the point of prancing off once more across the room, when Jasper said, "Let us go and find them -- you and I."

"An excellent plan," said Dr. Fisher, hooking his arm into Jasper's and skipping off, Jasper having hard work to keep up with him.

"Here -- where are you two going?" called Mr. King after them. And this hindered them so that Polly and Adela ran in unnoticed. And there they were on time after all; for it turned out that the little doctor's watch was five minutes ahead.

Well, and then they all filed into the big dining room, and there, to be sure, was their special table in the centre, and in the middle of it was a tall Dutch cake, ornamented with all sorts of nuts and fruits and candies, and gay with layers of frosting, edged and trimmed with coloured devices, and on the very tip-top of all was an elaborate figure in sugar of a little Dutch shepherdess. And around this wonderful cake were plates of mottoes, all trimmed in the Dutch fashion -- in pink and green and yellow -- while two big bunches of posies, lay one at each plate, of the two girls who had a birthday together in Old Amsterdam.

"Oh -- oh!" cried Polly, seizing her bunch before she looked at the huge Dutch cake, and burying her nose deep among the big fragrant roses, "how perfectly lovely! Who did do this?"

But no one said a word. And the little doctor was as sober as a judge. He only glared at them over his spectacles.

"Grandpapa," gasped Polly, "you did."

"Guess again," advised Grandpapa. "Mamsie -- " Polly gave one radiant look at Mother Fisher's face.

Then Dr. Fisher broke out into a hearty laugh. "You've guessed it this time, Polly, my girl," he said, "your mother is the one."

"Your father really did it," corrected Mother Fisher. "Yes, Adoniram, you did, -- only I saw to things a little, that's all."

"Which means that pretty much the whole business was hers," added the little doctor, possessing himself of her hand under cover of the table. "Well, girls, if you like your birthday party fixings, that's all your mother and I ask. It's Dutch, anyway, and what you won't be likely to get at home; there's so much to be said for it."



XII

The Henderson Box


And as Mother Fisher observed, they would all enjoy Marken better for the delay, for there would be more time to anticipate the pleasure; and then there was the Henderson box to get ready, for Grandpapa King had not only approved the plan; he had welcomed the idea most heartily. "It will be a good diversion from our scare," he said, when Polly and Jasper laid it before him.

"And give us all something to do," he added, "so go ahead, children, and set to work on it." And Polly and Jasper had flown off with the good news, and every one did "set to work" as Grandpapa said, diving into the shops again.

Phronsie tried to find the mate to her china cat, that was by this time sailing over the sea to Joel; and it worried her dreadfully, for, try as she would, she never could see another one. And she looked so pale and tired one night that Mr. King asked her, in consternation, as they were all assembled in one corner of the drawing-room, what was the matter.

"I wish I could find a cat," sighed Phronsie, trying not to be so tired, and wishing the prickles wouldn't run up and down her legs so. "We've walked and walked, Grandpapa, and the shop wouldn't come, where it must be."

"What kind of a cat is it you want?" asked Adela Gray.

"It was just like Joey's," said Phronsie, turning her troubled blue eyes on Adela's face.

"Well, what colour?" continued Adela.

"It was yellow," said Phronsie, "a sweet little yellow cat."

"With green eyes?"

"No, I don't think it's eyes were green," said Phronsie, slowly trying to think, "but they were so pretty; and she had a pink ribbon around her neck, and -- "

"Oh, that settles it," declared Adela, quite joyful that she could help the little Pepper girl in any way, "at least the pink ribbon round its neck does, for I know where there is a cat exactly like that -- that is, the one I saw had green eyes, but everything else is like it -- it's sitting upon a shelf in a shop where I was just this very day, Phronsie Pepper."

"Oh!" Phronsie gave a little gurgle of delight, and, slipping out of her chair, she ran over to Adela. "Will you show me that shop to-morrow?" she begged, in great excitement.

"To be sure I will," promised Adela, just as happy as Phronsie; "we will go in the morning right after breakfast. May we, Mrs. Fisher?" looking over to her, where she sat knitting as cosily as if she were in the library at home. "For I think people who travel, get out of their everyday habits," she had said to her husband, before they started, "and I'm going to pack my knitting basket to keep my hands out of mischief."

And old Mr. King had smiled more than once in satisfaction to glance over at Mother Fisher in her cosey corner of an evening, and it made him feel at home immediately, even in the dreariest of hotel parlours, just the very sight of those knitting needles.

And so, in between the picture galleries and museums, to which some part of every day was devoted, the Peppers and Jasper and Adela, and old Mr. King, who always went, and Mother Fisher, who sometimes was of the party, the ransacking of the lovely shops took place. And it really seemed as if everything that the Henderson boys could possibly want, was in some of those places -- no matter how out-of-the-way -- and waiting to be bought to fly over the sea to Badgertown. At last off that box went. Then Polly was quite happy, and could enjoy things all the more, with a mind at rest.

"Now we are all ready for Marken," she cried that night, after dinner, when the box was on its way to the steamer, "and I do hope we are going to-morrow." Jasper and she had a little table between them, and they were having a game of chess.

"Yes, we are, I think," said Jasper, slowly considering whether he would better bring down one of his knights into the thick of the battle, or leave it to protect his queen.

"Oh, how fine!" exclaimed Polly, unguardedly moving the pawn that held at bay a big white bishop, who immediately swooped down on her queen, and away it went off the board; and "oh, how perfectly dreadful!" all in one and the same breath.

"You may have it back," said Jasper, putting the black queen in place again.

"No, indeed -- it's perfectly fair that I lost it," said Polly; "oh, I wouldn't take it back for anything. I was talking; it was all my own fault, Jasper."

"Well, you were talking about Marken, and I don't wonder, for we have been so long trying to go there. Do take it back, Polly," he begged, holding it out.

"No, indeed!" declared Polly again, shaking her brown head decidedly, "not for the world, Jasper."

"What is going over in that corner?" called Grandpapa's voice, by the big reading table. He had finished his newspaper, and was now ready to talk. So Jasper and Polly explained, and that brought out the subject of Marken, and old Mr. King said yes, it was perfectly true that he had made all the arrangements to go the following day if the weather were fine. So Polly and Jasper swept off the remaining pieces on the chessboard, and packed them away in their box, and ran over to hear all the rest of it that he was now telling to the family.

"So you see it didn't make any difference about that old queen anyway," said Polly, as they hurried over to him, "for nobody has beaten."

"I'm glad I didn't beat," declared Jasper. "I've that satisfaction, anyway, because you wouldn't have moved that pawn, Polly, if you hadn't been talking of Marken."

The next day was fine enough to warrant the trip, though not absolutely sunshiny. Old Mr. King wisely deciding that the fun of the expedition would lose its edge if postponed again, said, "Start!" So after breakfast they all went down to the Wester dock and embarked on the little steamer bound for the island of Marken in the Zuyder Zee.

"Oh, Polly, look," said Jasper, "doesn't Amsterdam look fine?" as the little steamer slowly put forth.

Polly leaned over the rail and drew in long breaths of delight. "Come, Adela," she called, "here is a good place;" for the little old lady was still too much shaken up to make much attempt at travelling, so Polly had begged Mother Fisher and Grandpapa to ask Adela to come with them on their sightseeing trips.

And this was done, and the young girl was happy as a bird. So here she was, going down to Marken too.

Adela ran and kneeled down on the seat by Polly's side and hung over the rail too. "Don't the houses lean over queerly?" she said, pointing to the long narrow buildings they were leaving behind. "They look worse from the water than when we are in the midst of them."

"It's just as if they were holding each other up," said Polly. "Dear me, I should think they'd tumble over some fine day.

"What makes them sag so?" asked Adela, intently regarding them.

"That's because the city is built on piles, I suppose," said Jasper. "It's mostly sand in Holland, you know, particularly around Amsterdam, and so they had to drive down piles to get something strong enough to put their houses on. That's what -- who was it? -- oh I know -- Erasmus -- meant when he said, 'I know a city whose inhabitants dwell on the tops of the trees like rooks.'"

"O dear me," said Adela, quite impressed; "well, what makes them not sag any more?" she asked at length.

"Because they've sagged all they want to, I suppose'" said Jasper, laughing. "Anyway they've stood so for years on years -- probably, so it's fair to believe they're all right."

"And I think they're ever so much prettier leaning every which way," declared Polly. "We can see plenty of straight houses at home, so it's nice to see crooked ones over here. Oh, Jasper, there's the King's palace!"

"Yes and there is the dome of the Lutheran Church," said Jasper.

"Look at that woman with the boy," said Adela, on the wharf. She's got a little black bonnet tied on top of her white cap.".

"That's nothing to what we shall see at Marken, I suppose," said Polly. "I'm going to take ever so many photographs." She tapped her kodak lovingly, as it hung from the strap on her shoulder.

"I wish I'd brought mine," said Adela.

"Why didn't you?" cried Polly, whirling around to scan Adela.

"I forgot it," said Adela. "I put it on the table last night close to my hat and gloves, and then walked off this morning without it."

"Now that's too bad!" exclaimed Polly in sympathy. Then she turned back uncomfortably, and began to talk of something else. "I'm not going to," she said to herself; "it isn't my fault she forgot her kodak, and I want every one of my films myself. And I care a great deal more for Marken than for almost any other place." The next moment Mamsie seemed to say, "Is that my Polly?" and although she was at the other end of the boat, Polly's head drooped as if she had heard the words.

"O dear me -- and Adela hasn't any one but a sick grandmother -- and I have just -- everybody," she thought "You shall use my kodak," cried Polly, aloud, "one-half the time, Adela."

"Oh, no," protested Adela; but she looked hungrily at Polly's kodak swinging over her shoulder.

"Yes, you shall too," declared Polly, cheerily. "I can take all the pictures I want in that time, and I have lots of films."

"I'll divide with you, Polly," said Jasper. "I brought ever so many, and will go shares with my kodak, too." But Polly made up her mind that Jasper's kodak was to be used for his own special pictures, for she knew he had set his heart on taking certain ones, and a good many of them, too.

"Isn't that water just perfectly lovely!" she exclaimed; "such a bluish grey."

"I think it's a greyish blue," said Adela, squinting along its surface critically.

"Well, what's the difference?" asked Polly, laughing.

"Not much," said Jasper, "I should think."

"Well, anyway, it's lovely," declared Polly; "I just wish I could paint it."

"Do you paint?" asked Adela, suddenly.

"No," said Polly, "not a bit"

"Polly is all for music," said Jasper, quickly. "You ought to hear her play."

"Oh, I can't play much now," said Polly, "but I mean tot some time. Jasper, how long it is since we have had a duet." Her face dropped its cheery curves and a sad little look crept into her eyes.

"That's the bother of travelling about; one can't play in a hotel," said Jasper. "But wait till we get to Dresden, Polly."

"Oh, I can't bear to wait," said Polly. "I don't want to hurry on, Jasper -- but oh, I do wish we could play on a piano." Her fingers drummed on the rail in her eagerness.

"Why, you are playing now," said Adela, bursting into a laugh, "or pretending to, Polly Pepper."

"I know it," said Polly, laughing too; "well, that's what I always used to do in the little brown house, -- drum on the table."

"In the little brown where?" demanded Adela in astonishment.

"The little brown house," answered Polly, and her eyes lightened as she seemed to see it before her. "That's where we used to live, Adela -- oh, the sweetest place, you can't think!" Polly's fingers stopped drumming now, and the colour flew up to her cheek; she forgot all about Adela.

"Oh, I suppose it had everything beautiful about it," said Adela, delighted to make Polly talk, "big gardens, and terraces, and -- "

"Oh, no," said Polly, "it didn't have gardens at all, Adela, only a little bit of a green grass-plot in front. But there was an apple tree at the back."

"Apple tree at the back?" echoed Adela, faintly.

"Yes, and we had beautiful plays under it," cried Polly, rushing on in remembrance; "and sometimes when all the work was finished, Mamsie would let us spend the whole afternoon out there. You can't think what perfectly splendid times we had there, Adela Gray!"

Adela by this time was beyond words, but stared up at Polly's face speechlessly. "And what fun it was on baking days, Polly," cried Jasper, unable to keep quiet any longer; "do you remember when I burnt all my cakes around the edges?"

"Well, that was because the old stove acted so," said Polly; "one minute it wouldn't bake at all, and the next it burnt things black."

"And the washing the dishes and things up afterward," said Jasper, reflecting; "I think I liked that just as well as the baking, Polly."

"It was good fun," said Polly; "and how funny you looked with one of Mamsie's aprons tied round under your chin, Jasper."

"I know it," said Jasper, bursting into a laugh. "I must have looked like -- I don't know what. But it was good fun, Polly."

And then Phronsie came running up, and after her came Grandpapa to see that she got there all right.

"Oh, Polly, do you see the windmills?" she cried, clapping her small hands.

"Yes, Pet," said Polly, looking all along the soft curves of the shore, "there are hundreds of them, aren't there?"

"There was a girl coming out of the door of one of them," announced Phronsie, climbing up on the seat and putting her arm around Polly's neck. "Polly, I'd like to live in a windmill; I would," she whispered close to her ear.

"Would you, Pet?"

"Yes, I would truly," she said. "Why couldn't I, Polly, just like that girl I saw coming out of the door?" she asked, looking back wistfully.

"Well, that girl never had a little brown house to live in," said Polly; "think of that, Phronsie."



XIII

"The Cleanest Place In All Holland"


"Oh, Polly, see the cunning little doll-houses!" exclaimed Phronsie in a little scream, flying about from Grandpapa at the head of his party on their way up from the boat-landing, and then back to the rear of the procession, which happened to be Polly and Jasper.

"Hush, Phronsie, don't talk so loud; they are not doll-houses," said Polly. "People live in them."

"People live in them!" echoed Phronsie, standing quite still on the paved road, that shone as if just freshly scoured.

"Yes, yes; come along, child, the people will hear you," said Polly, seizing her hand.

Phronsie suffered herself to be piloted along, but she stumbled more than once over the cobbles, her eyes were so busy.

"Take care, Phronsie," warned Polly, "you came near falling on your nose that time."

"I'll go on the other side," said Jasper; "there, now, Phronsie, give us your hand. Well, I don't wonder you are surprised. I never saw such a place as this Broek is."

"They've just washed it all up, haven't they, Jasper?" asked Polly, her brown eyes scanning the little walks along each tiny garden they passed. Everything shone alike.

"They're always washing up, I believe," answered Jasper, with a laugh. "I suppose they live in a pail of water, so to speak."

"Oh, Jasper, in a pail of water!" exclaimed Phronsie, between them, poking her head out to look for such a strange and unwarrantable sight provided by the inhabitants of Broek.

"I mean they're always scrubbing, so they can never be separated from their pails of water," said Jasper.

"It seems almost too bad to step on such clean roads," said Polly, getting up on her tiptoes, and stepping gingerly off. When Phronsie saw Polly do that, she got up on her tiptoes too, and tried to get over the ground with her.

"You can't do that long," said Jasper, with a laugh for both, "and it wouldn't do any good, Polly, if you could, for these Broek women will have to come out and scrub up after us all the same."

"I suppose they will," said Polly, with a sigh of relief, coming down on to the rest of her feet, which proceeding, Phronsie was very glad to copy. "And it isn't as nice as it looks to walk on the tips of your toes. Jasper, do see those cunning little windows and those china images inside!"

"It seems as if they were all windows," said Jasper, scanning the tiny panes shining at them from all the cottages. "Dear me, the Broek women have something to do, don't they, to keep everything so shiny and clean?"

"Haven't they!" cried Polly. "Well, I don't wonder it is the cleanest place in all Holland. They must have to sit up all night and wash and scrub."

"It's the cleanest place on the whole earth, I imagine," laughed Jasper.

"But I should love to see some boys playing with mud pies," sighed Polly, running her glance up and down the immaculate road, and compassing all the tiny gardens possible to her range of vision.

"Mud pies!" exclaimed Jasper, in mock surprise. "Polly, how can you mention such a thing as dirt or mud here!"

"Jasper, do you suppose the children can have a good time here?" pursued Polly, anxiously, willing to give up the mud pies, if only reassured on the latter point, which seemed to her a very doubtful one.

"We'll hope so," answered Jasper. "See the klompen outside that door, Polly. Well, here we are at the dairy, Polly."

"And can I see the cows?" cried Phronsie. "Oh, Grandpapa is calling me," and off she ran.

And so he was calling her, as he and the parson had now reached the dairy door, under cover with the dwelling, which seemed much less an object of painstaking care than the house where the cows resided and the cheeses were made.

But everything was as neat as a pin in the house, though, and Polly and Jasper concluded they would explore the two rooms, as everybody seemed to be expected to do, after the main object of the visit was accomplished and the dairy inspected.

"Dear me, do they have to take their shoes off before they go in the house?" cried Polly.

"I suppose so," said Jasper. "Well, it isn't much trouble to get out of those sabots, that's one comfort for them."

"Dear me," Mrs. Fisher was saying, "if they haven't a carpet on the floor for the cows to walk on!" And there, surely, were strips of carpeting all down the walks between the rows of stalls, and something that looked like braided hemp in the bottom of the stalls themselves. And everything was tiled where it could be, with little tiles, and all these and every bit of the woodwork itself shone beautifully -- it was so clean and polished.

Mrs. Fisher's black eyes shone, too. "It's beautiful," she said to her husband, "to see everything so clean for once in the world."

"What are those hooks for?" asked Jasper of the stolid Dutchman, who showed them about, and who spoke English fairly well.

"We hook the cows' tails up so they won't shake any dirt on their sides," said the Dutchman.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Polly Pepper, and everybody laughed -- but she didn't.

"I think that is cruel," she said. "What do the poor things do to beat off the flies, pray tell?"

"Flies?" said Mother Fisher. "I don't suppose they ever see a fly here, Polly."

"They'd chase one worse than the dirt, I guess," said the little doctor.

"Oh," said Polly, with a sigh of relief.

"Come, Polly, let us go into the cheese room," suggested Jasper, peering in, for everything was connected and under one roof. "There's a man in there, and he is telling something;" so they skipped in, while Phronsie was bewailing that there were no cows there, and where were they?

"Why, Phronsie, they are all out in the fields. You wouldn't have them shut up this hot day," said Grandpapa.

"No," said Phronsie, swallowing the lump in her throat, "I wouldn't, Grandpapa; I'd much rather know they are having a nice time. I don't want them in here, I truly don't."

"That's a nice child," said old Mr. King, approvingly. "Well, now, we'll see how they make these wonderful Edam cheeses, Phronsie."

"I shall call this place the Cheesery," announced Polly, running about between the vats and the big press.

"Oh, Polly, that's a capital name," said Jasper. "So shall I call it the 'Cheesery' in my journal. Look at the rows and rows of them, Polly."

"And how round and yellow they are," said Polly; "just like pumpkins, aren't they? Wouldn't it be fine if we could take some home, to send to Badgertown? Dear Mrs. Beebe is so fond of cheese, Jasper."

"It is a pity; but we couldn't take cheeses very well. Fancy our trunks, Polly!" He wrinkled up his face; at sight of it Polly laughed merrily.

"No, of course not," she said; "but oh, how fine they look!"

"Grandpapa, I'd like to buy one," said Phronsie, overhearing a bit of this, and opening her little bag that hung on her arm, to get her purse.

"What in the world can you do with a Dutch cheese, child?" exclaimed old Mr. King.

"But I would like to buy one," persisted Phronsie. And after much diving Phronsie produced the little silk purse -- "Polly wants one, Grandpapa," she got up on her tiptoes to whisper confidentially.

"Oh, is that it?" said Mr. King. "Well, now, Phronsie, I don't really believe Polly wants one. You would better ask her. If she wants one you shall buy it for her."

So Phronsie ran off. "Do you, Polly? Do you?" then she gently pulled Polly's sleeve to make her hear, for Polly and Jasper were hanging on the description that the man in attendance was pouring forth.

"Do I what?" cried Polly, only half understanding, and lost in the thought of how much fun it must be to make little yellow cheeses, and set them up in rows to be taken to market.

" -- want one of those dear sweet little cheeses?" finished Phronsie.

"Yes, indeed," answered Polly, bobbing her head, and listening to the man with all her might.

"Yes, she does, Grandpapa," declared Phronsie, flying back, "she told me so her very own self."

"The goodness, she does!" exclaimed old Mr. King, "Well then, she shall have one. But pick out a small one, Phronsie, the very smallest you can find."

This was so much a work of time, Phronsie laying aside one selection after another, each yellow cheese looking so much better on comparison, that at last old Mr. King was almost in despair, and counselled the purchase of the last one that Phronsie set her eyes on. But meantime she had spied one on the upper shelf of all.

"There it is, Grandpapa," she cried, clapping her hands in delight, "the very littlest of all, and isn't it beautiful, Grandpapa, dear?"

"Indeed it is," assented Grandpapa, and he had the man lift it down and do it up; a piece of a Dutch newspaper again doing duty, when Phronsie held out her arms to receive it. "You can't carry it, child; give it to me. What in the world shall we do with the thing?" all this Grandpapa was uttering in one breath.

"Oh, Grandpapa, dear, I do so want to carry Polly's little yellow cheese," said Phronsie, the tears beginning to come in her eyes.

Grandpapa, who had taken the round parcel from her arms, looked from it to her with increasing perplexity. "Have the goodness to put a string around it, will you?" he said to the man who was regarding him stolidly, after satisfying himself that the coin Phronsie had drawn out of her purse and put in his hand was a good one.

"Yah, yah," said the man, and he brought out of one of his pockets a long piece of thick twine. This with much hard breathing accompanying the work, he proceeded to twist and interlace around the paper containing the little yellow cheese in such a way that when it was completed, Phronsie was carrying what looked like a little net basket, for there was a good strong twine handle sticking up, into which she put her small hand in great satisfaction.

When they all gathered in the living room of the house that had open doors into the cow-house and dairy, all being under one roof, they found a huge pile of photographs displayed of various views of the premises indoors and out.

"But they aren't half as nice as ours will be," whispered Jasper; "how many did you take, Polly?"

"Three," said Polly.

"Oh, Polly, didn't you get more than that?" said Jasper, quite disappointed for her, for Polly dearly loved to take photographs. "Oh, you've let Adela Gray take your kodak," he added; "it's a shame I didn't give you mine. Take it now, Polly," he begged, slinging off the leather strap from his shoulder.

"No, no," said Polly, "I don't want to, Jasper, and I wanted Adela to take it, and don't let her hear us, she may come back from the other room;" -- for Adela had disappeared with the kodak; "and it's all right, Jasper," she finished up incoherently.

"Aren't these queer beds, Mrs. Fisher?" the parson's wife was saying, peering into the shelves against the side of the wall, boarded up, with doors swung open inviting inspection.

"The idea of sleeping in one of them!" exclaimed Mrs. Fisher, inspecting the interior with a sharp eye. "They're clean enough and as neat as a pink" -- with a critical glance along the white lace spread and the immaculate pillow -- "but to be shut up in a box like that. I should as soon go to bed in a bureau drawer."

"So should I," laughed the parson's wife; "and look at the artificial flowers hanging up over the head, and that picture pinned, above the foot. Well, well, well, and so that is a Dutch bed!"

"There are a good many kinds and sorts of Dutch beds, I suppose," observed Mrs. Fisher, turning away, "just as there are a good many American ones; but I hope there aren't many of this particular kind."

"Jasper," exclaimed Polly, as they all filed decorously out of the "Model Farm," "how I do wish you and I could race down to the boat-landing!"

Jasper looked longingly down the washed and shining road. "So do I, Polly," he said, "but I suppose it wouldn't do; we should shock these natives."

"I suppose so," assented Polly, ruefully. Just then Phronsie came up holding with both hands her paper-covered, twine-netted little round yellow cheese.

"What in the world has Phronsie got!" exclaimed Polly, catching sight of her. "Come here, Pet," she called.

Phronsie hesitated. On Polly's calling her again she drew near, but more slowly than was her wont.

"What have you got, Phronsie?" asked Polly, wondering and not a little hurt by her manner. "A little basket of string; isn't it funny, and where did you get it?"

"It isn't a basket," corrected Phronsie, "and I cannot tell you now, Polly," said Phronsie, shaking her head.

"Why, Phronsie," began Polly in surprise; and she couldn't help it, her voice quavered in spite of her.

When Phronsie heard that, she was equally distressed, and at once decided to present the gift then instead of carrying it back to the hotel for Polly as she had at first intended. So she cast her burden into Polly's hands and piped out, "It's for you, Polly, a sweet little yellow cheese; you said you wanted it," and stood smiling and triumphant.

"Oh, my goodness me!" exclaimed Polly Pepper, standing quite still. Then she did shock the natives, for she sat right down in the road, with the cheese in her hands.



XIV

The Island Of Marken


When the boat was nearing the island of Marken, the little yellow cheese had been presented with all due formality to one of the sailors who had been specially kind in the matter of securing good seats for Mr. King's party, Polly and Phronsie having held a whispered conference in a retired nook, to come out of it bright and smiling.

"And now it has made two people happy, Phronsie," Polly had said, when the presentation was well over, and she ended up with a kiss. "It made me happy in the first place because you thought of me, and then, just think, Pet, that poor sailor, how glad he will be to take it home."

"Will he, Polly?" asked Phronsie, in a rapture; "and do you think he has got any little girls?"

"Perhaps so," said Polly, "and at any rate, he can eat it himself. And he looks hungry enough."

"I'd rather he had some little girls, Polly," said Phronsie, thoughtfully, "and have him give them each a piece."

"Well, maybe he has some; we'll think so, anyway," Polly answered. "Oh, see, Jasper is calling us."

To be sure, there he was on the other side of the boat nearest Marken, with a big group of passengers, intently watching the Marken children running along in their clacking sabots, on the high bank, and holding out their arms, singing something all the while in a shrill, high key.

"They want some stuivers," cried Jasper. "Come, Polly and Phronsie, let us toss them some."

Whiz -- spin -- went the coins, to fall into the thick stubby grass on the bank. The children, stopping their song in mid-air, scrambled and sprawled all over each other in their efforts to secure the coveted money. So Jasper and Polly threw the bits next time in the other direction. Then there was a shout and a rush, and the same thing was repeated till only a tangle of arms and legs could be seen. But some one of them always got the money.

"Dear me! they've eyes just like birds!" exclaimed Parson Henderson; "to think of finding anything in that thick grass."

"Let them alone for that," laughed old Mr. King; "their wits are sharpened by practice."

"Look out, Phronsie!" exclaimed Jasper. "Your stuivers went into the water. Here, I'll hold you up, then you can throw it farther. There you go," swinging her to his shoulder. "Now, then" -- he guided her hand, and away spun the coin.

"It did, it did," crowed Phronsie, from her high perch. "It did, Jasper, go right straight down in the grass just like yours and Polly's."

"So it did, Pet. Well, now, here is another."

"There's a little girl back there and she hasn't any," mourned Phronsie. "Oh, dear, I want to give her some."

"To be sure," said Jasper. "Well, we must give her some, and that's a fact." The small girl kept on at a dog-trot along the bank, her eyes fixed on the wonderful people who tossed out such magic wealth, and holding out her arms and singing her shrill song. But when the money was thrown, she was always a bit too late, and the other children, scrambling and scuffling, had pounced upon it, and had made off with it.

"Here, you boys, keep away; you've had enough; we're going to give this to the little girl," Jasper shouted to them as they threw coin after coin.

"They don't know what you are saying, my boy," said old Mr. King, laughing heartily at the performance, "and they wouldn't mind you in the least if they did."

"I suppose not," said Jasper in chagrin. "Oh, the mean little beggars!"

"Hold up your apron," screamed Polly to the little girl.

"That's a good idea," said Jasper. "Why didn't we think of it before?"

"She won't understand any better than the boys," said old Mr. King. "You forget, children, that these youngsters don't know our language."

"What a bother," exclaimed Jasper, "it is to have so many different languages, anyway!"

"And she hasn't any apron, Polly," corrected her mother; "that is her brown gown."

Polly was already going through the motions of holding up an imaginary apron. And at last the little girl understood by gestures what she could not possibly get into her head by words, so she picked up the skirt of her gown in her sturdy little fists, and one, two, three clinking coins fell safely into it. But the boys racing along in advance soon discovered this successful trick, and completely swarmed around her, howling dreadfully, so she hastened off, happy in her prize, which she huddled up in her gown as she ran.

"Isn't this just richness?" exclaimed Polly, gazing all about her in an ecstasy. "Oh, Jasper, what pictures we'll take -- and do see that woman's cap! and those pot-hooks of hair over her eyes, and that funny, long dangling curl!"

"Take care, Polly, you almost stepped off backward down the bank," warned Adela, pulling her back, as they got off the steamboat and stopped a bit to look around.

"Dear me, did I?" said Polly. "Well, it's enough to make any one step backward to see such funny clothes; and they are hay-making, Adela Gray, as sure as you live."

"Didn't you suppose they would be?" answered Adela, composedly. "Why, that's one of the things I specially wanted to see."

"Yes, so did I," said Polly. "Well, it's too, too splendid for anything. I'm going to begin to take pictures right straight off." Then she stopped and looked at Adela. "You may first," she said.

"No, I'm not going to," declared Adela.

"Yes, yes," said Polly, "I'd rather you did first; I truly had, Adela." She ran after her, for Adela had retreated down the bank, and made as if she were going to follow the party. "Now, Adela, be good and listen to reason."

But Adela ran off.

"Now that's too bad," mourned Polly, "for I'm afraid she'll keep away from me all the while we're on this island, and then I can't get a chance to give her my kodak at all."

"She had it at the 'Model Farm,'" said Jasper, by way of comfort, for Polly's face fell.

"Oh, that was nothing," said Polly, "such a little bit of a while doesn't count."

"Well, let us take pictures as fast as we can," suggested Jasper, "and then when we do come up with Adela, why you'll have yours done."

So Polly roused out of her dejection and set to work, and presently the hay-makers, and the Marken boys and girls, the funny little houses that looked as if they dropped down pellmell from the clouds and settled where they had dropped -- the high ridges along which the men and boys, walking in their full baggy trousers, looked as if they were blown up, and formed a Dutch perspective perfectly awful -- all these queer, delightful things were presently imprisoned in the two kodaks.

Jasper looked up. "There, that's my last picture," he declared. "At any rate, for now."

"Oh, one more! I must get a good picture of those girls raking hay." Polly ran off a few steps and sat down on a log to focus. The Marken girls happened to look up, and immediately whirled around and presented their backs to her.

"Oh, dear, how hateful!" she exclaimed; "that would have been a splendid picture."

"Never mind," said Jasper; "you can catch them unawares, and have another try at them."

"Not so good as that," said Polly, sorrowfully. "Well, it can't be helped." So she was just going to get up from her log, when the girls, thinking from her attitude that she had given up the idea of taking a picture of them, turned back to their work. As quick as a flash Polly focussed again, and was just touching the button, when a hand came in front of her kodak, and she saw the grinning face of a Marken girl under its pot-hook of hair and with the long, dangling curl on one side, close to her own.

"Too late!" exclaimed Polly. "And don't you ever do that again." And the hand was withdrawn, and the girl clattered off as fast as she could run in her wooden shoes.

"I got them," said Polly, running back in triumph to Jasper.

"Yes, and I took a picture of the saucy girl while she was trying to stop yours," said Jasper. "So she didn't do much harm, after all. Oh, here is a splendid group! See them standing by that old tumble-down house, Polly," he added excitedly.

"I thought you had taken your last picture, Jasper," said Polly, bursting into a laugh.

"Well, I had then, but I've begun again," said Jasper, recklessly. He walked up to the group and held out his hand, then pointed to his kodak. They smiled and nodded, showing all their teeth, and the mother took the littlest baby, for there seemed to be a very generous number of the smaller members of the family, and sat down with it in her lap on the rickety step. Then they all drew up stiff as sticks, and didn't even wink.

"That's capital," said Jasper, in huge satisfaction, pouring the coins into the mother's lap, where they rolled underneath the fat baby. Polly and he hurried on.

"Oh, Polly, I'm so very glad you've come," said Phronsie, as Polly and Jasper ran up to a doorway through which they could see their party. Phronsie stood just inside, and appeared to be watching for them. "There's a woman here who's been showing us things." There was Mrs. Fisher up by the tiny window, bending over an old woman who had spread out in her lap some white embroidered garments, while a young woman hovered near, smiling and blushing, and very happy at all this notice. And the rest of the party crowded up as close as they could.

"They are her daughter's wedding clothes," said Mrs. Fisher, "I do believe." For, the old woman was working fearfully hard to make them understand, and pointing first to the white garments and then to the young woman. "Wedding clothes?" asked Mrs. Fisher, speaking very slowly.

The old woman seemed to understand the one word "wedding," for she nodded furiously and smiled well pleased; and then devoted her whole time and energy to the display of the garments. And she even laughed aloud when old Mr. King put some coins in her hard hand.

Polly took the time to study her headgear. "I think there is a round board under the cap," she confided to Jasper when once out of doors; "how else could they be pulled so tight? And they look as hard as a drum."

"I didn't investigate," he said, laughing. "I'll leave that to you, Polly."

"Well, it's funny anyway," she said, "that all the women and girls dress alike in those queer gowns in two parts, and those embroidered jackets over their waists, and those caps and horrible pot-hooks and long curls."

"It's well that we've got so many pictures, for the people at home would never believe our stories without them."

"And these houses," continued Polly, squinting up at a crooked row, "all colours -- green stripes and black stripes -- and, O dear me! Jasper King, just look at Phronsie!"

Jasper followed the direction of Polly's finger. There sat Phronsie on a grassy bank a little above them, with one of the fattest Marken babies in her lap. A variegated group of natives was near by, watching her intently. But Phronsie didn't appear to notice them.

"Polly, I wish we had a baby just like this," sighed Phronsie, giving motherly pats to the stout little legs dangling down from her lap.

"Come, children," -- Grandpapa emerged from the little old house, -- "we must hurry on, else we sha'n't get through this island. Come, Phronsie -- goodness me!" as he saw how she was occupied.

"May I carry her?" begged Phronsie, staggering to her feet -- "she's mine" -- and dragging the Marken baby up with her.

"Goodness me! no, child!" exclaimed Grandpapa, in horror. "Put her down, Phronsie; she's ever so much too heavy for you, dear." He put forth a protesting hand, but the tears ran down Phronsie's cheeks and fell on the baby's stiff white cap. At that old Mr. King was quite gone in despair.

"Phronsie," Polly bent over and whispered close to the wet little cheek, "don't you see Grandpapa is feeling badly? I'm afraid he will be sick, Phronsie, if he is unhappy."

Phronsie dropped the pudgy little hand, and threw herself into old Mr. King's arms. "Don't be sick, Grandpapa," she wailed, struggling with her tears. "I'd rather not have my baby, please; I don't want her. Please be all well, Grandpapa, dear."



XV

Mr. King Does His Duty


Polly's face appeared over Adela's shoulder. "Don't!" said Adela, shrinking away into the corner of the big sofa, and putting her hands over something she held in her lap.

"Excuse me!" exclaimed Polly, tumbling back in amazement. "I wasn't looking. I don't want to see. I only meant to surprise you." She kept backing off toward the door, the colour all over her round cheek.

"You mustn't get mad, Polly," cried Adela, flying up straight to look at her, but still keeping her lap well covered.

Jasper, running in, heard the words. "Polly never gets mad," he said slowly, standing quite still.

"Well, she is now -- just as mad as can be," said Adela, in a fretful little voice; "look at her."

"Oh, I'm not mad, Adela," began Polly, "only sorry. And it's my fault, Jasper," seeing his face darken, "for I looked over her shoulder. I only wanted to surprise her; and Adela, of course, thought I wanted to see what she was doing."

"Yes," said Adela, "I did think so, Polly Pepper, and I don't want anybody to see it." With that she huddled the thing, whatever it was, down by her side, and ran out of the room as fast as she could go.

"A disagreeable creature," began Jasper, hotly; "and she's been a perfect nuisance all along to take her everywhere. Now we drop her, Polly." He looked more like his father at this moment than Polly had ever seen him before.

"Oh, no, Jasper," she remonstrated in dismay.

"Yes, we drop her like a hot cake," said Jasper, decidedly; "that would be my opinion, Polly."

"But we can't, she's so alone," went on Polly; "and, besides, she's troubled about something. That's what makes her feel so."

"It's a queer way to bear trouble, I should think, to abuse you," said Jasper, "when you've been bothering yourself about her all this time."

"Oh, I don't mind," said Polly, brightening up, "if only you won't talk of our dropping her, Jasper."

Jasper turned on his heel, and walked to the window. When he looked back, the annoyance had dropped out of his face, and he was just saying, "All right, Polly, it ought to be as you say, I'm sure," when Adela Gray rushed into the room and up to Polly, and flung her arms around her neck. "There, and there, and there!" and something tumbled into Polly's hands.

"I didn't want anybody to see it," mumbled Adela, "for I've spoiled it; and I was trying to rub out the spots when you came in, and I made it worse than ever. But I'll give it to you now, Polly; and please tear it up, and I'll make you another."

When this long speech was all mumbled out, Polly was looking at a little sketch of Phronsie holding the fat Marken baby, and the Marken people looking on.

"Oh, Jasper!" screamed Polly, "do come here! Oh, Adela, did you draw this? And oh! how perfectly beautiful!" all in one breath.

"It is a good thing," said Jasper, taking the drawing from Polly's hand and examining it critically, while Polly threw her arms around Adela, and oh-ed and ah-ed her delight at finding that she could draw and sketch so beautifully; and now to think of having this lovely picture of Phronsie!

"But, you must tear it up," said Adela, in alarm, "else I'm sorry I gave it to you, Polly."

"Tear it up!" repeated Polly, in astonishment; "tear up this lovely picture of Phronsie! What do you mean, Adela Gray?"

"Oh, I've a copy, of course," said Adela, carelessly; "and I'm going to do you another better one."

"Where did you learn to draw so well?" asked Jasper, in admiration of the bold, accurate lines, and the graceful curves.

"In school, at Paris," said Adela, quietly.

Polly looked over Jasper's arm, and scanned the sketch. "I never saw anything so lovely!" she exclaimed. "And it's just alive! Isn't it, Jasper?"

"Yes, it is splendid," he said enthusiastically; "and that's the best part of it -- it's alive, Polly, as you say."

"I'd give anything in all this world, Adela, if I could draw like that," mourned Polly.

"I'd rather play on the piano," said Adela, "than do all the drawing in the world. But I can't learn; the music master said there was something the matter with my ear, and I never could tell one note from another by the sound. I do so wish I could play on the piano, Polly Pepper!" she added discontentedly.

"Well, Jasper can do both, -- play on the piano, and draw, too," said Polly.

"I can't draw like this," said Jasper, holding the sketch off at arm's length to view it again. "I couldn't if I were to try a thousand years."

"Oh, Jasper!" exclaimed Polly, who couldn't bear to think there was anything that he could not do.

"Well, I can't," said Jasper.

"Let me see some of your sketches," begged Adela. "It's so nice to find some one else who can draw. Do show me some."

"Oh, no," protested Jasper, in dismay, "not after this," pointing to Adela's drawing.

"Do, Jasper," begged Polly, imploringly, "get your portfolio."

"Oh, I couldn't bring them all in," said Jasper. "I wouldn't show those old things for the world, Polly."

"Well, bring some of them, do," she begged, while Adela said, "I showed mine, and I didn't want to, I'm sure." So Jasper ran up to his room, and pretty soon he came back with his portfolio.

"You did bring it, after all," exclaimed Polly, in satisfaction, patting the brown leather cover. "Oh, how nice of you, Jasper," as they ran over and ensconced themselves in a cosey corner.

"I took out the worst ones," said Jasper, with a laugh. "And I'm awfully sorry I didn't leave behind more of the others."

"I hope you brought that woman with a basket of vegetables we saw at the market the other day," said Polly, as he opened the portfolio. "Do tell me, Jasper, you did bring that, didn't you?" beginning to fumble through the pile.

"Yes, I did, Polly," said Jasper; "she's in there all safe and sound."

So for the next hour, there was great turning over and comparing of sketches, and much talk about vertical lines and graceful curves, and shading and perspective, and expression, and dear knows what all, as the three heads bent over the portfolio. So intent were they all, that no one heard Grandpapa come in, and he sat there in a farther corner, for a good quarter of an hour. At last Polly looked up and saw him.

"Oh, Grandpapa!" she cried, flying off from the group, and carrying Adela's sketch in her hand. "Just see what a perfectly beautiful picture of Phronsie! Adela Gray made it. She draws splendidly, Grandpapa."

Old Mr. King took the little sketch and fairly beamed at it.

"It's very like, -- it is excellent," he declared, caring nothing for its merits as a drawing, but only seeing Phronsie as she sat with the big Marken baby in her lap on the stubbly bank.

"Isn't it, Grandpapa?" cried Polly, overflowing with happiness; "and she has given it to me, Grandpapa. Oh, isn't she good!"

"She is, indeed," assented old Mr. King, just as well pleased as Polly. "A very good girl, indeed. Come here, Adela."

Adela, whose sharp ears had caught most of this dialogue at the other end of the room, -- although Jasper was keeping a steady fire of talk to drown it if possible, -- was looking in dismay at him.

"O dear me, I wish they'd stop," she breathed in distress.

"I thought you said you had no ear," said Jasper, laughing at her face.

"I can't tell music notes," she said, "but I can hear things."

"Yes, I should think you could," he said. And then came old Mr. King's "Come here, Adela," so she had to go across the room, shaking every step of the way, and stand in front of him.

"I didn't know we had such a good little artist among us," said Grandpapa, wonderfully well pleased and smiling kindly at her.

"That is nothing," said Adela, in despair at ever stopping the flow of praise. "I spoiled it, and I'm going to do Polly a better one."

"Nothing could be better, my dear," said Grandpapa, blandly; "it is a fine likeness of Phronsie." And then he questioned her as to her training in the art, and what she meant to do in the future, and where she intended to study and all that, getting an immense amount of information so artfully that Adela never for an instant suspected his reason. All the time he was holding the sketch of Phronsie in his hand, and intently gazing on it most of the time.

"Well," he said at last, "I won't keep you young people any longer," -- for Jasper had thrown down the portfolio and joined the group, -- "so run back to your own corner. Dear me," pulling out his watch, "it's only twenty minutes to luncheon. How time does fly, to be sure! To-morrow morning, remember, we are off for Antwerp."

"O dear, dear!" exclaimed Polly, as they ran back and bent over the portfolio again, "we haven't half seen Amsterdam, Jasper."

"No, and you wouldn't if you stayed a year," observed Jasper, wisely.

"We must go over to the Ryks Museum once more," said Polly.

"Yes, let us go there directly after luncheon," proposed Jasper. "I know what you want to do, Polly, -- sit in front of 'The Night Watch' again."

"Yes, I do," said Polly. "I couldn't go away without seeing that picture once more, Jasper."

"I don't like that 'Night Watch,'" said Adela, "it's too dark and too smutty. I don't see why people like it so much."

"Well, I do like it very much," reiterated Polly. "I know it's dreadfully dark, but the people in front seem to be stepping right out of the shadows, and to be alive. It seems to me they are just going to come right up toward me, as I sit there."

"And that, after all, I suppose is the best thing one can say of a picture," said Jasper. "And it is always the finest time to look at that picture in the afternoon, you know, so we will go there, Polly, after luncheon."

"And then Phronsie will want to see that picture of a woman with a cat, I suppose," said Polly. "Dear me, who was it that painted that, Jasper? I never can remember the artists' names."

"Metsu was it -- Jan -- no, Gabriel -- Metsu," answered Jasper, wrinkling his brows. "Neither can I remember all those fellows' names. Yes, indeed, you'll find Phronsie won't let us go there without paying respects to her special picture."

"And then I suppose Grandpapa will take us for a last drive in Vondel Park. Oh, what nice times we have had, Jasper King!" exclaimed Polly, leaning back against the sofa, and clasping her hands restfully. "I just love Amsterdam! And I hate to leave it!"

"So you said about The Hague, Polly," observed Jasper, turning to her with a little laugh.

"Well, wasn't it perfectly beautiful?" asked Polly, flying up straight again. "Just think of that dear 'House in the Wood,' Jasper."

"I know it; you wanted to go there day after day," laughed Jasper.

"Why, we only went there three times," said Polly, "I'm sure, Jasper. And the picture-gallery -- "

"That is in the Maurit -- rit, whatever is the rest of it? Oh, I know," said Jasper, guilty of interrupting, "Mauritshuis, that is where the picture-gallery is, Polly."

"Yes, that's it," echoed Polly; "it's fine -- Paul Potter's 'Bull' is there."

"Oh, I want to see that picture very much!" exclaimed Adela. "I've never been to The Hague."

"Well, you'll go, perhaps, sometime," said Polly, with an uncomfortable feeling that she ought not to enjoy the things that Adela hadn't seen. "And you are going to Antwerp with us to-morrow, anyway," she added, brightening up.

"Yes," said Adela, "Grandmamma is really going there. But that's all; for we go straight over to England then, and I sha'n't see you ever again, Polly Pepper," she finished gloomily.

And that evening Grandpapa sat down by little old Mrs. Gray in the parlour after dinner, and though he began about something as far distant as possible, before long he was talking about Adela, and her wonderful talent. And the most surprising thing about it all was, that the little old lady, not intending to do it in the least, nor really comprehending how much she was telling, soon had him informed on all that he had set his heart on learning -- how Adela had just been taken from the Paris school, because the little fortune her father had left, had somehow shrunk up, and there was no more money to keep her there. "I can't tell how it is, sir," she mourned, raising her faded eyes under the widow's cap to the kind old face above her, "I thought there was enough to educate my grandchild; it wasn't a big sum, but I supposed it was quite sufficient; but now it appears to be almost gone, and I have only just enough to keep me." She didn't add that the curate, her husband, when he crept into his grave, in the English churchyard, had left her nothing but the memory of his good name, her small means coming as a legacy from some of his grateful friends, they, too, long since dead.

Old Mr. King made no comment, only passed on with a few little leading remarks when the information seemed to be on the wane. And then he said he thought he would like a game of backgammon, and he challenged the parson to come on and be beaten. And at an early hour the party broke up. "For remember," said Grandpapa, for about the fiftieth time that day, "it's Antwerp to-morrow!"

So it was at Antwerp that the whole splendid business was concluded. And when the story of it came out, there was a regular jubilee all around. For were not Adela and Adela's grandmother going with the King party around a bit more on the continent, and then off to Paris again, and back to the beloved school -- Grandpapa's gift to the girl with the talent, to keep it alive!

And the little widow, stunned at first by the magnitude of the gift, could do nothing but feebly protest, "Oh, no, sir!" and put up both shaking hands to ward off the benefaction.

"It's your duty, Madam," said Mr. King, sternly, at which she shrank down farther in her chair. "Who knows what such talent will do in the world? and it's my duty to see that it is kept alive, -- nothing more nor less than a question of duty."

He stamped up and down the room vehemently, and the little old lady protesting that she wanted to do her duty, -- she was sure she always did, -- the hardest part was over, and old Mr. King chuckled to himself triumphantly.

"And now," cried Polly, in a transport, when the first surprise was over, and everybody had settled down to the quiet enjoyment of it all, "we've really and truly got a celebrated artist all to ourselves," and she drew herself up in pride.

"I'm not celebrated yet," said Adela, with two little red spots on her cheeks, and with happy eyes on her grandmother. "You had better wait till I am."

"Oh, well; you will be," said Polly, confidently, "sometime, and then we can say 'yes, we knew her when she was a girl,' and we'll go to picture-galleries the same as we do here, and see your name stuck up in the corners of the very best ones, Adela."



XVI

"Let Us Fly At Those Books"


"Now, Polly, in Antwerp," said Jasper, "we can see Rubens to perfection. Won't we just revel in his paintings, though!"

"Won't we!" ejaculated Polly. "I'm so glad Grandpapa came here to this hotel." She leaned out of the window as she spoke.

"Under the very eaves of the Cathedral, almost, isn't it?" said Jasper, in satisfaction.

The chimes just then pealed out. Indeed, it seemed as if they did nothing but ring, so short were the intervals. But to Polly and Jasper they brought only echoes of delight.

"There are forty of those bells, aren't there?" asked Polly, resting her elbows on the window-sill.

"I believe so," answered Jasper, absently. Polly looked at him curiously.

"Polly," he said abruptly, "do you know what I mean to do?"

"No," said Polly; "tell me, do, Jasper."

"Well, I mean to sit right down and finish my book. I'm ashamed to confess that it's not up to date."

"Neither is mine," confessed Polly.

"Well, now, that won't do," said Jasper, decidedly. "You see if we once let those books get behindhand, we're lost. We never can catch up, in all this world."

"We've had so much to do and to see," began Polly.

"That won't be any excuse that will amount to anything," said Jasper, shaking his head. "Let's fly at them and tackle them now, Polly."

"I say so, too," she cried, and deserting the window, they surrounded the centre-table, and soon had the big journals, photographs, and pictures, of every sort and size, the ink bottle, and library paste, scissors, and all the rest of the paraphernalia, spread out on it.

"It's good that Grandpapa is lying down and doesn't wish to go out," remarked Polly, snipping away at a fearful rate, and pausing only to write down the dates and other bits of information around each picture, as she pasted it in. "Now we'll have all this morning to finish these books up to to-day."

"And none too much for the job," said Jasper, sagely. "I declare I shall feel like enjoying myself twice as well, when once they're up to date. They've been hanging round my conscience every day since I slackened work on them."

"And I am so glad you made me come away from that window, and set to work," said Polly, "or I never would have commenced on mine to-day."

"Oh, yes, you would, I think, Polly," said Jasper. "Well, we are at it now, and that's enough. Now says I, I'm on book No. 2!" And he flapped down the cover of the completed one. "That's done, thank fortune!"

"Oh, Jasper, have you the green one done?" asked Polly. "Why, I have three more pages of mine to do."

"Well, you'll catch up on the red one, I dare say," said Jasper, opening No. 2. "We are getting on famously, aren't we, Polly?" glancing over at her work.

"Yes, and I'm so glad you proposed this way to keep a journal," said Polly, "to have them labelled 'My Notes on My European Journey,' and to have No. 1 green, and No. 2 red, and so on all through the rest of the colours."

"That will help us to find them in a hurry," said Jasper, "and keep them distinct; but I didn't propose it, Polly, about the books. It was your plan as much as mine."

"No." Polly was guilty of contradicting. "I never should have thought of having the books of different colours and labelling them in that way, Jasper."

"Well, you first thought of cutting out pictures and all sorts of items, and then writing the dates and whatever else we wanted to around the pictures," said Jasper. "I'm sure that's more important than the title of the book, Polly."

"Well, won't the boys love to see them," asked Polly, suddenly, with a light in her eyes, ignoring the question as to her claim to the idea, "when we get home, Jasper?"

"Won't they, though!" he responded, falling to work with a will.

And so Antwerp was entered with clear consciences as to journals, and a strict determination not to fall behind again on them.

But Polly slipped in so many of the beautiful photographs of the "Descent from the Cross," and the other two famous pictures by Rubens, that her red book was closed the third day of their stay in the old town of Antwerp; and the photographs had even overflowed into the yellow book, No. 3.

They had a habit, most of their party, of dropping into the Cathedral once a day at least, usually in the morning, and sometimes before service. And then when it was quiet, and before the ordinary throng of sight-seers trailed through, Jasper would hire some chairs of one of the old women who always seem to be part and parcel of European cathedrals; and they would sit down before the painting, its wings spread over the dingy green background, and study what has made so many countless travellers take long and oftentimes wearisome journeys to see.

And Polly always wanted to go after that to see the "Assumption," which is the altar-piece, and then the "Elevation of the Cross," both by Rubens. "And I am sure, Grandpapa," she would always say, "I like them as well as I do the famous painting."

"And so do I, Polly, in a way," Grandpapa would invariably reply. "They are all marvellous, and that is all we can say, for no expressions could give the truth about them."

After the Cathedral, which they loved all the more, -- "for being perched under its eaves" (as Polly always said when speaking of the hotel that was for the time being their home), -- Polly and Jasper set next in their regard the Musee Plantin-Moretus. They were never tired of running down there to the Marché du Vendredi, until it became a regular question every day at dinner, "Well, what more have you discovered at the Musee Plantin?"

And old Mr. King would often answer, for he was as interested as the young people, "Marvellous things." And then he would expatiate on the antique furniture, the paintings, engravings, and tapestries, till the little doctor, fresh from his hospital visitations, would remark that it was just as good as if he had time to visit the place, to hear Grandpapa tell it all. And Adela would bring out her little sketches, which now she was not averse to showing, since everybody was so kind and sympathising, and there would be some little nook or corner of corridor or court that Polly would fall upon and pronounce, "Just perfect, and how did you get it?"

"Oh, I just drew a bit now and then when you were looking at things," said Adela, carelessly.

"Everything just dances off your pencil," said Polly, wishing she could draw, and wondering if it was any use for her to try to learn.

And every afternoon they would go to drive as usual, very often around the docks, which gave them all a good idea of this wonderful port. They were never tired of watching the hydraulic cranes, of inspecting the dry docks; the intertwining railways by which all the docks, large and small, are connected, and the two basins, Le Petit and Le Grand Bassin.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Jasper, on one of these occasions, "I thought Amsterdam docks were huge affairs, but Antwerp!" And he left his sentence in mid-air, which was more impressive after all.

But Parson Henderson liked the church of St. Jacques best of all things in Antwerp, and he used to steal away mornings to go there again and again. And he asked Polly and Jasper to go there with him one day, and Polly begged to have Adela go too, and they all came home as enthusiastic as he was.

And then suddenly Mr. King would wrench them all off from this delightful study and put his foot down peremptorily. "No more cathedrals for a time," he would declare; "my old head cannot carry any more just yet." And he would propose a little in-letting of fun. And then off they would go a-shopping, or to the Zoological Gardens; and they always had concerts, of course, wherever they were, for Polly and Jasper's sakes, if for no other reason. And by and by somebody announced, one fine morning, that they had been in Antwerp a fortnight.

And then one day Mother Fisher looked into Polly's brown eyes, and finding them tired, she calmly tucked Polly quietly in bed. "Why, Mamsie," declared Polly, "I'm not sick."

"No, and I'm not going to have you be," observed Mrs. Fisher, sensibly. "This running about sight-seeing is more tiresome, child, than you think for, and dreadfully unsettling unless you stop to rest a bit. No, Jasper," as he knocked at the door, "Polly can't go out to-day, at least not this morning. I've put her to bed."

"Is Polly sick, Mrs. Fisher?" called Jasper, in great concern.

"No, not a bit," answered Mrs. Fisher, cheerily, "but she's tired. I've seen it coming on for two or three days back, so I'm going to take it in time."

"And can't she come out, to-day?" asked Jasper, dreadfully disappointed, with a mind full of the host of fine things they had planned to do.

"No, Jasper," said Mother Fisher, firmly, "not to jaunt about." So Jasper took himself off, feeling sure, despite his disappointment, that Polly's mother was right.

And there was another person who wholly agreed with Mother Fisher, and that was old Mr. King. "If you can stop those young folks from killing themselves running about to see everything, you'll do more than I can, Mrs. Fisher," he observed. "It makes no difference how long I plan to stay in a town, so as to do it restfully, if they won't rest."

"That is a fact," said Mother Fisher. "Well, that's my part to see that they do rest."

"I don't envy you the job," said the old gentleman, drily.

Polly fidgeted and turned on her pillow, knowing Mamsie was right, but unable to keep from thinking of the many beautiful plans that Jasper and she had formed for that very morning, till her head spun round and round. "I can't get to sleep," she said at last.

"Don't try to," said her mother, dropping the heavy wool curtains till the room was quite dark; "that's the worst thing in the world to do, if you want to rest. Just lie still and don't try to think of anything."

"But I can't help thinking," said poor Polly, feeling sure that Jasper was dreadfully disappointed at the upsetting of all the plans.

"Never say you can't help anything, Polly," said her mother, coming over to the bedside to lay a cool hand on Polly's hot forehead, and then to drop a kiss there; and somehow the kiss did what all Polly's trying had failed to accomplish.

"That's good, Mamsie," she said gratefully, and drew a long, restful breath.

Mother Fisher went out and closed the door softly.

It was just three o'clock that afternoon when Polly woke up.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully ashamed!" she exclaimed when she found it out. "I've slept almost this whole day!"

Mother Fisher smiled, "And it's the best day's work you've done in one long while, Polly," she said.

"And here's my girl, Polly," cried Grandpapa, when she ran down to him, and holding her at arm's length, he gazed into her bright eyes and on her rosy cheeks. "Well, well, your mother's a clever woman, and no mistake."

So Polly knew if she didn't take care and not get tired again, she would be tucked into bed another fine day.

It was a long summer morning, and they were sailing up the Rhine, with the delights of Brussels and Cologne behind them, and in between the covers of the purple book, No. 4, Polly had been looking at ruined castles and fortresses, at vine-clad terraces, and châlets, until she turned to Grandpapa with a sigh.

"Tired, Polly, little woman?" he said, cuddling her up against him.

"No, not tired, Grandpapa," said Polly, "but, oh, there's so very much of it over here in Europe."

"If you've found that out, you've learned the lesson early," said old Mr. King, with a laugh. "As many times as I've been over here, there's nothing that surprises me so much as the presumption with which we travellers all rush about, expecting to compass all there is."

"But we ought to see everything," said Polly, "oughtn't we, Grandpapa, when we've come so far to see it?" and she looked troubled.

"There's just where you are wrong, Polly, child," said old Mr. King. "And this 'ought to see,' why, it's an old dragon, Polly, lying in wait to destroy. Don't you let it get hold of you, but take my advice and see only what you can make your own and remember. Then you've got it."



XVII

Polly Wrote A Nice Little Note


"Polly," said Jasper, running down the stairs after her, on her way to the little garden on the terrace at Heidelberg, "here's something for you; just came in the mail."

"For me," said Polly, as he put a little parcel in her hand.

"Yes," said Jasper, "father just gave it to me."

"What can it be!" cried Polly, wonderingly; "oh, something from Alexia or one of the other girls, most likely," and she tore off the outer wrapper.

"It is registered," said Jasper, "and Mr. Henderson got it out for you, father said; that can't be from one of the girls, Polly," as the next layer of paper dropping off, disclosed the name of one of the biggest of big London jewellers across a wooden box.

"What can it be!" gasped Polly, tugging at the cover.

"Here -- let me." Jasper essayed to open it, but it stuck fast in the slide. Another pull, and a little red leather case appeared in view.

"What in the world -- " began Polly; "oh, it can't be for me!" and she stood staring at it, without any attempt to take it out.

"It must be for you, Polly," said Jasper. "There couldn't be any other Miss Mary Pepper, and besides it is addressed to father's care, and comes through our bankers, -- see here." He stooped, and picked up the outer wrapper; it was torn almost in two, but the name and address was all there.

So Polly lifted out the little red leather case, still feeling very much as if she were opening a parcel belonging to some one else, and touching a spring at the end, the top flew up, and there on a white satin bed lay a little green enamelled watch set with diamonds.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, tumbling back in the utmost distress, "now I have got some one else's box, Jasper. How very dreadful!"

"Let us go to father," said Jasper, feeling this quite beyond him. "Shut the box up tight, Polly; it might tumble out on the way."

"You carry it, do, Jasper," begged Polly, with an eye askance at the little case; and snapping the cover down, she set it in his hand.

"All right, now, then," said Jasper. "We must carry these papers, and wooden box, and the whole business. Don't worry, Polly," seeing her face, "father will straighten it out."

"Give me the wrapper, Jasper, and the wooden box, if only you'll take the other," said Polly, feeling very much depressed at coming into possession of other people's property; and Jasper followed with the little enamelled watch.

And Grandpapa was just as much astounded as was Polly herself; and all the family congregating in Mother Fisher's room, the little watch was handed about from one to the other, and everybody stared at everybody else, and the mystery thickened every moment. And the strangest thing about it was that no one opened the little back cover where any one might have read: -- 

"Polly Pepper, from her grateful friend, Arthur Selwyn."

 -- until the middle of the night, when Jasper was awakened by a noise as if some one were prowling around in his father's room. He started up and listened.

"It's I," said old Mr. King's voice. So Jasper threw on his wrapper, and hurried in. There sat his father, in dressing-gown and slippers, by the table, with the little enamelled watch in his hand.

"Of all the idiots, Jasper," he exclaimed, "your father is the very worst. I've only just this moment thought to look in here." He flashed the little watch around in Jasper's face; it was now opened at the back.

"Dear me!" cried Jasper, for want of anything better to say, as he read the inscription. Then he looked helplessly at his father.

"Earl or no earl, this piece of foolishness goes back," fumed old Mr. King, getting out of his chair, and beginning to march back and forth across the floor as he always did when irritated. "Yes, sir, the very first thing in the morning," he repeated, as vehemently as if Jasper had contradicted him.

"But, father -- " began the boy.

"Yes, sir, it goes back, I tell you," repeated his father, now well wrought up to a passion. "What right has he to send such a piece of foolishness to my Polly Pepper? I can give her all the watches she needs. And this trumpery," pointing to the jewelled gift still lying in Jasper's hand, "is utterly unfit for a schoolgirl. You know that yourself, Jasper."

"But Polly was kind to him," began Jasper, again.

"Kind to him!" snorted his father, "don't I know that? Of course she was. Polly Pepper would be kind to any one. But that's no reason why the old idiot should presume to give her such a silly and expensive present as that. The man doesn't know anything who would do such a thing. And this one is queerer than the average."

"As you say, he is eccentric," observed Jasper, seeing here a loophole by which to get in a soothing word.

"Eccentric? That's a mild way to put it," fumed his father. "He's odder than Dick's hatband. Heaven save Old England if many of her earls are like him. Well, I shall just write the fellow a decent sort of a note, and then I'll pack the box off to him, and that'll be the end of the matter."

"I'm afraid Polly will be sorry," said Jasper, feeling at a standstill so far as finding the right word was concerned, for everything he uttered only seemed to make matters worse. So he said the best thing he could think of, and stopped short.

"Sorry?" Old Mr. King came to a dead stop and glared at him. "You can't mean that Polly Pepper would like me to keep that watch. It's the last thing on earth that she would want, such a gewgaw as that. Why, the child hates the sight of it already as much as I do."

"I don't think Polly would want the watch," said Jasper, quickly. "I know she doesn't like it, and I'm sure I wish I could smash it myself," he added in a burst.

"That's the most sensible thing you've said yet, Jasper," said his father, with a grim smile.

"But she would feel dreadfully for you to send it back, for don't you see, father, that would hurt his feelings? And Polly would worry awfully to have that happen."

Old Mr. King turned uneasily, took a few steps, then came back to throw himself into his chair again.

"And this old gentleman has such ill attacks," said Jasper, pursuing his advantage, "that it might be the very thing to bring one on if he should get that watch back."

"Say no more, say no more, Jasper," said his father, shortly; "put this thing up for tonight, and then get back to bed again." And Jasper knew that was the end of it.

And the next day Polly wrote a nice little note, thanking the old earl for his gift, and hoping that he was quite well; and with so many other pleasant things in it, that if she could have seen him when he received it, she would have been glad indeed. And then she handed the little red leather case to Mr. King. "Keep it for me, Grandpapa," she said simply.

"All right, Polly, my child," he said. And then everybody forgot all about the episode and proceeded to enjoy Heidelberg.

"I'm so sorry for people who are not going to Bayreuth, Adela!" exclaimed Polly, looking out of the compartment window, as the train steamed rapidly on from Nuremberg where they had passed several days of delight revelling in the old town.

Adela, with her mind more on those past delights, had less attention for thoughts of music, so she answered absently, "Yes. Oh, Polly, wasn't that Pentagonal Tower fine? What is it they call it in German?"

But Polly didn't hear, being absorbed in the Wagner festival of which her mind was full, so Jasper answered for her. "Alt-Nuenberg, you mean, the oldest building of all Nuremberg."

"Yes," said Adela, "well, I got two or three sketches of that tower."

"Did you?" cried Jasper, "now that's good."

"And I got that horrible old robber-knight, -- what's his name? -- sitting inside his cell, you know."

"Eppelein von Gallingen," supplied Jasper. "Well, he was a horrible-looking customer, and that's a fact."

"Oh, I liked him," said Adela, who rejoiced in ugly things if only picturesque, "and I got into one corner of the cell opposite him, so as to sketch it all as well as I could in such a dark place, and a lady came down the little stairs; you remember them."

"I rather think I do," said Jasper, grimly. "I was trying to get out of the way of a huge party of tourists, and I nearly broke my neck."

"Well, this lady came down the stairs. I could see her where I sat, but she couldn't see me, it was so dark in the cell; and she called to her husband -- I guess he was her husband, because he looked so triste." Adela often fell into French, from being so long at the Paris school, and not from affectation in the least. "And she said, 'Come, Henry, let us see what is in there.' And she took one step in, and peered into that robber-knight's face; you know how he is sitting on a little stool, his black hair all round his face, staring at one."

"Yes, I do," said Jasper; "he was uncanny enough, and in the darkness, his wax features, or whatever they were made of, were unpleasantly natural to the last degree."

"Well," said Adela, "the lady gave a little squeal, and tumbled right back into her husband's arms. And I guess she stepped on his toes, for he squealed, too, though in a different way, and he gave her a little push and told her not to be a goose, that the man had been dead a thousand years more or less and couldn't hurt her. So then she stepped back, awfully scared though, I could see that, and then she caught sight of me, and she squealed again and jumped, and she screamed right out, 'Oh, there's another in there, in the corner, and it glared at me.' And I didn't glare at all," finished Adela, in disdain. "And then I guess he was scared, too, for he said, 'That old cell isn't worth seeing, anyway, and I'm going down into the torture chamber,' and they hurried off."

"That torture chamber!" exclaimed Jasper; "how any one can hang over those things, I don't see; for my part, I'd rather have my time somewhere else."

"Oh, I like them," said Adela, in great satisfaction, "and I've got a picture of the 'Iron Virgin.'"

"That was a good idea, to put the old scold into that wooden tub concern," said Jasper; "there was some sense in that. I took a picture of it, and the old tower itself. I got a splendid photograph of it, if it will only develop well," he added. "Oh, but the buildings -- was ever anything so fine as those old Nuremberg houses, with their high-peaked gables! I have quantities of them -- thanks to my kodak."

"What's this station, I wonder?" asked Polly, as the train slowed up.

Two ladies on the platform made a sudden dash at their compartment. "All full," said the guard, waving them off.

"That was Fanny Vanderburgh," gasped Polly.

"And her mother," added Jasper.

"Who was it?" demanded old Mr. King.

His consternation, when they told him, was so great, that Jasper racked his brains some way to avoid the meeting.

"If once we were at Bayreuth, it's possible that we might not come across them, father, for we could easily be lost in the crowd."

"No such good luck," groaned old Mr. King, which was proved true. For the first persons who walked into the hotel, as the manager was giving directions that the rooms reserved for their party should be shown them, were Mrs. Vanderburgh and her daughter.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Vanderburgh, as if her dearest friends were before her, "how glad I am to see you again, dear Mr. King, and you all." She swept Mrs. Fisher and Mrs. Henderson lightly in her glance as if toleration only were to be observed toward them. "We have been perfectly désolée without you, Polly, my dear," she went on, with a charming smile. "Fanny will be happy once more. She has been disconsolate ever since we parted, I assure you."

Polly made some sort of a reply, and greeted Fanny, as of old times, on the steamer; but Mrs. Vanderburgh went on, all smiles and eagerness -- so rapidly in her friendly intentions, that it boded ill for the future peace of Mr. King's party. So Mr. King broke into the torrent of words at once, without any more scruple. "And now, Mrs. Vanderburgh, if you will excuse us, we are quite tired, and are going to our rooms." And he bowed himself off, and of course his family followed; the next moment Fanny and her mother were alone.

"If this is to be the way," said Mrs. Vanderburgh, with a savage little laugh, "we might much better have stayed in Paris, for I never should have thought, as you know, Fanny, of coming to this out-of-the-way place, seeing that I don't care for the music, if I hadn't heard them say on the steamer that this was their date here."

"Well, I wish that I was at home," declared Fanny, passionately, "and I never, never will come to Europe, Mamma, again as long as I live. You are always chasing after people who run away from you, and those who like me, you won't let me speak to."

"Well, I shall be thankful for the day when you are once in society," said her mother, every shred of self-control now gone; "and I shall sell my tickets for this old Wagner festival, and go back to Paris to-morrow morning."

At that, Fanny broke into a dismal fit of complaining, which continued all the time they were dressing for dinner, and getting settled in their room, and then at intervals through that meal.

Polly looked over at her gloomy face, three tables off, and her own fell.

"You are not eating anything, child," said Grandpapa, presently, with a keen glance at her. "Let me order something more."

"Oh, no, Grandpapa," and "yes, I will," she cried, incoherently, making a great effort to enjoy the nice things he piled on her plate.

Jasper followed her glance as it rested on the Vanderburgh table. "They will spoil everything," he thought. "And to think it should happen at Bayreuth."

"Yes, we are going," said Fanny Vanderburgh as they met after dinner in the corridor. Her eyes were swollen, and she twisted her handkerchief in her fingers. "And I did -- did -- did -- " here she broke down and sobbed -- "so want to hear the Wagner operas."

"Don't cry," begged Polly, quite shocked. "Oh, Fanny, why can't you stay? How very dreadful to lose the Wagner music!" Polly could think of no worse calamity that could befall one.

"Mamma doesn't know anybody here except your party," mumbled Fanny, "and she's upset, and declares that we must go back to Paris to-morrow. Oh, Polly Pepper, I hate Paris," she exploded. And then sobbed worse than ever.

"Wait here," said Polly, "till I come back." Then she ran on light feet to Grandpapa, just settling behind a newspaper in a corner of the general reading room.

"Grandpapa, dear, may I speak to you a minute?" asked Polly, with a woful feeling at her heart. It seemed as if he must hear it beating.

"Why, yes, child, to be sure," said Mr. King, quite surprised at her manner. "What is it?" and he laid aside his paper and smiled reassuringly.

But Polly's heart sank worse than ever. "Grandpapa," she began desperately, "Fanny Vanderburgh is feeling dreadfully."

"And I should think she would with such a mother," exclaimed the old gentleman, but in a guarded tone. "Well, what of it, Polly?"

"Grandpapa," said Polly, "she says her mother is going to take her back to Paris tomorrow morning."

"How very fine!" exclaimed Mr. King, approvingly; "that is the best thing I have heard yet. Always bring me such good news, Polly, and I will lay down my newspapers willingly any time." And he gave a pleased little laugh.

"But, Grandpapa -- " and Polly's face drooped, and there was such a sad little note in her voice, that the laugh dropped out of his. "Fanny wanted above all things to hear the Wagner operas -- just think of losing those!" Polly clasped her hands, and every bit of colour flew from her cheek.

"Well, what can I do about it?" asked the old gentleman, in a great state of perturbation. "Speak out, child, and tell me what you want."

"Only if I can be pleasant to Fanny," said Polly, a wave of colour rushing over her face. "I mean if I may go with her? Can I, Grandpapa, this very evening, just as if -- " she hesitated.

"As if what, Polly?"

"As if we all liked them," finished Polly, feeling as if the words must be said.

There was an awful pause in which Polly had all she could do to keep from rushing from the room. Then Grandpapa said, "If you can stand it, Polly, you may do as you like, but I warn you to keep them away from me." And he went back to his paper.



XVIII

Bayreuth And Old Friends


Jasper turned around to gaze at the vast audience filing into the Wagner Opera House before he took his seat. "This makes me think of Oberammergau, Polly," he said.

"To think you've seen the Passion Play," she cried, with glowing cheeks.

"That was when I was such a little chap," said Jasper, "ages ago, -- nine years, Polly Pepper, -- just think; so it will be as good as new next year. Father is thinking a good deal of taking you there next summer."

"Jasper," cried Polly, her cheeks all in a glow, and regardless of next neighbours, "what can I ever do to repay your father for being so very good to me and to all of us?"

"Why, you can keep on making him comfortable, just as you are doing now, Polly," replied Jasper. "He said yesterday it made him grow younger every minute to look at you. And you know he's never sick now, and he was always having those bad attacks. Don't you remember when we first came to Hingham, Polly?" as they took their seats.

"O dear me, I guess I do, Jasper, and how you saved Phronsie from being carried off by the big organ man," and she shivered even now at this lapse of years. "And all the splendid times at Badgertown and the little brown -- "

Just then a long hand came in between the people in the seat back of them. "I'm no end glad to see you!" exclaimed a voice. It was Tom Selwyn.

"I'm going over into that vacant seat." Tom forgot his fear of Polly and his hatred of girls generally, and rushed around the aisle to plunge awkwardly into the seat just back of Jasper. "I'll stay here till the person comes." His long arms came in contact with several obstacles, such as sundry backs and shoulders in his progress, but he had no time to consider such small things or to notice the black looks he got in consequence.

"Now, isn't this jolly!" he exclaimed. Jasper was guilty of staring at him; there seemed such a change in the boy, he could hardly believe it was really and truly Tom Selwyn.

"My grandfather is well now, and he would have sent some message to you if he knew I was to run across you," went on Tom, looking at Jasper, but meaning Polly; "did you get a little trifle he sent you some weeks ago? He's been in a funk about it because he didn't hear."

Wasn't Polly glad that her little note was on the way, and perhaps in the old gentleman's hands at this very time!

"Yes," she said, "and he was very kind and -- " Tom fumbled his tickets all the while, and broke in abruptly.

"I didn't know as you'd like it, but it made him sick not to do it, and so the thing went. Glad it didn't make you mad," he ended suddenly.

"He meant it all right, I'm sure," said Jasper, seeing that Polly couldn't speak.

"Didn't he though!" exclaimed Tom.

"And it didn't come till the day we left Heidelberg," said Polly, finding her tongue, and speaking rapidly to explain the delay; "that was a week ago."

"Whew!" whistled Tom; "oh, beg pardon!" for several people turned around and stared; so he ducked his head, and was mostly lost to view for a breathing space. When he thought they had forgotten him, he bobbed it up. "Why, Grandfather picked it out -- had a bushel of things sent up from London to choose from, you know, weeks and weeks ago, as soon as he got up to London. That's no end queer."

"No," said Polly, "it didn't come till then. And I wrote to your grandfather the next morning and thanked him."

"Now you did!" exclaimed Tom, in huge delight, and slapping his knee with one long hand. "That's no end good of you." He couldn't conceal how glad he was, and grinned all over his face.

At this moment Mrs. Vanderburgh, who, seeing Fanny so happy again, concluded to stay on the strength of resurrected hopes of Polly Pepper's friendship, sailed into the opera house, with her daughter. And glancing across the aisle, for their seats were at the side, she caught sight of the party she was looking for, and there was a face she knew, but wasn't looking for.

"Fanny," she cried, clutching her arm, "there is Tom Selwyn! Well, now we are in luck!" And Tom saw her, and again he ducked, but for a different reason. When he raised his head, he glanced cautiously in the direction he dreaded. "There's that horrible person," he whispered in Jasper's ear.

"Who?" asked Jasper, in astonishment.

"That woman on the steamer -- you knew her -- and she was looking straight at us. Duck for your life, Jasper King!"

"Oh, that," said Jasper, coolly, following the bob of his head. "Yes, Mrs. Vanderburgh, I know; and she is at our hotel."

"The dickens! And you're alive!" Tom raised his head and regarded him as a curiosity.

"Very much so," answered Jasper, smothering a laugh; "well, we mustn't talk any more."

Polly was sitting straight, her hands folded in her lap, with no thought for audience, or anything but what she was to see and hear on that wonderful stage. Old Mr. King leaned past Parson Henderson, and gazed with the greatest satisfaction at her absorbed face.

"I pity anybody," he said to himself, "who hasn't some little Peppers to take about; I only wish I had the boys, too. But fancy Joel listening to 'Parsifal'!"

This idea completely overcame him, and he settled back into his seat with a grim smile.

Polly never knew that Mamsie, with a happy look in her black eyes, was regarding her intently, too, nor that many a glance was given to the young girl whose colour came and went in her cheek, nor that Jasper sometimes spoke a low word or two. She was lost in the entrancing world of mystery and legend borne upward by the grand music, and she scarcely moved.

"Well, Polly." Old Mr. King was smiling at her and holding out his hand. The curtains had closed for the intermission, and all the people were getting out of their chairs. Polly sat still and drew a long breath. "Oh, Grandpapa, must we go?"

"Yes, indeed, I hope so," answered Mr. King, with a little laugh. "We shall have none too much time for our supper, Polly, as it is."

Polly got out of her seat, very much wishing that supper was not one of the needful things of life.

"It almost seems wicked to think of eating, Jasper," she said, as they picked up their hats and capes, where he had tucked them under the seats.

"It would be more wicked not to eat," said Jasper, with a little laugh, "and I think you'll find some supper tastes good, when we get fairly at it, Polly."

"I suppose so," said Polly, feeling dreadfully stiff in her feet, and beginning to wish she could have a good run.

"And what we should do with you if we didn't stop for supper," observed Jasper, snapping the case to the opera-glasses, "I'm sure I don't know, Polly. I spoke to you three times, and you didn't hear me once."

"Oh, Jasper!" exclaimed Polly, in horror, pausing as she was pinning on her big, flowered hat, with the roses all around the brim; "O dear me, there it goes!" as the hat spun over into the next row.

"I'll get it," cried Tom Selwyn, vaulting over the tops of the seats before Jasper had a chance to try for it.

Just then Mrs. Vanderburgh, who hadn't heard any more of the opera than could fit itself into her lively plans for the campaign she laid out to accomplish in siege of Tom Selwyn, pushed and elbowed herself along. "Of course the earl isn't here -- and the boy is alone, and dreadfully taken with Jasper King, so I can manage him. And once getting him, I'll soon have the earl to recognise me as a relation." Then, oh! visions of the golden dream of bliss when she could visit such titled kin in Old England, and report it all when at home in New York, filled her head. And with her mind eaten up with it, she pushed rudely by a plain, somewhat dowdy-looking woman who obstructed her way.

The woman raised a quiet, yet protesting face; but Mrs. Vanderburgh, related to an earl, surveyed her haughtily, and pressed on.

"Excuse me," said the plain-looking woman, "but it is impossible for me to move; the people are coming out this way, Madam, and -- "

"And I must get by," answered Mrs. Vanderburgh, interrupting, and wriggling past as well as she could. But the lace on her flowing sleeve catching on the umbrella handle of a stout German coming the other way, she tore it half across. A dark flush of anger rushed over her face, and she vented all her spite on the plain-looking person in her path. "If you had moved, this wouldn't have happened!" she exclaimed.

"It was impossible for me to do so," replied the woman, just as quietly as ever. Just then Tom Selwyn rushed up: "Mother!" to the plain-looking woman; "well, we did get separated! Oh!" and seeing her companion he plunged back.

Fanny Vanderburgh, well in the rear, a party of young German girls impeding the way, felt her mother's grasp, and looked around.

"Oh, you've torn your lace sleeve!" she exclaimed, supposing the black looks referred to that accident.

"Torn my sleeve!" echoed her mother, irately, "that's a trifle," while Fanny stared in surprise, knowing, by past experience, that much lesser accidents had made black days for her; "I'm the unluckiest person alive. And think of all the money your father has given me to spend, and it won't do any good. Fanny, I'm going straight back to Paris, as quickly as possible."

"Why, I'm having a good time now," said Fanny, just beginning to enjoy herself. "Polly Pepper is real nice to me. I don't want to go home a bit." All this as they slowly filed out in the throng.

"Well, you're going; and, oh, those Peppers and those Kings, I'm sick to death of their names," muttered her mother, frowning on her.

"Why can't we wait for Polly?" asked Fanny, not catching the last words, and pausing to look back.

"Because you can't, that's why. And never say a word about that Polly Pepper or any of the rest of that crowd," commanded her mother, trying to hurry on.

"Polly Pepper is the sweetest girl -- the very dearest," declared Fanny, in a passion, over her mother's shoulder, "and you know it, Mamma."

"Well, I won't have you going with her, anyway, nor with any of them," answered her mother, shortly.

"Because you can't," echoed Fanny, in her turn, and with a malicious little laugh. "Don't I know? it's the same old story -- those you chase after, run away from you. You've been chasing, Mamma; you needn't tell me."

"Oh, Jasper," Polly was saying, "did you really speak to me?"

"Three times," said Jasper, with a laugh, "but you couldn't answer, for you didn't hear me."

"No," said Polly, "I didn't, Jasper."

"And I shouldn't have spoken, for it isn't, of course, allowed. But I couldn't help it, Polly, it was so splendid," and his eyes kindled. "And you didn't seem to breathe or to move."

"I don't feel as if I had done much of either," said Polly, laughing. "Isn't it good to take a long stretch? And oh, don't you wish we could run, Jasper?"

He burst into another gay little laugh, as he picked up the rest of the things. "I thought so, Polly, and you'll want some supper yet. Well, here is Tom coming back again."

"Indeed I shall, and a big one, Jasper," said Polly, laughing, "for I am dreadfully hungry."

"Come to supper with us," Jasper said socially over the backs of several people, in response to Tom Selwyn's furious telegraphing.

"Can't," said Tom, bobbing his head; "must stay with my mother. Thought you never would turn around." Jasper looked his surprise, and involuntarily glanced by Tom. "Yes, my mother's here; we've got separated, she's gone ahead," said Tom, jerking his head toward the nearest exit. "She says we'll go and see you. Where?"

"Hotel Sonne," said Jasper.

Tom disappeared -- rushed off to his mother to jerk himself away to a convenient waiting-place till the disagreeable woman on the steamer had melted into space. Then he flew back, and in incoherent sentences made Mrs. Selwyn comprehend who she was, and the whole situation.

The earl's daughter was a true British matron, and preserved a quiet, immovable countenance; only a grim smile passed over it now and then. At last she remarked coolly, as if commenting on the weather, "I don't believe she will trouble you, my son." Never a word about the lace episode or the crowding process.

Tom sniffed uneasily. "You haven't crossed on a steamer with her, mother."

"Never you mind." Mrs. Selwyn gave him a pat on the back. "Tom, let us talk about those nice people," as they filed slowly out with the crowd.

Not a word did Tom lisp about the invitation to supper, but tucked his mother's arm loyally within his own. "Sorry I forgot to engage a table!" he exclaimed, as they entered the restaurant.

"Why, there is Tom!" exclaimed Jasper, craning his neck as his party were about to sit down. "Father, Tom Selwyn is here with his mother, and they can't find places, I almost know, and we might have two more chairs easily at our table," he hurried it all out.

"What is all this about?" demanded old Mr. King; "whom are you talking about, pray tell, Jasper?"

So Jasper ran around to his father's chair and explained. The end of it all was, that he soon hurried off, being introduced to Tom's mother, to whom he presented his father's compliments, and would she do him the favour to join their party? And in ten minutes, every one felt well acquainted with the English matron, and entirely forgot that she was an earl's daughter. And Tom acquitted himself well, and got on famously with old Mr. King.

But he didn't dare talk to Polly, but edged away whenever there was the least chance of matters falling out so that he would have to.

And then it came out that the Selwyns thought of going to Munich and down to Lucerne.

"And the Bernese Alps," put in Jasper, across the table. "How is that, Tom, for an outing? Can't you do it?" For it transpired that Mrs. Selwyn had left the other children, two girls and two smaller boys, with their grandfather, on the English estate. They all called this place home since the father was in a business in Australia that required many long visits, and Tom's mother had decided that he should have a bit of a vacation with her, so they had packed up and off, taking in the Wagner festival first, and here they were. "Yes," after she considered a bit, "we can do that. Join the party and then over to Lucerne, and perhaps take in the Bernese Alps."

Only supposing that Polly's letter hadn't gone to the little old earl, Jasper kept saying over and over to himself. Just for one minute, suppose it!

And in the midst of it all, the horn sounded; the intermission was over, chairs were pushed back hastily, and all flocked off. No one must be late, and there must be no noisy or bustling entrances into the opera house.

And if Polly Pepper sat entranced through the rest of the matchless performance, Tom Selwyn -- three seats back and off to the left -- was just as quietly happy. But he wasn't thinking so much of "Parsifal" as might have been possible. "It's no end fine of the little mother to say 'yes,'" he kept running over and over to himself, with a satisfied glance at the quiet face under the plain, English bonnet.

"It's funny we don't see Fanny Vanderburgh anywhere," said Polly, as they went through the corridor and up the hotel stairs that night.

"She and her mother probably came home earlier," said Mrs. Fisher; "you know we were delayed, waiting for our carriages. You will see her in the morning, Polly."

But in the morning, it was ten o'clock before Mr. King's party gathered for breakfast, for Grandpapa always counselled sleeping late when out the night before. And when Polly did slip into her chair, there was a little note lying on her plate.

"Fanny Vanderburgh has gone," she said, and turned quite pale.

It was too true. Mrs. Vanderburgh had sold her two tickets to the "Flying Dutchman," to be presented that evening, and departed from Bayreuth.

"It's no use, Polly," Fanny's note ran, "trying to make me have a good time. Mamma says we are to go back to Paris; and go we must. You've been lovely, and I thank you ever so much, and good-by."

Mother Fisher found Polly, a half-hour later, curled up in a corner of the old sofa in her room, her face pressed into the cushion.

"Why, Polly," exclaimed her mother, seeing the shaking shoulders, and, bending over her, she smoothed the brown hair gently, "this isn't right, child -- "

Polly sprang up suddenly and threw her arms around her mother's neck. Her face was wet with tears, and she sobbed out, "Oh, if I'd done more for her, Mamsie, or been pleasant to Mrs. Vanderburgh, she might have stayed."

"You haven't any call to worry, Polly, child," said Mother Fisher, firmly. "You did all that could be done -- and remember one thing, it's very wrong to trouble others as you certainly will if you give way to your feelings in this manner."

"Mamsie," exclaimed Polly, suddenly wiping away the trail of tears from her cheek, "I won't cry a single bit more. You can trust me, Mamsie, I truly won't."

"Trust you," said Mother Fisher, with a proud look in her black eyes, "I can trust you ever and always, Polly; and now run to Mr. King and let him see a bright face, for he's worrying about you, Polly."



XIX

Mr. King Has A Little Plan For Polly


"Oh Jasper," exclaimed Polly, clasping her hands, "do you suppose we'll ever get to a piano where it's all alone, and nobody wants to play on it -- "

"But just you and I," finished Jasper. "I declare I don't know. You see we don't stay still long enough in any one place to hire a decent one; and besides, father said, when we started, that it was better for us to rest and travel about without any practising this summer. You know he did, Polly."

"I know it," said Polly; "but oh, if we could just play once in a while," she added mournfully.

"Well, we can't," said Jasper, savagely; "you know we tried that at Brussels, when we thought everybody had gone off. And those half a dozen idiots came and stared at us through the glass door."

"And then they came in," added Polly, with a little shiver at the recollection. "But that big fat man with the black beard was the worst, Jasper." She glanced around as if she expected to see him coming down the long parlour.

"Well, he didn't hear much; there didn't any of them," said Jasper; "that's some small satisfaction, because you hopped off the piano stool and ran away."

"You ran just as fast, I'm sure, Jasper," said Polly, with a little laugh.

"Well, perhaps I did," confessed Jasper, bursting into a laugh. "Who wouldn't run with a lot of staring idiots flying at one?" he brought up in disgust.

"And we forgot the music," went on Polly, deep in the reminiscence, "and we wouldn't go back -- don't you remember? -- until the big fat man with the dreadful black beard had gone, for he'd picked it up and been looking at it."

"Yes, I remember all about it," said Jasper; "dear me, what a time we had! It's enough to make one wish that the summer was all over, and that we were fairly settled in Dresden," he added gloomily, as he saw her face.

"Oh, no," exclaimed Polly, quickly, and quite shocked to see the mischief that she had done.

"We wouldn't have the beautiful summer go a bit faster, Jasper. Why, that would be too dreadful to think of."

"But you want to get at your music, Polly."

"I'll fly at it when the time comes," cried Polly, with a wise little nod, "never you fear, Jasper. Now come on; let's get Phronsie and go out and see the shops."

Old Mr. King in a nook behind the curtain, dropped the newspaper in his lap and thought a bit. "Best to wait till we get to Lucerne," he said to himself, nodding his white head; "then, says I, Polly, my child, you shall have your piano."

And when their party were settling down in the hotel at Lucerne, ending the beautiful days of travel after leaving Munich, Jasper's father called him abruptly. "See here, my boy."

"What is it, father?" asked Jasper, wonderingly; "the luggage is all right; it's gone up to the rooms -- all except the portmanteau, and Francis will go down to the station and straighten that out."

"I'm not in the least troubled in regard to the luggage, Jasper," replied his father, testily; "it's something much more important than the luggage question about which I wish to speak to you."

Jasper stared, well knowing his father's views in regard to the luggage question. "The first thing that you must unpack -- the very first," old Mr. King was saying, "is your music. Don't wait a minute, Jasper, but go and get it. And then call Polly, and -- "

"Why, father," exclaimed Jasper, "there isn't a single place to play in. You don't know how people stare if we touch the piano. We can't here, father; there's such a crowd in this hotel."

"You do just as I say, Jasper," commanded his father. "And tell Polly to get her music; and then do you two go to the little room out of the big parlour, and play to your hearts' content." And he burst into a hearty laugh at Jasper's face, as he dangled a key at the end of a string, before him.

"Now I do believe, father, that you've got Polly a piano and a little room to play in," cried Jasper, joyfully, and pouncing on the key.

"You go along and do as I tell you," said Mr. King, mightily pleased at the success of his little plan. "And don't you tell Polly Pepper one word until she has taken her music down in the little room," as Jasper bounded off on the wings of the wind.

And in that very hotel was the big fat man with the dreadful black beard, resting after a long season of hard work.

But Polly and Jasper wouldn't have cared had they known it, as long as they had their own delightful little music room to themselves -- as they played over and over all the dear old pieces, and Polly revelled in everything that she was so afraid she had forgotten.

"I really haven't lost it, Jasper!" she would exclaim radiantly, after finishing a concerto, and dropping her hands idly on the keys. "And I was so afraid I'd forgotten it entirely. Just think, I haven't played that for three months, Jasper King."

"Well, you haven't forgotten a bit of it," declared Jasper, just as glad as she was. "You didn't make any mistakes, hardly, Polly."

"Oh, yes, I made some," said Polly, honestly, whirling around on the piano stool to look at him.

"Oh, well, only little bits of ones," said Jasper; "those don't signify. I wish father could have heard that concerto. What a pity he went out just before you began it."

But somebody else, on the other side of the partition between the little music room and the big parlour, had heard, and he pulled his black beard thoughtfully with his long fingers, then pricked up his ears to hear more. And it was funny how, almost every day, whenever the first notes on the piano struck up in Mr. King's little music room, the big fat man, who was so tired with his season of hard work, never seemed to think that he could rest as well as in that particular corner up against that partition. And no matter what book or paper he had in his hand, he always dropped it and fell to pulling his black beard with his long fingers, before the music was finished.

And then, "Oh, Polly, come child, you have played long enough," from Mother Fisher on the other side of the partition; or old Mr. King would say, "No more practising to-day, Miss Polly;" or Phronsie would pipe out, "Polly, Grandpapa is going to take us out on the lake; do come, Polly." And then it was funnier yet to see how suddenly the big fat man with the dreadful black beard seemed to find that particular corner by that partition a very tiresome place. And as the piano clicked down its cover, he would yawn, and get up and say something in very rapid German to himself, and off he would go, forgetting all about his book or newspaper, which, very likely, would tumble to the floor, and flap away by itself till somebody came and picked it up and set it on the sofa.

One morning old Mr. King, hurrying along with his batch of English mail to enjoy opening it in the little music room where Jasper and Polly were playing a duet, ran up suddenly against a fat heavy body coming around an opposite angle.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," exclaimed Mr. King in great distress, the more so as he saw that the stranger's glasses were knocked off his nose by the collision. "I do trust they are not broken," he added, in a concerned tone, endeavouring to pick them up.

But the big man was before him. "Not a beet, not a beet," he declared, adjusting them on his nose again. Then he suddenly grasped old Mr. King's hand. "And I be very glad, sir, very glad indeed, dat I haf roon into you."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. King, releasing his hand instantly, and all the concern dropping out of his face.

"Very glad indeed!" repeated the big man, heartily; then he pulled his black beard, and stood quite still a moment.

"If you have nothing more to remark, sir," said Mr. King, haughtily, "perhaps you will be kind enough to stand out of my way, and allow me to pass. And it would be as well for you to observe more care in the future, sir, both in regard to your feet, and your tongue, sir."

"Yes, I am very glad," began the big man again, who hadn't even heard Mr. King's tirade, "for now -- " and he gave his black beard a final twitch, and his eyes suddenly lightened with a smile that ran all over his face, "I can speak to you of dis ting dat is in my mind. Your -- "

"I want to hear nothing of what is on your mind," declared old Mr. King, now thoroughly angry. "Stand aside, fellow, and let me pass," he commanded, in a towering passion.

The big man stared in astonishment into the angry face, the smile dropping out of his own. "I beg to excuse myself," he said, with a deep bow, and a wave of his long fingers. "Will you pass?" and he moved up as tightly as possible to the wall.

Old Mr. King went into the little music room in a furious rage, and half an hour afterward Polly and Jasper, pausing to look around, saw him tossing and tumbling his letters and newspapers about on the table, fuming to himself all the while.

"Father has had bad news!" exclaimed Jasper, turning pale; "something about his agents, probably."

"O dear me! and here we have been playing," cried Polly in remorse, every vestige of colour flying from her cheek.

"Well, we didn't know," said Jasper, quickly. "But what can we do now, Polly?" he turned to her appealingly.

"I don't know," she was just going to say helplessly, but Jasper's face made her see that something must be done. "Let's go and tell him we are sorry," she said; "that's what Mamsie always liked best if she felt badly."

So the two crept up behind old Mr. King's chair: "Father, I'm so sorry," and "Dear Grandpapa, I'm so sorry," and Polly put both arms around his neck suddenly.

"Eh -- what?" cried Mr. King, sitting bolt upright in astonishment. "Oh, bless me, children, I thought you were playing on the piano."

"We were," said Polly, hurrying around to the side of the table, her face quite rosy now, "but we didn't know -- " and she stopped short, unable to find another word.

" -- that you felt badly," finished Jasper. "Oh, father, we didn't know that you'd got bad news." He laid his hand as he spoke on the pile of tumbled-up letters.

"Bad news!" ejaculated old Mr. King, in perplexity, and looking from one to the other.

"No, we didn't," repeated Polly, clasping her hands. "Dear Grandpapa, we truly didn't, or we wouldn't have kept on playing all this time."

Mr. King put back his head and laughed long and loud, as he hadn't done for many a day, his ill humour dropping off in the midst of it. "The letters are all right," he said, wiping his eyes, "never had better news. It was an impertinent fellow I met out there, that's all."

"Father, who has dared -- " began Jasper, with flashing eyes.

"Don't you worry, my boy; it's all right, the fellow got his quietus; besides, he wasn't worth minding," said Mr. King, carelessly. "Why, here is your mother," turning to Polly. "Now then, Mrs. Fisher, what is it; for I see by your eye some plan is on the carpet."

"Yes, there is," said Mrs. Fisher, coming in with a smile, "the doctor is going to take a day off."

"Is that really so?" cried Mr. King, with a little laugh. "What! not even going to visit one of his beloved hospitals?" while Polly exclaimed, radiantly, "Oh, how perfectly elegant! Now we'll have Papa-Doctor for a whole long day!"

Phronsie, who had been close to her mother's gown during the delivery of this important news, clasped her hands in a quiet rapture, while Polly exclaimed, "Now, Grandpapa, can it be the Rigi?" Jasper echoing the cry heartily.

"I suppose it is to be the Rigi," assented old Mr. King, leaning back in his chair to survey them all, "that is, if Mrs. Fisher approves. We'll let you pick out the jaunting place," turning to her, "seeing that it is the doctor's holiday."

"I know that Dr. Fisher wants very much to go up the Rigi," said his wife, in great satisfaction at the turn the plans were taking.

"And we'll stay over night, father," cried Jasper, "won't we?"

"Stay over night?" repeated his father, "I should say so. Why, what would be the good of our going up at all, pray tell, if we didn't devote that much time to it and have a try for a sunrise?"

"We're to go up the Rigi!" exclaimed Polly, giving a little whirl, and beginning to dance around the room, repeating, "We're to go up the Rigi," exactly as if nobody knew it, and she was telling perfectly fresh news.

"Here -- that dance looks awfully good -- wait for me," cried Jasper. And seizing her hands, they spun round and round, Phronsie scuttling after them, crying, "Take me, too. I want to dance, Polly."

"So you shall," cried Polly and Jasper together; so they made a little ring of three, and away they went, Polly this time crying, "Just think, we're going to have the most beautiful sunrise in all this world."

And on the other side of the partition, in his accustomed nook in the big parlour, the big fat man with the black beard sat. He pulled this same black beard thoughtfully a bit, when Mr. King was telling about the impertinent fellow. Then he smiled and jabbered away to himself very hard in German; and it wasn't till the King party hurried off to get ready for the Rigi trip, that he got up and sauntered off.

And almost the first person that old Mr. King saw on getting his party into a car on the funicular railway, was the "impertinent fellow," also bound for the top of the Rigi.

"Oh, Grandpapa!" Polly got out of her seat and hurried to him with cheeks aflame, when midway up.

"I know -- isn't it wonderful!" cried Grandpapa, happy in her pleasure, and finding it all just as marvellous as if he hadn't made the ascent several times.

"Yes, yes!" cried Polly. "It is all perfectly splendid, Grandpapa; but oh, I mean, did you hear what that lady said?" and she dropped her voice, and put her mouth close to Grandpapa's ear.

"I'm sure I didn't," said old Mr. King, carelessly, "and I'm free to confess I'm honestly glad of it. For if there is one thing I detest more than another, Polly, my girl, it is to hear people, especially women, rave and gush over the scenery."

"Oh, she didn't rave and gush," cried Polly, in a whisper, afraid that the lady heard. "She said, Grandpapa, that Herr Bauricke is at Lucerne; just think, Grandpapa, the great Herr Bauricke!"

She took her mouth away from the old gentleman's ear in order to look in his face.

"Polly, Polly," called Jasper from his seat on the farther end, "you are losing all this," as the train rounded a curve. "Do come back."

"Now, I'm glad of that," exclaimed Grandpapa, in a tone of the greatest satisfaction, "for I can ask him about the music masters in Dresden and get his advice, and be all prepared before we go there for the winter to secure the very best."

"And I can see him, and perhaps hear him play," breathed Polly, in an awestruck tone, quite lost to scenery and everything else. Jasper leaned forward and stared at her in amazement. Then he slipped out of his seat, and made his way up to them to find out what it was all about.

"How did she know?" he asked, as Polly told all she knew; "I'm just going to ask her." But the lady, who had caught snatches of the conversation, though she hadn't heard Mr. King's part of it, very obligingly leaned forward in her seat and told all she knew.

And by the time this was done, they all knew that the information was in the American paper printed in Paris, and circulated all over the Continent, and that the lady had read it that very morning just before setting out.

"The only time I missed reading that paper," observed old Mr. King, regretfully.

"And he is staying at our very hotel," finished the lady, "for I have seen you, sir, with your party there."

"Another stroke of good luck," thought old Mr. King, "and quite easy to obtain the information I want as to a master for Polly and Jasper."

"Now then, children," he said to the two hanging on the conversation, "run back to your seats and enjoy the view. This news of ours will keep."

So Polly and Jasper ran back obediently, but every step of the toilsome ascent by which the car pushed its way to the wonderful heights above, Polly saw everything with the words, "Herr Bauricke is at our hotel," ringing through her ears; and she sat as in a maze. Jasper was nearly as bad.

And then everybody was pouring out of the cars and rushing for the hotel on the summit; all but Mr. King's party and a few others, who had their rooms engaged by telegraphing up. When they reached the big central hall there was a knot of Germans all talking together, and on the outside fringe of this knot, people were standing around and staring at the central figure. Suddenly some one darted away from this outer circle and dashed up to them. It was the lady from their hotel.

"I knew you'd want to know," she exclaimed breathlessly; "that's Herr Bauricke himself -- he came up on our train -- just think of it! -- the big man in the middle with the black beard." She pointed an excited finger at the knot of Germans.

Old Mr. King followed the course of the finger, and saw his "impertinent fellow who wasn't worth minding."



XX

"I Should Make Him Happy," Said Phronsie


Polly got Jasper away into a side corridor by a beseeching little pull on his sleeve. "Oh, just to think," she mourned, "I called that great man such unpleasant things -- that he was big and fat, and -- oh, oh!"

"Well, he is big and fat," declared Jasper. "We can't say he isn't, Polly."

"But I meant it all against him," said Polly, shaking her head. "You know I did, Jasper," she added remorsefully.

"Yes, we neither of us liked him," said Jasper, "and that's the honest truth, Polly."

"And to think it was that great Herr Bauricke!" exclaimed Polly. Then her feelings overcame her, and she sank down on the cushioned seat in the angle.

Jasper sat down beside her. "I suppose it won't do to say anything about people after this until we know them. Will it, Polly?"

"Jasper," declared Polly, clasping her hands, while the rosy colour flew over her cheek, "I'm never going to say a single -- "

Just then the big form of Herr Bauricke loomed up before them, as he turned into the corridor.

Polly shrank up in her corner as small as she could, wishing she was as little as Phronsie, and could hop up and run away.

Herr Bauricke turned his sharp eyes on them for a moment, hesitated, then came directly up, and stopped in front of them. "I meant -- I intended to speak to your grandfader first. Dat not seem best now." The great man was really talking to them, and Polly held her breath, not daring to look into his face, but keeping her gaze on his wonderful fingers. "My child," those wonderful fingers seized her own, and clasped them tightly, "you have great promise, mind you, you know only a leedle now, and you must work -- work -- work." He brought it out so sharply, that the last word was fairly shrill. "But I tink you will," he added kindly, dropping his tone. Then he laid her fingers gently in her lap.

"Oh, she does, sir," exclaimed Jasper, finding his tongue first, for Polly was beyond speaking. "Polly works all the time she can."

"Dat is right." Herr Bauricke bobbed his head in approval, so that his spectacles almost fell off. "I hear dat, in de music she play. No leedle girl play like dat, who doesn't work. I will hear you sometime at de hotel," he added abruptly, "and tell you some tings dat will help you. To-morrow, maybe, when we go down from dis place, eh?"

"Oh, sir," exclaimed Polly, springing off from her cushion before Jasper could stop her. "You are so good -- but -- but -- I cannot," then her breath gave out, and she stood quite still.

"Eh?" exclaimed Herr Bauricke, and pushing up his spectacles to stare into her flushed and troubled face. "Perhaps I not make my meaning clear; I mean I geef you of my time and my best advice. Now you understand -- eh?" He included Jasper in his puzzled glance.

"Yes, sir," Jasper made haste to say. "We do understand; and it is so very good of you, and Polly will accept it, sir." "For father will make it all right with him as to the payment," he reflected easily.

"Ah, now," exclaimed Herr Bauricke, joyfully, a light beaming all over his fat face, "dat is someting like -- to-morrow, den, we -- "

"But, oh, sir," Polly interrupted, "I cannot," and she twisted her hands in distress. "I -- I -- didn't like you, and I said so." Then she turned very pale, and her head drooped.

Jasper leaned over, and took her hand. "Neither did I, sir," he said. "I was just as bad as Polly."

"You not tink me nice looking -- so?" said Herr Bauricke. "Well, I not tink so myself, eeder. And I scare you maybe, wid dis," and he twisted his black beard with his long fingers. "Ah, so; well, we will forget all dis, leedle girl," and he bent down and took Polly's other fingers that hung by her side. "And eef you not let me come to-morrow to your leedle music room, and tell you sometings to help you learn better, I shall know dat you no like me now -- eh?"

"Oh, sir," Polly lifted her face, flooded with rosy colour up to her brown hair, "if you only will forgive me?"

"I no forgeef; I not remember at all," said Herr Bauricke, waving his long fingers in the air. "And I go to-morrow to help you, leedle girl," and he strode down the corridor.

Polly and Jasper rushed off, they scarcely knew how, to Grandpapa, to tell him the wonderful news, -- to find him in a truly dreadful state of mind. When they had told their story, he was as much worse as could well be imagined.

"Impossible, impossible!" was all he could say, but he brought his hand down on the table before him with so much force that Jasper felt a strange sinking of heart. What could be the matter?

"Why, children, and you all" (for his whole party was before him), exclaimed Mr. King, "Herr Bauricke is that impertinent person who annoyed me this morning, and I called him 'fellow' to his face!"

It was so very much worse than Jasper had dreamed, that he collapsed into the first chair, all Polly's prospects melting off like dew before the sun.

"Hum!" Little Dr. Fisher was the first to speak. He took off his big spectacles and wiped them; then put them on his nose and adjusted them carefully, and glared around the group, his gaze resting on old Mr. King's face.

Polly, who had never seen Jasper give way like this, forgot her own distress, and rushed up to him. "Oh, don't, Jasper," she begged.

"You see I can't allow Herr Bauricke to give any lessons or advice to Polly after this," went on Mr. King, hastily. "Of course he would be paid; but, under the circumstances, it wouldn't do, not in the least. It is quite out of the question," he went on, as if some one had been contradicting him. But no one said a word.

"Why don't some of you speak?" he asked, breaking the pause. "Dr. Fisher, you don't generally keep us waiting for your opinion. Speak out now, man, and let us have it."

"It is an awkward affair, surely," began the little doctor, slowly.

"Awkward? I should say so," frowned Mr. King; "it's awkward to the last degree. Here's a man who bumps into me in a hotel passage, -- though, for that matter, I suppose it's really my fault as much as his, -- and I offer to pick up his spectacles that were dropped in the encounter. And he tells me that he is glad that we ran up against each other, for it gives him a chance to tell me what is on his mind. As if I cared what was on his mind, or on the mind of any one else, for that matter," he declared, in extreme irritation. "And I told him to his face that he was an impertinent fellow, and to get out of my way. Yes, I did!"

A light began to break on little Dr. Fisher's face, that presently shone through his big spectacles, fairly beaming on them all. Then he burst into a laugh, hearty and long.

"Why, Adoniram!" exclaimed Mother Fisher, in surprise. Polly turned a distressed face at him; and to say that old Mr. King stared would be stating the case very mildly indeed.

"Can't you see, oh, can't you see," exploded the little doctor, mopping up his face with his big handkerchief, "that your big German was trying to tell you of Polly's playing, and to say something, probably pretty much the same that he has said to her and to Jasper? O dear me, I should like to have been there to see you both," ended Dr. Fisher, faintly. Then he went off into another laugh.

"I don't see much cause for amusement," said old Mr. King, grimly, when this idea broke into his mind, "for it's a certain fact that I called him a fellow, and told him to get out of the way."

"Well, he doesn't bear you any malice, apparently," said the little doctor, who, having been requested to speak, saw no reason for withholding any opinion he might chance to have, "for, if he did, he wouldn't have made that handsome offer to Polly."

"That may be; the offer is handsome enough," answered Mr. King, "that is the trouble, it's too handsome. I cannot possibly accept it under the awkward circumstances. No, children," he turned to Polly and Jasper, as if they had been beseeching him all the while, "you needn't ask it, or expect it," and he got out of his chair, and stalked from the room.

Jasper buried his face in his hands, and a deep gloom settled over the whole party, on all but little Dr. Fisher. He pranced over to Polly and Jasper just as merrily as if nothing dreadful had happened. "Don't you be afraid, my boy," he said; "your father is a dreadfully sensible man, and there's no manner of doubt but that he will fix this thing up."

"Oh, you don't know father," groaned Jasper, his head in his hands, "when he thinks the right thing hasn't been done or said. And now Polly will miss it all!" And his head sank lower yet.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Dr. Fisher. Yet he had a dreadful feeling coming over him, and he turned to Polly imploringly.

"Oh, I do believe it, Jasper," cried Polly, "what Papa-Doctor says. And just look at Mamsie!" she cried, beneath her breath.

And truly Mother Fisher was having a hard time to control herself. That Jasper could see as he lifted his head. And the little doctor also saw, and skipped back across the room to her side. And Phronsie, feeling plunged into the deepest woe by all this dreadful state of affairs, that had come too bewilderingly for her to rally to Grandpapa's side, first began to cry. And then, thinking better of it, went softly out of the door, and no one noticed her when she went -- with the tears running down her cheeks.

Down the long corridor she hurried, not knowing which way Grandpapa went, but turning into the little reading room, she spied him sitting by the table. The apartment was otherwise empty. He wasn't reading, not even looking at a paper, but sitting bolt upright, and lost in thought.

"Grandpapa," she said, laying a soft little hand on his arm. "Oh, I'm so glad I found you." And she nestled up to his side.

"Eh? Oh, Phronsie, child." Old Mr. King put his arm around her, and drew her closely to him. "So you came after your old Grand-daddy, did you?"

"Yes, I did," said Phronsie, with a glad little cry, snuggling up tighter to him, while the tears trailed off down his waistcoat, but not before he had seen them.

"Now, Phronsie, you are not to cry any more," he said, with a pang at the sight. "You won't, dear; promise me that."

So Phronsie promised; and he held her hands, and, clearing his throat, he began, "Well, now I suppose they felt pretty badly, back there in the room, your mother and all -- eh, Phronsie?"

"Yes, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, her round face falling. Yet she had promised not to cry, and, although she had a hard time of it, every tear was kept back valiantly.

"And Polly, now -- " asked old Mr. King, cautiously, "and Jasper -- how were they feeling?"

"Grandpapa," Phronsie did not trust herself to reply, but, springing up, she laid her rosy little mouth close to his ear. "What does it all -- the dreadful thing mean?" she whispered.

"It means," old Mr. King whispered back, but very distinctly, "that your old Granddaddy is an idiot, Phronsie, and that he has been rude, and let his temper run away with him."

"Oh, no, Grandpapa dear," contradicted Phronsie, falling back from him in horror. "You couldn't ever be that what you say." And she flung both arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

"What? An idiot? Yes, I have been an idiot of the worst kind," declared Mr. King, "and all the rest just as I say; rude and -- why, what is the matter, Phronsie?" for the little arms clutched him so tightly he could hardly breathe.

"Oh, Grandpapa," she wailed, and drawing away a bit to look at him, he saw her face convulsed with the effort not to cry. "Don't say such things. You are never naughty, Grandpapa dear; you can't be," she gasped.

"There, there, there," ejaculated old Mr. King, frightened at the effect of his words and patting her yellow hair, at his wits' end what to say. So he broke out, "Well, now, Phronsie, you must tell me what to do."

Thereupon Phronsie, seeing there was something she could really do to help Grandpapa, came out of her distress enough to sit up quite straight and attentive in his lap. "You see I spoke rudely to a man, and I called him a fellow, and he was a gentleman, Phronsie; you must remember that."

"Yes, I will, Grandpapa," she replied obediently, while her eyes never wandered from his face.

"And I told him to get out of the way and he did," said Mr. King, forcing himself to a repetition of the unpleasant truth. "O dear me, nothing could be worse," he groaned.

"And you are sorry, Grandpapa dear?" Phronsie leaned over and laid her cheek softly against his.

"Yes, I am, Phronsie, awfully sorry," confessed the old gentleman; "but what good will that do now? My temper has made a terrible mess of it all."

"But you can tell the gentleman you are sorry," said Phronsie. "Oh, Grandpapa dear, do go and tell him now, this very minute." She broke away from him again, and sat straight on his knee, while a glad little smile ran all over her face.

"I can't -- you don't understand -- O dear me!" Mr. King set her abruptly on the floor, and took a few turns up and down the room. Phronsie's eyes followed him with a grieved expression. When she saw the distress on his face, she ran up to him and seized his hand, but didn't speak.

"You see, child," -- he grasped her fingers and held them closely, -- "it's just this way: the gentleman wants to do me a favour; that is, to help Polly with her music."

"Does he?" cried Phronsie, and she laughed in delight. "Oh, Grandpapa, how nice! And Polly will be so happy."

"But I cannot possibly accept it," groaned old Mr. King; "don't you see, child, after treating him so? Why, how could I? The idea is too monstrous!" He set off now at such a brisk pace down the room that Phronsie had hard work to keep up with him. But he clung to her hand.

"Won't that make the gentleman sorry?" panted Phronsie, trotting along by his side.

"Eh -- oh, what?" exclaimed old Mr. King, coming to a dead stop suddenly. "What's that you say, Phronsie?"

"Won't the gentleman feel sorry?" repeated Phronsie, pushing back the waves of yellow hair that had fallen over her face, to look up at him. "And won't he feel badly then, Grandpapa?"

"Eh -- oh, perhaps," assented Mr. King, slowly, and passing a troubled hand across his brow. "Well, now, Phronsie, you come and sit in my lap again, and we'll talk it over, and you tell me what I ought to do."

So the two got into the big chair again, and Phronsie folded her hands in her lap.

"Now begin," said old Mr. King.

"I should make the gentleman happy, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, decidedly.

"You would -- no matter what you had to do to bring it about?" asked Grandpapa, with a keen pair of eyes on her face. "Eh? think now, Phronsie."

"I should make the gentleman happy," repeated Phronsie, and she bobbed her head decidedly. "I really should, Grandpapa."

"Then the best way is to have it over with as soon as possible," said old Mr. King; "so come on, child, and you can see that the business is done up in good shape." He gathered her little fingers up in his hand, and setting her once more on the floor, they passed out of the apartment.

The door of the private parlour belonging to Mr. King's rooms was flung wide open, and into the gloomy interior, for Mother Fisher and Jasper were still inconsolable, marched old Mr. King. He was arm in arm, so far as the two could at once compass the doorway, with Herr Bauricke; while Phronsie ducked and scuttled in as she could, for the big German, with ever so many honorary degrees to his name, held her hand fast.

Old Mr. King continued his march up to Mother Fisher. "Allow me to introduce Herr Bauricke, Professor and Doctor of Music, of world-wide distinction," he said, bowing his courtly old head.

And then Mother Fisher, self-controlled as she had always been, astonished him by turning to her husband to supply the answering word.

"Glad to see you!" exclaimed the little doctor, bubbling over with happiness, and wringing the long fingers extended. "My wife is overcome with delight," which the big German understood very well; and he smiled his knowledge of it, as he looked into her black eyes. "She is like to mein Frau," he thought, having no higher praise. And then he turned quickly to Polly and Jasper.



XXI

On The Rigi-Kulm


For all that grand old Rigi's summit claimed them, it was some time before Mr. King's party left the little parlour. Herr Bauricke surely didn't want to until he had gotten it settled just what he did mean about Polly's music. That she showed great promise, that some faults in the way she had been taught were there, but it was by no means too late to mend them, that she had spirit and expression and love for the art.

"Ah, dat is eet, after all." Herr Bauricke clasped his long fingers and beamed at her, and then swept the entire party. "Lofe, ah, how one must lofe eet! Eef not, shame, shame!" His countenance darkened frightfully, and he fairly glared at them, as he unclasped his hands and swung one over his head, while his black beard vibrated with each word.

"Goodness me!" exclaimed Tom Selwyn, "it takes a musical man to sling around. I say, Jasper, I'd like to do a bit of boxing or cricketing with him." But Jasper didn't hear or see anything but Herr Bauricke and Polly; and, indeed, the whole room was given up to the "musical man" and his words.

At last Polly drew a long breath; Grandpapa was taking her hand. "Let us all go out and explore a bit," and off they went, the entire party. And the "musical man," as Tom still continued to call him in private, proved to be as expert in the use of his feet as his fingers, for he led them here, there, and everywhere that promised the least chance of a good view.

But Polly saw only the glorious future when, on the morrow, Herr Bauricke would really show her on the piano how best to study and to work! And the rosy glow of sunset wasn't one-half as bright as all her dreams.

"Polly," said Phronsie, pulling her hand gently, as she peered up into her face, "are you looking at it?"

"What, Pet? Oh, yes," said Polly, starting out of her revery with a little laugh, "you mean the sunset?"

"Yes," said Phronsie, "I do mean that. Are you looking at it, Polly? Because if you are not looking, I wish you would, Polly."

"Well, I suppose I am looking at it, Phronsie," said Polly, with another little laugh, "but perhaps not in just the right way, for you see, Phronsie, I can't seem to see anything but just the splendid thing that is coming to-morrow. Oh, Phronsie Pepper, just think of that."

"I know," said Phronsie, with a little gurgle of delight at Polly's happiness, "and I am so glad, Polly."

"Of course you are," declared Polly, warmly, "just as glad as can be, Phronsie," and she threw her arm around her. "And now I'm going to look at the sunset in the right way, I hope. Isn't it beautiful, child?"

"Polly," declared Phronsie, suddenly wriggling away from Polly's arm, to stand in front of her with a beaming face, "I think it's just as beautiful as it can be up top here. I can see right in between that red cloud and that little pink teenty one. And I wish I could just go in, Polly."

"Wouldn't it be nice?" echoed Polly, enthusiastically.

"What?" asked Adela, hurrying up from a point of rocks below, where she had been sketching.

"Oh, to go in between those clouds there and see it all," said Polly.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Adela, "I shouldn't like it. I'd much rather stay down here, and sketch it."

"We could go sailing off, oh, ever so far," said Polly, swinging her arms to suit the action to the words. "And you'd be stuck to your rock here, Adela; while, Phronsie, you and I would sit on the edge of a cloud, and let our feet hang over; and oh, Adela, you could sketch us then as we went sailing by."

"How that would look!" exclaimed Adela, with such a face that Polly burst out into a merry laugh, and Phronsie, joining with her little crow of delight and clapping her hands at the idea of such fun, brought pretty much the whole party around them.

"What's up?" cried Tom to Jasper, on the way to the girls with some fear, for he didn't dare even yet to talk much to Polly. As for Adela, he let her severely alone.

"Don't know," said Jasper, "but we'll soon find out," and they did, by Phronsie's flying away from Polly and skipping down over the rocks to meet them.

"Oh, Jasper, Polly's telling how we would sail on that beautiful cloud," announced Phronsie, her yellow hair flying from her face as she sped along, heedless of her steps.

"Take care or you'll fall," warned Jasper. "See, your mother is looking worried." And, truth to tell, Mrs. Fisher, on a point of rocks a little way off with the others, was getting a bit alarmed as she saw the progress of her baby.

"I'll take care," said Phronsie, sobering down at thought of Mamsie's being troubled, and beginning to pick her way carefully. And Jasper gathered up her fingers in his, thinking of the time when she toiled up and down the long stairway, when she first came to what was now her home, blessed thought! and Polly and he sat down at the foot to watch her.

"And so Polly and you are going to try sailing on that cloud there," said Jasper, squinting up at the brilliant sky.

"We aren't really going, Jasper," said Phronsie, shaking her head, soberly, "because you see we can't. But Polly's pretending it all; and we're to sit on the edge and swing our feet. And Adela is going to make a picture of us."

"Whew!" whistled Jasper. "And I say, Polly," -- for now they had scrambled up to the two girls, -- "isn't there room for us on that cloud too?" While Tom kicked pebbles, and wished he knew how to talk to girls.

"Perhaps," said Polly, gaily. "Oh, I suppose that those who couldn't get on our cloud could take the next one."

"I'd rather have your cloud, Polly," said Jasper.

"And Grandpapa must come too," cried Phronsie, in alarm at the very thought of his being left out. "I want him on our cloud, Polly."

"Yes, and Mamsie and Papa-Doctor," finished Polly, ready for any nonsense, she was just bubbling over so with joy at thought of the morrow and what it would bring. "Well, it is good the cloud is big," squinting up at the radiant sky.

"And, Tom, you are coming on that cloud-boat."

Jasper pulled him forward with a merry laugh, giving him a clap on the back at the same time.

"Eh -- oh, I can't -- no, thank you," stammered Tom, thus suddenly brought into notice. "Excuse me," just as if the invitation had been a bona fide one.

Polly never smiled, but Adela giggled right out. Tom's face flushed, and he rushed off furiously, determined never to chance it again whereby he'd be mortified before girls -- not he!

All the gay time was flown, and the red and pink and purple clouds looked down upon a sorry, uncomfortable little group. Jasper spoke first. "I must go after him," and he dashed down the rocks.

"O dear me, I couldn't help it," said Adela, twisting uncomfortably, "it was so silly in him to take it all in earnest."

"He didn't really think we meant it," said Polly, her brown eyes very grave. Would Jasper really persuade him to forget that laugh? "But he is shy, and he said the first thing that came into his head."

"Boys haven't any right to be shy," said Adela, fussing with her little sketching block and pencil, "they are so big and strong."

"Why did Tom run away so fast?" asked Phronsie, only half comprehending.

"Never mind, child," said Polly, with a reassuring pat on her head.

"And isn't Jasper coming back?" asked Phronsie, in great distress.

"Yes, oh, I guess so," said Polly. "Well, there, the pretty glow has all faded; see, Phronsie," pointing up to the leaden clouds that no one who had failed to see a few moments before could have imagined alive with colour. "Now we ought to run over to the others, for they'll be going back to the hotel."

"It's all gone," said Phronsie, sadly, looking up at the darkening sky. "Polly, where has the pretty red and pink gone to?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Polly, thinking only of Tom, and what a hard time Jasper must be having with him. "Take care, Phronsie, don't look up now -- you'll fall! There, take my hand; now come on."

"O dear me, I didn't mean to laugh," Adela was saying to herself as she fell back in the zig-zag path down the rocks. "I wish I hadn't -- I'll -- I'll -- " What she meant to do wasn't very clear in her mind; what she did do, was to run up to her grandmother's and her room, and toss her sketch-book on the table, and herself on the bed, for a good hearty cry.

Polly found her there, when they couldn't find her anywhere else, with much searching and running about. Little old Mrs. Gray was worrying dreadfully, so afraid she had been blown from the rocks; for the wind had now risen, and all the travellers were seeking the shelter and warmth of the hotel corridor and parlours.

"Oh, Adela, how could you?" Polly was going to say. And then she thought that would be the very worst thing in all the world, for Adela's shoulders were shaking, and it would only make her cry worse. And besides, Polly remembered how she had sometimes given way in just this fashion, and how much worse she would have been, had it not been for a wise, good mother. So she ran out in the hall. "I must tell her grandmother," she said to herself.

"Have you found her?" asked Jasper, looking up from the foot of the staircase.

"Yes," said Polly, "I have."

"All right." And Jasper vanished, and Polly went slowly back, wishing she could be downstairs with all the dear people, instead of trying to comfort this dismal girl. The next moment she was kneeling down by the side of the bed, and trying to get hold of one of Adela's hands. But Adela bounced over to the farther side, and she cried out angrily, "It's all very well for you to say so, because you didn't do it. And everybody likes you. O dear me -- tee -- hee -- boo -- hoo!"

"But I've often done things just as bad," confessed Polly, "and, Adela, I've cried like this, too. But Mamsie -- oh, Adela! she made me see it was wrong; so I had to stop it, you know."

"How is it wrong?" asked Adela, rolling over, and taking the handkerchief away from one eye enough to see Polly Pepper's face. "I can cry, I guess, if I want to, without asking anybody."

"Oh, no, you can't," said Polly, decidedly. "I mean no one can."

"Why not, pray tell?" said Adela, sniffing very hard. "My eyes are my own, and I shall cry, too, whenever I want to."

"Well, I can't just tell you exactly why you can't cry when you want to," said Polly, afraid she wasn't going to say the right word, "but Mamsie could if she were here. I'll go and call her, Adela." And Polly sprang to her feet. "She'll come, I know."

"Oh, no -- no," cried Adela, in mortal alarm. "I don't want her -- I mean I'd rather have you. You're a girl; and a woman talking at me scares me."

"Then you mustn't cry if I stay," said Polly, stopping short, and seeing her advantage, "for I surely shall go, Adela," she added firmly, "unless you stop crying."

"O dear me." Adela squirmed all over the bed. "I can't stop -- I've always cried as much as I wanted to. O dear me -- boo-hoo-hoo! I mean -- I'll stop, don't go -- " sopping up her wet face with a nervous hand. "See, Pol-ly!" for Polly had slipped out of the room. Adela flew off from the bed. "Polly -- Polly, Pol-ly!" she called, in a piteous little tone.

Polly, halfway down the stairs, looked back. "Oh, you are up," she said, with a smile. "Now that's fine; come." And she held out her hand.

"Mercy me, and O my!" cried Adela. "I can't go looking like this; why, I'm a perfect sight, I know, Polly Pepper! and my nose feels all bunged out of shape and as big!"

"Never mind," said Polly, as reassuringly, "just dash some water over it, and it'll be all right. I'll wait here for you."

So Polly stood on her stair while Adela, bemoaning all the way that she didn't look fit to be seen, and that she was a perfect sight, and she couldn't go down among them all, stumbled back into her room. And pretty soon Polly heard a big splash. "O dear me -- oh, what shall I do?"

"What is the matter?" cried Polly, deserting her stair, to run in and up to the washstand.

"Just see what I've done," exclaimed Adela, holding out one arm. It was dripping wet, and the water was running off in a stream and down to meet a small puddle where the splash had struck on the floor.

"The pitcher slipped -- O dear me -- ugh -- " cried Adela, wriggling all over.

"Stand still," said Polly, "do, Adela, till I wipe your sleeve dry." And she got the towel and began to sop and to pat Adela's arm.

"It never'll feel dry, it's perfectly awful -- ugh -- Polly Pepper," declared Adela, twisting away from Polly's fingers; "it's just like a wet snake -- ugh -- O dear me! and it gives me the creeps."

"You'll have to put on another waist, I do think," said Polly, hanging up the towel, aghast to find herself growing angry at all this delay, and with half a mind to run and leave Adela to herself.

"O dear me, and there's this water running all over the floor," cried Adela, stepping gingerly over the pool, and trying to pick off the wet sleeve from her arm at the same time.

"I'll fix it," said Polly, as cheerily as she could, "while you get your waist on." And she sopped the water up. "There, that's done," she announced with satisfaction; "now do hurry, Adela."

"I can't get out of this old, horrid, wet sleeve," said Adela, very red in the face, and pulling and twitching at it.

"Take care, you'll tear it," warned Polly.

"I don't care if I do," said Adela, peevishly. "O dear me, somebody's coming!" With that she flew into the closet and pulled to the door.

"Why, Polly!" exclaimed Mother Fisher, in surprise, "what is the matter? We are all waiting to go in to dinner."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," began Polly, feeling as if nothing would be so delightful as to have a good cry in Mamsie's arms and tell all the story.

"Well, you must come right away," said Mrs. Fisher. "Why, where is Adela?" looking around the room.

"I'm here," said Adela, from the closet.

"Come out here, Adela," said Mrs. Fisher. So Adela came out, the wet sleeve still on her arm; but she had gotten out of the rest of the waist.

"That's too bad," said Mrs. Fisher; and in a minute Adela's wet arm was free and nicely dried, and a clean waist being found, it was soon on, and then Mother Fisher took up the hairbrush. "We must have this all nice and smooth," she said. And Adela stood still, liking it all very much; and her hair was brushed, much as if she had been Phronsie, and then Mother Fisher released her with a smile. "There, now you are ready," she said.

"She didn't scold a bit," said Adela, going after her with Polly down the stairs, and forgetting her red eyes and swollen nose.

"Our mother never scolds," declared Polly, with her head very high, "never in all this world, Adela Gray."

And at dinner Tom Selwyn looked across the table, and when he caught sight of Adela's face, and saw that some one else could feel as badly as he could, and he guessed the reason, he made up his mind what he was going to do next. And as soon as the meal was over, without giving himself time to think, he marched up to Adela. "Say, I didn't much mind because you laughed, don't you know," and held out his hand.

"I've been crying ever since," said Adela, "and I didn't mean to laugh."

"I know it," said Tom to the first part of her sentence, and looking at her nose. "Well, never mind now, so it's quits, and shake hands."

"I don't know what quits is," said Adela, putting out her hand.

"Oh, it's when things are evened up somehow," said Tom; "not exactly that, but it will do well enough by way of explaining."

"And I'm never going to laugh again at anybody," said Adela, lifting her red eyes.

"Well, come on, don't you want a game of draughts?" said Tom, awkwardly.

"Draughts?" repeated Adela, very much puzzled. "I don't know it."

"Why, what a whopper!" Tom was going to say, but changed it to, "Why, I saw you playing it last night with Polly Pepper."

"Why, no, you didn't," said Adela, not very politely, "that was checkers."

"That's the same thing," said Tom, triumphantly, "only you Americans call it that funny name."

"Well, I think it's a great deal nicer name than draughts," said Adela; "that's silly."

"Well, checkers; that's senseless," retorted Tom, "and, besides, you Americans always say 'nice' at everything." Then he looked at her red eyes and poor little nose, and added kindly, "Well, never mind, call it checkers, then, I don't care; let's have a game," and he rushed for the board.

Mrs. Selwyn looked from her corner where she had taken a book, and smiled to see him playing a game with a girl. Then she nodded over to Jasper, and he smiled back.

And Adela never once thought how she looked. And she beat Tom twice, and that quite set her up. And then for the next three games he routed her men completely off the board. And, strange to say, she kept her temper, and even smiled at the disaster.

"That's a good game." Old Mr. King came up as the last one was going on. "Tom, my boy, you play a fine one."

"And she fights well," said Tom, generously. "She beat me twice."

"You don't say so," exclaimed Mr. King. "Well, that's doing pretty well, Adela, to get ahead of the English lad. But you don't stand much of a chance this time; Tom's got the game, sure." And so it proved in less time than it takes to write it.

And then everybody said "good night" to everybody else; for the Alpine horn would sound at the earliest dawn to waken the sleepers to see the sunrise.

"Mamsie," cried Polly, raising her head suddenly as she cuddled into bed, "supposing we shouldn't hear that horn -- just supposing it! Oh, can't I stay awake? Do let me, Mamsie."

"Your Grandfather has made arrangements for us all to be called," said Mrs. Fisher, "so we won't have to depend on the horn, and now you must go to sleep just as fast as ever you can. Then you'll be as bright as a button in the morning, Polly."

"Mamsie," said Polly, "I don't think Grandpapa has kept from doing anything he could to make us happy, do you, Mamsie? not a single thing."

"No," said Mother Fisher, "I don't, Polly."



XXII

Polly Tries To Help


"Mamsie, what shall we do?" Polly clasped her hands in despair, and looked down on Phronsie, sleeping away as if she meant to take her own time to wake up, regardless of sunrise on the Rigi. "O dear me, and she went to bed so early last night on purpose."

"You go right along, Polly," said Mother Fisher. "Put on your golf cape over your jacket, child, it's dreadfully cold out there. I shall stay with Phronsie, for of course we wouldn't leave her alone with Matilda, and all go off for a nice time."

"No, of course not," cried Polly, in horror at the mere thought.

"And she's in such a nice sleep and so warm, that it's a pity to wake her up," finished Mrs. Fisher.

"O dear me," cried Polly, in distress, "I'd rather stay, Mamsie, and have you go."

"No," said Mrs. Fisher, firmly, "I shall stay, so that is all there is about it, Polly. Now run along, child, and tell Matilda to hurry out too, for she wants to see the sunrise."

Polly still lingered, until her mother looked up in surprise. "Why, Polly," she said, reprovingly.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, "I didn't mean to disobey, Mamsie, I really didn't; I'll go." And setting a kiss on Mother Fisher's black hair, she ran out on unsteady feet, and with all her comfort gone.

When she joined her group it would have been rather hard to distinguish any of them, as everybody was wrapped up in shawls and rugs, if Jasper hadn't been a sort of scout in waiting for her and Mrs. Fisher and Phronsie. And Tom could easily be picked out, for he hung around in Jasper's wake, and besides, he was so very big.

"Where are they?" asked Jasper, looking down the corridor back of her.

"Oh, Mamsie isn't coming, nor Phronsie either, for she's asleep. And Mamsie made me come," finished Polly, dismally.

"O dear me," said Jasper, quite gone in sympathy. Tom Selwyn poked his head forward to hear, but, as it was something quite beyond his powers to help, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and kicked aimlessly on the floor.

"Well, come on, Polly," said Jasper, wishing he could lift the gloom from Polly's face, and feeling quite dismal himself.

Little Dr. Fisher, muffled up in a big plaid shawl so that only his spectacles gleamed in between the folds and his cap, suddenly edged up back of Polly, and dropped the folds away from his ears so that he could hear what was going on. And when the group hurried out of the door, into the cold gray dawn, he was skipping down to his wife's room, in the liveliest way imaginable.

Old Mr. King had gone on ahead with the parson, as he couldn't scramble so fast. And now he met them with, "Well, are you all here -- where's Phronsie?"

"Oh, Jasper, I can't tell him," gasped Polly, up on the tiptop bunch of rocks, and trying to be glad of the promise of the beautiful sunrise to come, for everybody agreed that it was apparently to be the best one that had gladdened the hearts of travellers for years. Then she whirled around and stared with all her might, "If there isn't Mamsie coming!"

"As true as you live it is!" cried Jasper, with a good look, and springing down the rocks to help her up. Tom Selwyn plunged after him, getting there first. So in the bustle, nobody answered Mr. King. And he, supposing from the merry chatter that Phronsie was in the midst of it, concluded it best not to interrupt their fun, even if he could make them hear.

"Your father made me come, Polly," said Mrs. Fisher, coming up between the two boys. "But I'd so much rather that he saw it." And her downcast face looked so very much like Polly, that Jasper thought matters hadn't bettered themselves any.

"But, Mamsie," said Polly, creeping up to her with all the comfort she could, "it makes him happy, just as it made you happy to have me go."

"I know it," said Mother Fisher, with a sigh, "but he has so few pleasures, Polly, and he works so hard." And her gaze wandered off to the distant clouds, slowly beginning to break away.

Polly held her breath as they waited and looked, although her heart was sad when the wee little streak of light began to come over in the east.

"Isn't that just beautiful!" exclaimed Jasper, trying to enjoy it as much as he had expected; "see, Polly, the stars seem going out -- daylight's coming!"

"I know," said Polly, "so it is." Sure enough, a little strip of gold touched up the leaden sky, and spread slowly.

"See, it's turning pink." Mrs. Selwyn's plain, quiet face glowed. "See, Polly, look at that peak bathed in colour."

Just then a little voice said, "Oh, isn't that beautiful!" And whirling around on her rock, Polly saw little Dr. Fisher staggering along with a big bundle in his arms, out of which was peering Phronsie's face.

Mother Fisher had turned too. "Oh, Adoniram!" was all she said, as Polly sprang off to meet them.

"Give her to me," cried Tom Selwyn, of course reaching there first, before either Polly or Jasper; and before Dr. Fisher quite knew how, Phronsie was perched on the broad shoulder, and Tom was prancing up the rocky path as easily as if a bird had lighted on his arm.

"She woke up, luckily," said little Dr. Fisher, "and she's bundled up so there isn't a chance of her taking cold. Wife, this is grand!" He gained her side, and drew her hand under the big shawl.

"You've come just in time," cried Polly, skipping around on her rock to the imminent danger of falling on her nose, and varying the exercises by cuddling Phronsie's toes, done up in a big bundle.

"I declare if Papa Fisher hasn't tied them up in one of the blankets," she announced merrily.

"A blanket is just as good as anything when the sunrise is waiting for you," said the little doctor, coolly.

"Isn't it!" cried Polly, back at him, happily. "Oh -- oh!"

Everybody echoed, "Oh-oh!" then stood hushed to silence. A rosy blush spread from peak to peak, and all the shadows fell away. Everything below, towns, villages, lakes, and forests, stood out in the clear cold dawn, and at last the sun burst forth in all his glory.

"I'm so glad that people don't chatter," said Polly, when at last they turned away, for the swift clouds had shut it all out. "Did you see Phronsie's face, Jasper, when that light burst out?"

"Yes, and father's," answered Jasper. "I expect he'd been looking for her; everybody is so bundled up you can hardly find your best friend. And then he saw her."

"Yes, and she saw him and called him," said Polly, "didn't you hear her?"

"Didn't I, though?" said Jasper; "who could help it? Wasn't father pleased when he got up to us, Tom, to think you had Phronsie in such good shape? Phronsie, you're in luck," pinching as much of her toes as the bundle of blanket would allow; "you've got the best place of any of us, up on that perch."

"I like it," said Phronsie, in grave delight, "very much, indeed," surveying them out of the depths of the shawl, "and I wish it needn't stop."

"Well, it must," said Polly, with a sigh. "Dear me, see those people run."

"Well, it's cold," said Jasper; "let's you and I race to the hotel, Polly."

"And the show is over," said Tom, "why shouldn't they run?" as Jasper and Polly set off, and he strode after, getting there nearly as soon.

An hour later, Polly, who couldn't get to sleep again, for a nap before breakfast, went out to the little balcony window just outside her door, where she might sit and write in her journal, and meantime catch any chance view that the grey scudding clouds might afford. In this way she strove to work off the impatience possessing her for the beautiful hour to come after breakfast. "I can hardly believe it now," she thought, and she gave herself a little pinch to see if she were really awake; "it seems too good to be true to think that the great Professor Bauricke is actually going to tell me how to learn to play well!"

"Say," a voice struck upon her ear, "oh, I'm in the most awful distress."

Polly clapped her book to, and looked up.

"O dear, dear!" It was a tall, spare woman with a face that had something about it like Grandma Bascom's. It must have been the cap-frills flapping around her cheeks.

"What can I do for you?" asked Polly, springing up. "Oh, do take my chair and sit down and tell me about it."

"Oh, will you help me? The land! I couldn't set when I'm in such trouble," declared the old woman. "My senses, I should fly off the handle!" Polly, feeling that she was in the presence of some dreadful calamity, stood quite still. "You see, me and my sister -- she's in highstrikes now in there." The old woman tossed her head to indicate a room further down the hall, whereat the cap-frills flapped wilder than ever. "Bein' as it belonged to both of us, she feels as bad as I do, but as I was the one that lost it, why it stands to reason I've got to shake around and get it again. Say, will you help me? You've got a pair of bright eyes as ever I see in a head; and what's the good of 'em if you can't help in trouble like this?"

Polly, feeling that her eyes would never forgive her if she didn't let them help on such an occasion, promised.

"What is it you have lost?" she asked.

"Don't you know?" cried the old woman, impatiently. "Mercy me! how many times shall I tell you? My buzzom pin; it was took of Pa when he was a young man and awful handsome, and I didn't want to leave it in the room when we went out, cause somebody might get in, and they'd be sure to want it, so I pinned it on my nightcap strings and it's gone, and I a-gallivanting round on them rocks, a-looking at the sunrise, and I can see that to home all I want to. I must have been crazy."

"Oh, I see; and you want me to go out and help you look for it," said Polly, her brow clearing.

"Of course," assented the old woman, impatiently. "Land, your intellects ain't as bright as your eyes. My sakes! -- how many times do you expect me to tell you? I've been a-looking and a-peeking everywhere, but my eyes are old, and I don't dare to tell any one to help me, for like enough they'd pick it up when I warn't seein', and slip Pa in their pocket, and I never'd see him again."

Polly, feeling, if Pa were slipped in a pocket and carried off, it would be a calamity indeed, said heartily, "I'll get my jacket and cap and come right out."

"She looks honest; I guess I hain't done no harm to tell her about our buzzom pin," said the old woman to herself as Polly disappeared. Mamsie being asleep, Polly could say nothing to her, but feeling that she would allow it if she knew, she threw on her things and ran out to meet the old woman, with a shawl tied over her nightcap and a big long cape on.

"I tell you she's in highstrikes," said the old woman, going down the hall. "That's our room, 37, an' I've seen you an' your folks goin' by, so I feel in some ways acquainted. An' if I don't find Pa, I'll be flabbergasted myself."

"Do let us hurry," said Polly, her mind now only on Pa. So they went down the stairs and out by the door and up the rocky path just where the old woman said she and sister Car'line took when they went out to see the sunrise.

"An' I wish we'd kept in bed," ejaculated Polly's companion. "I most lost my teeth out, they chattered so; and so did Car'line hers. But that wouldn't 'a' been nothin' to losin' Pa, cause we could 'a' got more teeth; but how could we 'a' got him took when he was nineteen and so handsome? There! here we stopped, just at this identical spot!"

"Well, I think we shall find it," said Polly, consolingly. "How did the pin look?" she asked, for the first time remembering to ask, and beginning to poke around in the crevices.

"My land sakes! I never see such a girl for wanting to be told over and over," exclaimed the old woman, irritably, picking up first one ample gaiter and then another to warm her cold toes in her hands. "Haven't I told you he was awful handsome? Well, he had on his blue coat and big brass buttons for one thing, an' his shirt front was ruffled. And -- "

"Was it gold around it?" asked Polly, poking away busily.

"Gold? I guess it was; and there was dents in it, where Car'line an' I bit into it when we were babies, 'cause mother give it to us when our teeth was comin' -- 'twas better'n a chicken bone, she said."

"Oh," said Polly.

"Well, now you know," said Car'line's sister, "an' don't for mercy's sakes ask any more useless questions. I'm most sorry I brung you."

"I might go down and get the boys, Jasper and Tom -- they'd love to help," said Polly, feeling that she was very much out of place, and there was no hope of finding Pa under the circumstances.

The old woman clutched her arm and held her fast. "Don't you say a single word about any boys," she commanded. "I hate boys," she exploded, "they're the worry of our lives, Car'line and mine, -- they get into our garden, and steal all our fruit, and they hang on behind our chaise when we ride out, and keep me a-lookin' round an' slashin' the whip at 'em the whole livelong time; O my -- boys!"

"What in the world is Polly Pepper doing up on those rocks?" cried Jasper, just spying her. "Come on, Tom, and let's see." And they seized their caps, and buttoned their jackets against the wind which had just sprung up, and dashed off to see for themselves.

"Ugh -- you go right away!" screamed Car'line's sister, as their heads appeared over the point of rocks, and shaking both hands fiercely at them.

"Whew!" whistled Jasper, with his eyes in surprise on Polly.

"And what old party are you?" demanded Tom, finding it easy to talk to her, as she was by no means a girl. "And do you own this mountain, anyway?"

"Oh, don't," begged Polly. "And Jasper, if you would go away, please, and not ask any questions."

"All right," said Jasper, swallowing his disappointment not to know. "Come on, Tom, Polly doesn't want us here."

"An' I won't have you here," screamed the old woman, harder than ever. "So get away as soon as you can. Why, you are boys!"

"I know it." Tom bobbed his head at her. "We've always been, ma'am."

"An' boys are good for nothing, an' lazy, an' thieves -- yes, I wouldn't trust 'em." So she kept on as they hurried back over the rocky path.

"That's a tiger for you!" ejaculated Tom. Then he stopped and looked back a little anxiously. "Aren't you afraid to leave Polly with her?"

"No," said Jasper; "it would trouble Polly to have us stay." Yet he stopped and looked anxious too. "We will wait here."

And after a while, down came the two searchers -- the old woman quite beside herself now, and scolding every bit of the way, -- "that she didn't see what bright eyes were for when they couldn't find anything -- an' now that Pa'd gone sliding down that mountain, they might as well give up, she an' Car'line" -- when a sudden turn in the path brought the boys into view waiting behind the rocks. Then all her fury burst upon them.

"See here, now," cried Tom, suddenly squaring up to her and looking at the face between the nodding cap-frills, "we are ready to take a certain amount of abuse, my friend and I, but we won't stand more, I can tell you."

"Oh, don't," began Polly, clasping her hands. "Oh, Tom, please keep still. She doesn't know what she's saying, for she's lost her pin with her father on."

"Hey?" cried Jasper. "Say it again, Polly," while Tom shouted and roared all through Polly's recital.

"Was it an old fright with a long nose in a blue coat and ruffles, and as big as a turnip?" he asked between the shouts. While Polly tried to say, "Yes, I guess so," and Miss Car'line's sister so far overcame her aversion to boys as to seize him by the arm, Tom shook her off like a feather. "See here, old party," he cried, "that ancient pin of yours is reposing in the hotel office at this blessed moment. Jasper and I," indicating his friend, "ran across it on the rocks up there more than an hour ago, and -- "

"Oh, Pa's found!" exclaimed the old woman, in a shrill scream of delight, beginning to trot down to the hotel office.

"Yes, it would have been impossible for Pa to have got off this mountain without making a landslide," said Tom, after her.



XXIII

In The Shadow Of The Matterhorn


They had been days at dear Interlaken, walking up and down the Hoheweg, of which they never tired, or resting on the benches under the plane and walnut trees opposite their hotel, just sitting still to gaze their fill upon the Jungfrau. This was best of all -- so Polly and Jasper thought; and Phronsie was content to pass hour after hour there, by Grandpapa's side, and imagine all sorts of pretty pictures and stories in and about the snow-clad heights of the majestic mountain.

And the throng of gaily dressed people sojourning in the big hotels, and the stream of tourists, passed and repassed, with many a curious glance at the stately, white-haired old gentleman and the little yellow-haired girl by his side.

"A perfect beauty!" exclaimed more than one matron, with a sigh for her ugly girls by her side or left at home.

"She's stunning, and no mistake!" Many a connoisseur in feminine loveliness turned for a last look, or passed again for the same purpose.

"Grandpapa," Phronsie prattled on, "that looks just like a little tent up there -- a little white tent; doesn't it, Grandpapa dear?"

"Yes, Phronsie," said Grandpapa, happily, just as he would have said "Yes, Phronsie," if she had pointed out any other object in the snowy outline.

"And there's a cunning little place where you and I could creep into the tent," said Phronsie, bending her neck like a meditative bird. "And I very much wish we could, Grandpapa dear."

"We'd find it pretty cold in there," said Grandpapa, "and wish we were back here on this nice seat, Phronsie."

"What makes it so cold up there, Grandpapa, when the sun shines?" asked Phronsie, suddenly. "Say, Grandpapa, what makes it?"

"Oh, it's so far up in the air," answered old Mr. King. "Don't you remember how cold it was up on the Rigi, and that was about nine thousand feet lower?"

"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Phronsie, in gentle surprise, unable to compass such figures.

Mr. King's party had made one or two pleasant little journeys to the Lauterbrunnen Valley, staying there and at Mürren, and to Grindelwald as well; but they came back to sit on the benches by the walnut and the plane trees, in front of the matchless Jungfrau. "And this is best of all," said Polly.

And so the days slipped by, till one morning, at the breakfast table, Mrs. Selwyn said, "Tomorrow we must say good-by -- my boy and I."

"Hey -- what?" exclaimed Mr. King, setting his coffee-cup down, not very gently.

"Our vacation cannot be a very long one," said Tom's mother, with a little smile; "there are my father and my two daughters and my other boys in England."

Tom's face was all awry as Mr. King said, "And you mean to say, Mrs. Selwyn, that you really must move on to-morrow?"

"Yes; we really must," she said decidedly. "But oh," and her plain, quiet face changed swiftly, "you cannot know how sorry we shall be to leave your party."

"In that case, Mrs. Fisher," -- old Mr. King looked down the table-length to Mamsie, -- "we must go too; for I don't intend to lose sight of these nice travelling companions until I am obliged to." Tom's face was one big smile. "Oh, goody!" exclaimed Polly, as if she were no older than Phronsie.

Jasper clapped Tom's back, instead of wasting words.

"So we will all proceed to pack up without more ado after breakfast. After all, it is wiser to make the move now, for we are getting so that we want to take root in each place."

"You just wait till you get to Zermatt," whispered Polly to Phronsie, who, under cover of the talk buzzing around the table, had confided to her that she didn't want to leave her beautiful mountain. "Grandpapa is going to take us up to the Gorner Grat, and there you can see another mountain, -- oh, so near! he says it seems almost as if you could touch it. And it's all covered with snow, Phronsie, too!"

"Is it as big as my mountain here?" asked Phronsie.

"Yes, bigger, a thousand feet or more," answered Polly, glad that she had looked it up.

"Is it?" said Phronsie. "Every mountain is bigger, isn't it, Polly?"

"It seems to be," said Polly, with a little laugh.

"And has it a little white tent on the side, just like my mountain here?" asked Phronsie, holding Polly's arm as she turned off to catch the chatter of the others.

"Oh, I suppose so," answered Polly, carelessly. Then she looked up and caught Mamsie's eye, and turned back quickly. "At any rate, Phronsie, it's all peaked on the top -- oh, almost as sharp as a needle -- and it seems to stick right into the blue sky, and there are lots and lots of other mountains -- oh, awfully high, -- and the sun shines up there a good deal, and it's too perfectly lovely for anything, Phronsie Pepper."

"Then I want to go," decided Phronsie. "I do so want to see that white needle, Polly."

"Well, eat your breakfast," said Polly, "because you know we all have ever so much to do to-day to get off."

"Yes, I will," declared Phronsie, attacking her cold chicken and roll with great vigour.

"It seems as if the whole world were at Zermatt," said the parson, looking out from the big piazza crowded with the hotel people, out to the road in front, with every imaginable tourist passing and repassing. Donkeys were being driven up, either loaded down to their utmost with heavy bags and trunks, or else waiting to receive on their patient backs the heavier people. Phronsie never could see the poor animals, without such distress coming in her face that every one in the party considered it his or her bounden duty to comfort and reassure her. So this time it was Tom's turn to do so.

"Oh, don't you worry," he said, looking down into her troubled little face where he sat on the piazza railing swinging his long legs, "they like it, those donkeys do!"

"Do they?" asked Phronsie, doubtfully.

"Yes, indeed," said Tom, with a gusto, as if he wished he were a donkey, and in just that very spot, "it gives them a chance to see things, and to hear things, too, don't you know?" went on Tom, at his wits' end to know how he was going to come out of his sentences.

"Oh," said Phronsie, yet she sighed as she saw the extremely fat person just being hauled up to a position on a very small donkey's back.

"You see, if they don't like it," said Tom, digging his knife savagely into the railing, "they have a chance to kick up their heels and unsettle that heavy party."

"O dear me!" exclaimed Phronsie, in great distress, "that would hurt the poor woman, Tom."

"Well, it shows that the donkey likes it," said Tom, with a laugh, "because he doesn't kick up his heels."

"And so," ran on Tom, "why, we mustn't worry, you and I, if the donkey doesn't. Just think," -- he made a fine diversion by pointing with his knife-blade up to the slender spire of the Matterhorn -- "we're going up on a little jaunt to-morrow, to look into that fellow's face."

Phronsie got out of her chair to come and stand by his side. "I like that white needle," she said, with a gleeful smile. "Polly said it was nice, and I like it."

"I should say it was," declared Tom, with a bob of his head. "Phronsie, I'd give, I don't know what, if I could climb up there." He thrust his knife once more into the railing, where it stuck fast.

"Don't." begged Phronsie, her hand on his sleeve, "go up that big white needle, Tom."

"No, I won't; it's safe to promise that," he said grimly, with a little laugh. "Good reason why; because I can't. The little mother wouldn't sleep nights just to think of it, and I promised the granddaddy that I wouldn't so much as think of it, and here I am breaking my word; but I can't help it." He twitched his knife out suddenly, sprawled off from the railing, and took several hasty strides up and down the piazza.

"Well, that's all right, Phronsie," he said, coming back to get astride the railing again; this time he turned a cold shoulder on Phronsie's "white needle." "Now, to-morrow, we'll have no end of fun." And he launched forth on so many and so varied delights, that Phronsie's pleased little laugh rang out again and again, bringing rest to many a wearied traveller, tired with the sights, sounds, and scenes of a European journey.

"I wish we could stay at this nice place," said Phronsie, the next morning, poking her head out over the side of the car, as it climbed off from the Riffelalp station.

"Take care, child," said Grandpapa, with a restraining hand.

"You would want to stop at every place," said Polly, from the seat in front, with a gay little laugh. "And we never should get on at that rate. But then I am just as bad," she confessed.

"So am I," chimed in Jasper. "Dear me, how I wanted to get a chance to sketch some of those magnificent curves and rapids and falls in the Visp River coming up."

"Oh, that dear, delicious Visp River!" echoed Polly, while Adela began to bemoan that it was the best thing they had seen, and the car whizzed them by so fast, she couldn't do a thing -- O dear!

"I got some snap-shots, but I don't believe they are good for anything," said Jasper, "just from the pure perversity of the thing."

"Take my advice," said Tom, lazily leaning forward, "and don't bother with a camera anyway."

"As if you expected any one to take up with such a piece of advice," ejaculated Jasper, in high disdain. "Say something better than that, Tom, if you want to be heard."

"Oh, I don't expect to be heard, or listened to in the slightest," he said calmly. "Anybody who will trot round with a kodak hanging to his neck by a villanous strap -- can't be -- "

"Who's got a villanous strap hanging to his neck?" cried Jasper, while the rest shouted as he picked at the fern-box thus hanging to Tom.

"Oh, that's quite a different thing," declared Tom, his face growing red.

"I know; one is a kodak, and the other is a fern-box," said Jasper, nodding. "I acknowledge they are different," and they all burst out laughing again.

"Well, at least," said Tom, joining in the laugh, "you must acknowledge, too, that I go off by myself and pick up my wild flowers and green things, and I'm not bothering round focussing every living thing and pointing my little machine at every freak in nature that I see."

"All right," said Jasper, good-naturedly, "but you have the strap round your neck all the same, Tom."

And Phronsie wanted to stay at the Riffelberg just as much; and old Mr. King was on the point of saying, "Well, we'll come up here for a few days, Phronsie," when he remembered Mrs. Selwyn and her boy, and how they must get on. Instead, he cleared his throat, and said, "We shall see it after dinner, child," and Phronsie smiled, well contented.

But when she reached the Corner Grat station, and took Grandpapa's hand, and began to ascend the bridle path to the hotel, she couldn't contain herself, and screamed right out, "Oh, Grandpapa, I'd rather stay here."

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" echoed old Mr. King, feeling twenty years younger since he started on his travels. "Well, well, child, I'm glad you like it," looking down into her beaming little face.

"You are very much to be envied, sir. I can't help speaking to you and telling you so," said a tall, sober-looking gentleman, evidently an English curate off on his vacation, as he caught up with him on the ascent, where they had paused at one of the look-offs, "for having that child as company, and those other young people."

"You say the truth," replied old Mr. King, cordially; "from the depths of my heart I pity any one who hasn't some children to take along when going abroad. But then they wouldn't be little Peppers," he added, under his breath, as he bowed and turned back to the view.

"There's dear Monte Rosa," cried Polly, enthusiastically. "Oh, I just love her."

"And there's Castor and Pollux," said Jasper.

"And there's the whole of them," said Tom, disposing of the entire range with a sweep of his hand. "Dear me, what a lot there are, to be sure. It quite tires one."

"Oh, anybody but a cold-blooded Englishman!" exclaimed Jasper, with a mischievous glance, "to travel with."

"Anything on earth but a gushing American!" retorted Tom, "to go round the world with."

"I wish I could sketch a glacier," bemoaned Adela, stopping every minute or two, as they wound around the bridle path, "but I can't; I've tried ever so many times."

"Wait till we get to the Mer de Glace," advised Tom. "You can sit down in the middle of it, and sketch away all you want to."

"Well, I'm going to," said Adela, with sudden determination. "I don't care; you can all laugh if you want to."

"You can sketch us all," suggested Jasper, "for we shall have horrible old stockings on."

"I sha'n't have horrible old stockings on," said Adela, in a dudgeon, sticking out her foot. "I wear just the same stockings that I do at home, at school in Paris, and they are quite nice."

"Oh, I mean you'll have to put on coarse woollen ones that the peasant women knit on purpose, -- we all shall have to do the same, on over our shoes," explained Jasper.

"O dear me!" cried Adela, in dismay.

"And I think we shall slip and slide a great deal worse with those things tied on our feet, than to go without any," said Polly, wrinkling up her brows at the idea.

"'Twouldn't be safe to go without them," said Jasper, shaking his head, "unless we had nails driven in our shoes."

"I'd much rather have the nails," cried Polly, "oh, much rather, Jasper."

"Well, we'll see what father is going to let us do," said Jasper.

"Wasn't that fun snowballing -- just think -- in July," cried Polly, craning her neck to look back down the path toward the Riffelberg station.

"Did you pick up some of that snow?" asked Adela.

"Didn't we, though!" exclaimed Jasper. "I got quite a good bit in my fist."

"My ball was such a little bit of a one," mourned Polly; "I scraped up all I could, but it wasn't much."

"Well, it did good execution," said Tom; "I got it in my eye."

"Oh, did it hurt you?" cried Polly, in distress, running across the path to walk by his side.

"Not a bit," said Tom. "I tried to find some to pay you back, and then we had to fly for the cars."

The plain, quiet face under the English bonnet turned to Mrs. Fisher as they walked up the path together. "I cannot begin to tell you what gratitude I am under to you," said Tom's mother, "and to all of you. When I think of my father, I am full of thankfulness. When I look at my boy, the goodness of God just overcomes me in leading me to your party. May I tell you of ourselves some time, when a good opportunity offers for a quiet talk?"

"I'd like nothing better," said Mother Fisher, heartily. "If there is one person I like more than another, who isn't of our family, or any of our home friends, it's Mrs. Selwyn," she had confided to the little doctor just a few days before. "She hasn't any nonsense about her, if she is an earl's daughter."

"Earl's daughter," sniffed the little doctor, trying to slip a collar button into a refractory binding. "Dear me, now that's gone -- no, 'tisn't -- that's luck," as the button rolled off into a corner of the bureau-top where it was easily captured.

"Let me do that for you, Adoniram," said Mother Fisher, coming up to help him.

"I guess you'll have to, wife, if it's done at all," he answered, resigning himself willingly to her hands; "the thing slips and slides like all possessed. Well, now, I was going to say that I wouldn't hate a title so much, if there was a grain of common sense went along with it. And that Mrs. Selwyn just saves the whole lot of English nobility, and makes 'em worth speaking to, in my opinion."

And after they had their dinner, and were scattered in groups in the bright sunshine, sitting on the wooden benches by the long tables, or taking photographs, or watching through the big glass some mountain climbers on one of the snowy spurs of the Matterhorn, "the good opportunity for a quiet talk" came about.

"Now," said Mother Fisher, with a great satisfaction in her voice, "may we sit down here on this bench, Mrs. Selwyn, and have that talk?"

Tom's mother sat down well pleased, and folding her hands in her lap, this earl's daughter, mistress of a dozen languages, as well as mistress of herself on all occasions, began as simply and with as much directness as a child.

"Well, you know my father. Let me tell you, aside from the eccentricities, that are mere outside matters, and easily explained, if you understood the whole of his life, a kinder man never lived, nor a more reasonable one. But it was a misfortune that he had to be left so much alone, as since my mother's death a dozen years ago has happened. It pained me much." A shadow passed over her brow, but it was gone again, and she smiled, and her eyes regained their old placid look. "I live in Australia with my husband, where my duty is, putting the boys as fast as they were old enough, and the little girls as well, into English schools. But Tom has always been with my father at the vacations, for he is his favourite, as of course was natural, for he is the eldest. And though you might not believe it, Mrs. Fisher, my father was always passionately fond of the boy."

"I do believe it," said Mother Fisher, quietly, and she put her hand over the folded ones. Mrs. Selwyn unclasped hers, soft and white, to draw within them the toil-worn one.

"Now, that's comfortable," she said, with another little smile.

"And here is where his eccentricity became the most dangerous to the peace of mind of our family," continued Mrs. Selwyn. "My father seemed never able to discover that he was doing the lad harm by all sorts of indulgence and familiarity with him, a sort of hail-fellow-well-met way that surprised me more than I can express, when I discovered it on my last return visit to my old home. My father! who never tolerated anything but respect from all of us, who were accustomed to despotic government, I can assure you, was allowing Tom! -- well, you were with him on the steamer," she broke off abruptly. The placid look was gone again in a flash.

"Yes," said Mother Fisher, her black eyes full of sympathy; "don't let that trouble you, dear Mrs. Selwyn; Tom was pure gold down underneath -- we saw that -- and the rest is past."

"Ah," -- the placid look came back as quickly -- "that is my only comfort -- that you did. For father told the whole, not sparing himself. Now he sees things in the right light; he says because your young people taught it to him. And he was cruelly disappointed because you couldn't come down to visit him in his home."

"We couldn't," said Mother Fisher, in a sorry voice, at seeing the other face.

"I understand -- quite," said Tom's mother, with a gentle pressure of the hand she held. "And then the one pleasure he had was in picking out something for Polly."

"Oh, if the little red leather case had gone back to the poor old man!" ran through Mother Fisher's mind, possessing it at once.

"I don't think his judgment was good, Mrs. Fisher, in the selection," said Mrs. Selwyn, a small pink spot coming on either cheek; "but he loves Polly, and wanted to show it."

"And he was so good to think of it," cried Mother Fisher, her heart warming more and more toward the little old earl.

"And as he couldn't be turned from it, and his health is precarious if he is excited, why, there was nothing to be done about it. And then he insisted that Tom and I come off for a bit of a run on the Continent, the other children being with him. And as my big boy" -- here a loving smile went all over the plain face, making it absolutely beautiful -- "had worried down deep in his heart over the past, till I was more troubled than I can tell you, why, we came. And then God was good -- for then we met you! Oh, Mrs. Fisher!"

She drew her hands by a sudden movement away, and put them on Mother Fisher's shoulders. And then that British matron, rarely demonstrative with her own children, even, leaned over and kissed Polly's mother.

"I can't see why it's so warm up here," said Polly, racing over to their bench, followed by the others. "Dear me, it's fairly hot." And she pulled off her jacket.

"Don't do that, Polly," said her mother.

"Oh, Mamsie, it's so very hot," said Polly; but she thrust her arms into the sleeves and pulled it on again.

"I know; but you've been running," said Mrs. Fisher, "and have gotten all heated up."

"Well, it's perfectly splendid to travel to places where we can run and race," said Polly, in satisfaction, throwing herself down on the rocks. The others all doing the same thing, Mr. King and the Parson and Mrs. Henderson found them, and pretty soon the group was a big one. "Well, well, we are all here together, no -- where is Mrs. Gray?" asked Mr. King, presently.

"She is resting in the hotel," said Mother Fisher, "fast asleep I think by this time."

"Yes," said Adela, "she is. I just peeked in on her, and she hasn't moved where you tucked her up on the lounge."

"Grandpapa," asked Polly, suddenly, from the centre of the group, "what makes it so very warm up here, when we are all surrounded by snow?"

"You ask me a hard thing," said old Mr. King. "Well, for one thing, we are very near the Italian border; those peaks over there, you know, -- follow my walking-stick as I point it, -- are in sunny Italy."

"Well, it is just like sunny Italy up here," said Polly, "I think," blinking, and pulling her little cap over her eyes.

"It's all the Italy you will get in the summer season," said Grandpapa. "You must wait for cold weather before I take one of you there."



XXIV

The Round Robin


"Dear me, how the summer is going!" mourned Polly, as they caught on the return journey the last glimpse of the roaring, tumbling Visp, and not all the craning of the necks could compass another view, as the cars drew them away from the rushing river.

"Never mind, Polly," said Jasper, "there's all next summer; and after our winter in Dresden, and all our hard work over music, won't it be fine, though, to jaunt round again?" and his eyes glistened.

"Dresden!" echoed Polly, sitting quite straight with very red cheeks; -- "oh, Jasper!"

The magic word, "Dresden," had unlocked visions of months of future delight, bringing back every word of dear Herr Bauricke; all the instruction he had given her, on those happy days at Lucerne, that Polly felt quite sure were engraven deep on her heart to last forever and ever.

"And won't I study, though!" exclaimed Polly, to herself, "and make the professor that Herr Bauricke has engaged for me, glad that he teaches me, oh, won't I!"

"Well, I'm sorry the summer is going," said Adela, "because then I've got to leave you at Paris, and go into school."

"But you like your school," said Polly, brightly, "you've said so a dozen times, Adela."

"Yes, I do," said Adela, "and I've got some sketches to take back, and Mademoiselle will be glad of that."

"And you'll go on drawing and painting until you get to be a great artist," ran on Polly, enthusiastically, "and then we'll see something you've done, in the Louvre, maybe."

"The Louvre!" cried Adela; "O dear me, Polly Pepper."

"I don't care," said Polly, recklessly, pushing back the little rings of brown hair from her brow, "they'll be good enough, the pictures you are going to do, to put into the Louvre, anyway, Adela Gray."

Tom Selwyn had been very sober during all this merry chatter; and now in his seat across the narrow aisle, he drummed his heels impatiently on the floor. His mother looked over at him, and slipping out of her seat, went over to him. "Any room here, Tom, for mother?" she said.

"Oh, -- ah, -- I should say so!" Tom slipped out, gave her the window seat, then flew back.

"Now, this is comfy," observed Mrs. Selwyn, as the train sped on. "Tom, see here!"

"What's up, little mother?" asked Tom, in surprise, at her unusual manner.

"It's just this, Tom. You know we are going to Chamonix and up the Mer de Glace with Mr. King's party."

Tom bobbed his head, not allowing himself to exclaim, "But that will be only a short journey, now, and we must soon say good-by."

"Well, I've been thinking that I should like to go on to Geneva, and to Paris," continued Mrs. Selwyn, "only you dislike Paris so much, Tom," she added.

"Oh, you're the bulliest -- I mean -- excuse me -- you're no end a brick -- oh, I mean -- I can't say what I mean," brought up Tom, in despair. And he ran one long arm around her neck very much to the detriment of her neat collar.

"Then you can overcome your dislike to Paris enough to go there?" asked his mother, with a little twinkle in her eye.

"My dislike!" roared Tom, "O dear me!" as everybody looked around. "Why, I just love Paris!" he finished in an awful whisper, close to the plain, black bonnet.

When the news was circulated, as it was pretty soon, that the party was not to be broken into at all till Paris was a completed story, the jubilation was such as to satisfy even Tom. And as this particular party had the car entirely to themselves, it wasn't so very dreadful as it seems, and the elder members allowed indulgent smiles at it all.

That night in the market-place at Martigny, Jasper, who was ahead with his father, ran back to Polly, and the others lingering behind. "Oh, do hurry," he begged, "it's the prettiest sight!"

"Oh, what is it?" cried Polly, as they scampered off.

There, in the centre of the market-place, was a ring of little girls, hand-in-hand, singing a little French song, and going round and round in a circle. They were of all ages and sizes, the littlest one in a blue pinafore, being about three years of age, and so chubby she had to be helped along continually by a big girl, evidently her sister. This big sister stopped the ring game, every now and then, to kiss the round face by the side of her gown; an example that was followed by so many of the other girls, that the game seemed to be never quite finished. And once in a while, big sister would pick up the chubby, little, blue-pinafored maiden and carry her through a considerable portion of the game, then down she would put her on her two chubby feet, and away they all circled without any break in the proceedings at all.

"Oh! isn't it 'Oats, Peas, Beans, and Barley grow'?" cried Polly, as they watched them intently.

"Ever so much like it," said Tom. "See those boys; now they are going to make trouble."

"Oh, they sha'n't!" declared Polly. "O dear me!" as one boy drew near, on the side next to the travellers, and watching his chance, picked at a flying apron or two. But the ring of girls paid no more attention to him, than they had to any other outside matters, being wholly absorbed in the game. So Polly and the others breathed freely again.

But up came another boy. "O dear me!" cried Polly, aghast. When number three put in an appearance, she gave up all hope at once.

"They're jealous chaps," cried Tom, "and are vexed because they can't get into the game! Hear them jeer!" And his long arm went out and picked a jacket-end of an urchin, who, incautiously regarding such quiet travellers as not worth minding, had hovered too near, while trying to tease the girls.

"Here, you, sir," cried Tom, with a bit of a shake, and a torrent of remarkably good French not to be disregarded; then he burst into a laugh. And the urchin laughed too, thinking this much better fun to tussle with the tall lad, than to hang around a parcel of girls. And presently a woman came and took little blue pinafore off, and then the rest of the girls unclasped their hands, and the ring melted away, and the game was over.

"I'm glad the girls over here have fun," said Polly, as Grandpapa and his party moved off. "Isn't it nice to think they do?"

"It isn't much matter where you live, there's a good deal to be gotten out of life; if you only know how," said the parson, thinking busily of the little brown house.

Two or three days of rest at Martigny put everybody in good shape, and gave them all a bit of time to pick up on many little things that were behindhand. Tom looked over all his floral treasures, with their last additions made at the Riffelalp, and discarded such as hadn't pressed well. And Jasper and Polly rushed up to date with their journals, and wrote letters home; and Adela worked up her studies and sketches.

Tom looked on silently when Polly and Jasper were scraping their pens in a lively fashion in the little writing room of the hotel. "That's my third letter, Polly," announced Jasper, on the other side of the table. "Now, I am going to begin on Joel's."

"One, two," said Polly, counting, "why, I thought I'd written three; well, this one is most finished, Jasper."

"Yes," said Jasper, glancing over at her, "is that your last page, Polly?"

"Yes," said Polly, hurrying away. Then she thought of what Mamsie had said, and slackened her speed.

Tom cleared his throat, and tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come nicely, so he burst out, "I say, I wish you'd write to my granddaddy, both of you," and then he stood quite still, and very red in the face.

Polly looked up quickly, her pen dropping from her fingers, and Jasper deserted his fourth letter and stared.

"Why," said Polly, finding her tongue, "we wouldn't dare, Tom Selwyn."

"Dare!" said Tom, delighted to think that no terrible result had really ensued from his words, that after they were out, had scared him mightily. "Oh, if you knew granddaddy!" And he sank into a chair by the table, and played with the heap of picture postal cards that Polly was going to address next.

"We might," said Polly, slowly, "write a letter, all of us. A kind of a Round Robin thing, you know, and send that."

"So we could," cried Jasper; "how would that do, Tom?"

"The very thing!" exclaimed Tom, striking his hand so heavily on the table, that for a minute it looked as if the ink-bottle hopped.

"Take care, there's no reason you should knock things over because you are overjoyed," cried Jasper, gaily. "Well, let's leave our letters to-day, Polly, and set to on the Round Robin."

"All right," said Polly, glad to think there was anything she could really do to please the little old earl, "but would your mother like it, Tom?" She stopped slowly in putting her unfinished letter into the little writing-case, and looked at him.

"If you think there's a shadow of doubt on that score, I'd best run and ask her now." Tom got himself out of the chair, and himself from the room, and in an incredibly short space of time, back there he was. "My mother says, 'Thank Polly for thinking of it; it will do father more good than anything else could possibly do.'"

"I don't suppose you want any more answer," said Tom, quite radiant, and looking down at Polly.

"No, only I didn't think first of it," said Polly, in a distressed little tone.

"Why, Polly Pepper!" exclaimed Tom, "I certainly heard you say 'Round Robin,' when I'll venture to say not a soul of us had even thought of it; we certainly hadn't said so."

"Well, you spoke of the letter first," said Polly, unwilling to take the credit for all the comfort going to the little old earl, "and I shall tell your mother so, Tom."

"But I didn't say 'Round Robin,'" persisted Tom, "wasn't smart enough to think of it."

"And let's get to work," cried Jasper, huddling up his three letters. "I'll post yours, too, Polly; give them here."

"O dear, my stamps are all gone," said Polly, peering into the little box in one corner of her writing-case.

"I've plenty," said Jasper, hurrying off; "I'll stick on two for you."

"Oh, no, Jasper," cried Polly, after him, "you know Mamsie would not allow me to borrow."

"It isn't borrowing," said Jasper, turning back slowly. "I'll give them to you, Polly."

"But Mamsie said when we started I should get my stamps when I needed them," said Polly. "You know she did, Jasper."

"Yes, she did," said Jasper, uncomfortably. Then his face brightened, and he said, "And she's right, Polly," while Polly fished a franc out of Joel's little money-bag that hung at her belt. "Do get the stamps, please, Jasper, and put them on," as he took up her two letters. And she gave the bag a little pat for Joel's sake, wishing it was his stubby black hair that her fingers could touch.

"Dear me, you are dreadfully particular about taking two postage stamps, seems to me," said Adela, who had taken that time, as she hadn't any letters to write, to work up one of her studies from memory of the Visp.

Tom's blue eyes flashed dangerously, then he cleared his throat, whistled, and walked to the window.

"I don't know where we are going to get nice white paper for our 'Round Robin,'" said Polly, leaning her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands.

"I know!" ejaculated Tom, whirling on his heel, and dashing out. In he came, swinging three or four goodly sheets. "Filched 'em out of the old woman's room," he said.

"Oh, Tom!" began Polly.

"I mean, the housekeeper -- matron -- conciergerie -- whatever you call the gentle lady who runs this house -- was fortunately at our desk where she has the pleasure of making up our bills, and I worked on her feelings till she parted with 'em," explained Tom.

"Oh!" said Polly; "well, I'm glad she gave them."

"Never you fear but what they'll be in our bills, Polly," said Tom, who couldn't believe by this time that he hadn't always known Polly Pepper.

"It's dreadfully thin paper," said Adela, critically, getting off from the sofa to pick at one corner of the sheet Polly was beginning to divide.

"I'm glad we have any," hummed Polly, happily.

"Thank your stars you have," said Tom, as gaily. And Jasper running in, the table was soon surrounded by the makers of the Round Robin, Adela deserting her sketch-book and pulling up a chair.

"And Phronsie must come," said Polly, snipping away to get the paper the right width. "O dear me, I can't cut it straight. Do you please finish it, Jasper."

"That's all right," said Jasper, squinting at it critically, "only -- just this edge wants a little bit of trimming, Polly." And he snipped off the offending points.

"I'll fetch Phronsie," cried Tom, springing off.

"And hurry," cried Polly and Jasper, together, after him.

"Polly," said Phronsie, as Tom came careering in with her on his shoulder. "I want to write, too, I do," she cried, very much excited.

"Of course, you shall, Pet. That's just what we want you for," cried Polly, clearing a place on the table; "there, do pull up a chair, Jasper."

"Now, Phronsie, I think you would better begin, for you are the littlest," and she flapped the long strip down in front of her.

"Oh, Polly, you begin," begged Tom.

"No, I think Phronsie ought to," said Polly, shaking her head.

"I want Polly to," said Phronsie, wriggling away from the pen that Polly held out alluringly.

"But Polly wants you to," said Jasper. "I really would, Phronsie dear, to please her."

To please Polly, being what Phronsie longed for next to pleasing Mamsie, she gave a small sigh and took the pen in unsteady fingers.

"Wait a minute, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, in dismay, "I believe we've made a mistake, Jasper, and got the wrong sheet." And Polly turned off with him to examine the rest of the paper.

Phronsie, who hadn't heard what Polly said, her small head being full of the responsibility of beginning the important letter, and considering, since it was to be done, it was best to have it over with as soon as possible, fell to scribbling the letters as fast as she could, all of them running down hill.

"Well, I'm glad to see that we haven't made any mistake," cried Polly, turning back in relief. "Oh, Phronsie, you haven't begun!"

She spoke so sharply that Phronsie started, and a little drop of ink trembling on the point of her pen concluded to hop off. So it did and jumped down on the clean white paper to stare up at them all like a very bad black eye.

"Oh, see what she's written!" cried Polly, quite aghast, and tumbling into her chair, she pointed at the top.

"Deer Mister Erl," scrawled clear across the top.

"I didn't -- mean -- oh, you said do it, Polly." Phronsie threw herself out of her chair, and over into Polly's lap, burrowing and wailing piteously.

"O dear me, how could I say anything?" cried Polly, overcome with remorse and patting Phronsie's yellow hair; "but it is so very dreadful. O dear me! Phronsie, there, there, don't cry. O dear me!"

Tom's mouth trembled. "It's all right. Granddaddy'll like it," he said.

"Oh, Tom Selwyn," gasped Polly, looking up over Phronsie's head, "you don't suppose we'd let that letter go."

"I would," said Tom, coolly, running his hands in his pockets. "I tell you, you don't know my granddaddy. He's got lots of fun in him," he added.

"Phronsie," said Jasper, rushing around the table, "you are making Polly sick. Just look at her face."

Phronsie lifted her head where she had burrowed it under Polly's arm. When she saw that Polly's round cheeks were really quite pale, she stopped crying at once. "Are you sick, Polly?" she asked, in great concern.

"I sha'n't be," said Polly, "if you won't cry any more, Phronsie."

"I won't cry any more," declared Phronsie, wiping off the last tear trailing down her nose. "Then you will be all well, Polly?"

"Then I shall be all as well as ever," said Polly, kissing the wet little face.

When they got ready to begin on the letter again, it was nowhere to be found, and Tom had disappeared as well.

"He took it out," said Adela, for the first time finding her tongue. "I saw him while you were all talking."

While they were wondering over this and were plunged further yet in dismay, Tom came dancing in, waving the unlucky sheet of the Round Robin over his head. "My mother says," he announced in triumph, "that father will get no end of fun over that if you let it go. It will cheer him up."

So that ended the matter, although Polly, who dearly loved to be elegant, had many a twinge whenever her eye fell on the letter at which Phronsie was now labouring afresh.

"We must put in little pictures," said Polly, trying to make herself cheery as the work went busily on.

"Polly, you always do think of the best things!" exclaimed Jasper, beaming at her, which made her try harder than ever to smile. "I wouldn't feel so badly, Polly," he managed to whisper, when Phronsie was absorbed with her work; "he'll like it probably just as father did the gingerbread boy."

"But that was different," groaned Polly.

"Pictures!" Tom Selwyn was saying, "oh, there's where I can come in fine with assistance. I'm no good in a letter." And again he rushed from the room.

"That's three times that boy has gone out," announced Adela, "and he joggles the table awfully when he starts. And he made me cut clear into that edge. See, Polly." She was trimming the third strip of paper, for the Round Robin was to be pasted together and rolled up when it was all done.

"He seems to accomplish something every time he goes," observed Jasper, drily. "Halloo, just look at him now!"

In came Tom with a rush, and turned a small box he held in his hand upside down on the table.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Adela, as her scissors slipped, "now you've joggled the table again!" Then she caught Polly's eye. "Aren't those pictures pretty?" she burst out awkwardly.

"Aren't they so!" cried Tom, in satisfaction, while Polly oh-ed and ah-ed, and Phronsie dropped her pen suddenly making a second blot; only as good fortune would have it, it was so near the edge that they all on anxious examination decided to trim the paper down, and thus get rid of it.

"I don't see how you got so many," said Jasper, in admiration, his fingers busy with the heap.

"Oh, I've picked 'em up here and there," said Tom. "I began because I thought the kids at home might like 'em. And then it struck me I'd make a book like yours."

"Well, do save them now," said Jasper, "and we'll give some of our pictures, though the prettiest ones are in our books," he added regretfully.

"Rather not -- much obliged," Tom bobbed his thanks. "I want to donate something to granddaddy, and I tell you I'm something awful at a letter."

"All right, seeing you wish it so," said Jasper, with a keen look at him, "and these are beauties and no mistake; we couldn't begin to equal them."

When the letter was finally unrolled and read to Grandpapa, who strayed into the reading room to see what Phronsie was doing, it certainly was a beauty. Picture after picture, cut from railroad guide books, illustrated papers, and it seemed to Jasper gathered as if by magic, with cunning little photographs, broke up the letter, and wound in and out with funny and charming detail of some of their journey.

"I wrote that all myself," hummed Phronsie, smoothing her gown, in great satisfaction, pointing to the opening of the letter.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Polly, softly, for she couldn't even yet get over that dreadful beginning.

"The rest of it is nice," whispered Jasper, "and I venture to say, he'll like that the best of all."

Mr. King thought so, too, and he beamed at Phronsie. "So you did," he cried; "now that's fine. I wish you'd write me a letter sometime."

"I'm going to write you one now," declared Phronsie. Since Grandpapa wanted anything, it was never too soon to begin work on it.

"Do," cried old Mr. King, in great satisfaction. So he put down the Round Robin, Adela crying out that she wanted her grandmother to see it; and Polly saying that Mamsie, and Papa-Doctor, and the Parson and Mrs. Henderson must see it; "and most important of all," said Jasper, breaking into the conversation, "Mrs. Selwyn must say if it is all right to go."

At that Polly began to have little "creeps" as she always called the shivers. "O dear me!" she exclaimed again, and turned quite pale.

"You don't know my mother," exclaimed Tom, "if you think she won't like that. She's got lots of fun in her, and she always sees the sense of a thing."

"But she's so nice," breathed Polly, who greatly admired Mrs. Selwyn, "and so elegant."

Tom bobbed his head and accepted this as a matter of course. "That's the very reason she understands things like a shot -- and knows how to take 'em," he said; "and I tell you, Polly," he declared with a burst of confidence that utterly surprised him, "I'd rather have my mother than any other company I know of; she's awful good fun!"

"I know it," said Polly, brightly, with a little answering smile. "Well, I hope she'll like it."

"Never you fear," cried Tom, seizing the Round Robin; and waving it over his head, it trailed off back of him like a very long and broad ribbon. "Come on, now, all fall into line!"

"Take care!" cried Jasper, as he ran after with Polly and Adela, "if you dare to tear that, sir!" while Phronsie at the big table laboured away on her letter, Grandpapa sitting by to watch the proceedings, with the greatest interest.

And one look at Mrs. Selwyn's face, as she read that Round Robin, was enough for Polly! And then to post it.

"Dear me," said Polly, when that important matter was concluded, "suppose anything should happen to it now, before it gets there!"



XXV

On The Mer De Glace


"Well, we can't all get into one carriage," said Polly, on the little brick-paved veranda of the hotel, "so what is the use of fussing, Adela?"

"I don't care," said Adela, "I'm going to ride in the same carriage with you, Polly Pepper, so there!" and she ran her arm in Polly's, and held it fast.

Jasper kicked his heel impatiently against one of the pillars where the sweetbrier ran; then he remembered, and stopped suddenly, hoping nobody had heard. "The best way to fix it is to go where we are put," he said at last, trying to speak pleasantly.

"No, I'm going with Polly," declared Adela, perversely, holding Polly tighter than ever.

"I'm going with you, Polly," cried Phronsie, running up gleefully, "Grandpapa says I may."

"Well, so am I," announced Adela, loudly.

Tom Selwyn gave a low whistle, and thrust his hands in his pockets, his great and only comfort on times like these.

"Anything but a greedy girl," he sniffed in lofty contempt.

Meanwhile the horses were being put in the carriages, the stable men were running hither and thither to look to buckle and strap, and a lot of bustle was going on that at any other time would have claimed the boys. Now it fell flat, as a matter of interest.

"Halloo -- k-lup!" The drivers gave the queer call clear down in their throats, and hopped to their places on the three conveyances, and with a rattle and a flourish the horses now spun around the fountain in the little courtyard to come up with a swing to the veranda.

"Now, then," said Grandpapa, who had been overseeing every detail, "here we are," running his eyes over his party; "that's right," in great satisfaction. "I never saw such a family as I have for being prompt on all occasions. Well then, the first thing I have to do is to get you settled in these carriages the right way."

Adela, at that, snuggled up closer than ever to Polly, and gripped her fast.

"Now, Mrs. Fisher," said old Mr. King, "you'll ride with Mrs. Selwyn in the first carriage, and you must take two of the young folks in with you."

"Oh, let Polly and me go in there!" cried Adela, forgetting her wholesome fear of the stately old gentleman in her anxiety to get her own way.

"Polly is going with me and Phronsie," said Mr. King. "Hop in, Adela, child, and one of you boys."

Tom ducked off the veranda, while Adela, not daring to say another syllable, slowly withdrew her arm from Polly's and mounted the carriage step, with a miserable face.

"Come on, one of you boys," cried Mr. King, impatiently. "We should have started a quarter of an hour ago -- I don't care which one, only hurry."

"I can't!" declared Tom, flatly, grinding his heel into the pebbles, and looking into Jasper's face.

"Very well," -- Jasper drew a long breath, -- "I must, then." And without more ado, he got into the first carriage and they rattled off to wait outside the big gate till the procession was ready to start.

Old Mrs. Gray, the parson's wife and the parson, and little Dr. Fisher made the next load, and then Grandpapa, perfectly delighted that he had arranged it all so nicely, with Polly and Phronsie, climbed into the third and last carriage, while Tom swung himself up as a fourth.

"They say it is a difficult thing to arrange carriage parties with success," observed Mr. King. "I don't find it so in the least," he added, complacently, just on the point of telling the driver to give the horses their heads. "But that is because I've such a fine party on my hands, where each one is willing to oblige, and -- "

"Ugh!" exclaimed Tom Selwyn, with a snort that made the old gentleman start. "I'm going to get out a minute -- excuse me -- can't explain." And he vaulted over the wheel.

"Bless me, what's come to the boy!" exclaimed Mr. King; "now he's forgotten something. I hope he won't be long."

But Tom didn't go into the hotel. Instead, he dashed up to carriage number one. "Get out," he was saying to Jasper, and presenting a very red face to view. "I'm going in here."

"Oh, no," said Jasper; "it's all fixed, and I'm going to stay here." And despite all Tom could say, this was the sole reply he got. So back he went, and climbed into old Mr. King's carriage again, with a very rueful face.

Old Mr. King viewed him with cold displeasure as the driver smacked his whip and off they went to join the rest of the party.

"You must go first," sang out the little doctor, as Grandpapa's carriage drove up; "you are the leader, and we'll all follow you."

"Yes, yes," shouted the parson, like a boy.

And the occupants of carriage number one saying the same thing, Grandpapa's conveyance bowled ahead; and he, well pleased to head the procession, felt some of his displeasure at the boy sitting opposite to him dropping off with each revolution of the wheels.

But Tom couldn't keep still. "I didn't want to come in this carriage, sir!" he burst out.

"Eh! what?" Old Mr. King brought his gaze again to bear upon Tom's face.

"Well, you are here now," he said, only half comprehending.

"Because Jasper won't take the place," cried Tom, setting his teeth together in distress. "That's what I got out for."

"Oh, I see," said Mr. King, a light beginning to break through.

Tom wilted miserably under the gaze that still seemed to go through and through him, and Polly looked off at her side of the carriage, wishing the drive over the Tête Noire was all ended. Old Mr. King turned to Phronsie at his side.

"Well, now," he said, taking her hand, "we are in a predicament, Phronsie, for it evidently isn't going to be such an overwhelming success as I thought."

"What is a predicament?" asked Phronsie, wrenching her gaze from the lovely vine-clad hills, which she had been viewing with great satisfaction, to look at once into his face.

"Oh, a mix-up; a mess generally," answered Grandpapa, not pausing to choose words. "Well, what's to be done, now, -- that is the question?"

Tom groaned at sight of the face under the white hair, from which all prospect of pleasure had fled. "I was a beastly cad," he muttered to himself.

Phronsie leaned over Mr. King's knee. "Tell me," she begged, "what is it, Grandpapa?"

"Oh, nothing, child," said Grandpapa, with a glance at Polly's face, "that you can help, at least."

Polly drew a long breath. "Something must be done," she decided. "Oh, I know. Why, Grandpapa, we can change before we get to the halfway place," she cried suddenly, glad to think of something to say. "Can't we? And then we can all have different places."

"The very thing!" exclaimed Mr. King, his countenance lightening. "Come, Tom, my boy, cheer up. I'll put Jasper and every one else in the right place soon. Here you, stop a bit, will you?" -- to the driver.

"K-lup!" cried the driver, thinking it a call to increase speed; so the horses bounded on smartly for several paces, and no one could speak to advantage.

"Make him hold up, Tom!" commanded Mr. King, sharply. And Tom knowing quite well how to accomplish this, Grandpapa soon stood up in the carriage and announced, "In half an hour, or thereabout, if we come to a good stopping-place, I shall change some of you twelve people about in the carriages. Pass the word along."

But Adela didn't ride with Polly. For rushing and pushing as the change about was effected, to get her way and be with Polly, she felt her arm taken in a very light but firm grasp.

"No, no, my dear," -- it was old Mr. King, -- "not that way. Here is your place. When a little girl pushes, she doesn't get as much as if she waits to be asked."

"It had to be done," he said to himself, "for the poor child has had no mother to teach her, and it will do her good." But he felt sorry for himself to be the one to teach the lesson. And so they went over the Tête Noire to catch the first sight of Mont Blanc.

*   *   *   *   *

"I'm going to have a donkey for my very own," confided Phronsie, excitedly, the next morning, to Jasper, whom she met in the little sun-parlour.

"No!" cried Jasper, pretending to be much amazed, "you don't say so, Phronsie!"

"Yes, I am," she cried, bobbing her yellow head. "Grandpapa said so; he really did, Jasper. And I'm going to ride up that long, big mountain on my donkey." She pointed up and off, but in the wrong direction.

"Oh, no, Phronsie, that isn't the way we are going. The Montanvert is over here, child," corrected Jasper.

"And I'm going to ride my donkey," repeated Phronsie, caring little which way she was going, since all roads must of course lead to fairy-land, "and we're going to see the water that's frozen, and Grandpapa says we are to walk over it; but I'd rather ride my donkey, Jasper," confided Phronsie, in a burst of confidence.

"I guess you'll be glad enough to get off from your donkey by the time you reach the top of Montanvert," observed Jasper, wisely.

"Well, now, Phronsie, we are not going for a day or two, you know, for father doesn't wish us to be tired."

"I'm not a bit tired, Jasper," said Phronsie, "and I do so very much wish we could go to-day."

"O dear me!" exclaimed Jasper, with a little laugh, "why, we've only just come, Phronsie! It won't be so very long before we'll be off. Goodness! the time flies so here, it seems to me we sha'n't hardly turn around before those donkeys will be coming into this yard after us to get on their backs."

But Phronsie thought the time had never dragged so in all her small life; and, although she went about hanging to Grandpapa's hand as sweet and patient as ever, all her mind was on the donkeys; and whenever she saw one, -- and the street was full, especially at morning and in the late afternoon, of the little beasts of burden, clattering up the stony roads, -- she would beg to just go and pat one of the noses, if by chance one of the beasts should stand still long enough to admit of such attention.

"Oh, no, Phronsie," expostulated old Mr. King, when this pleasing little performance had been indulged in for a half a dozen times. "You can't pat them all; goodness me, child, the woods are full of them," he brought up in dismay.

"Do they live in the woods?" asked Phronsie, in astonishment.

"I mean, the place -- this whole valley of Chamonix is full of donkeys," said Grandpapa, "so you see, child, it's next to impossible to pat all their noses."

"I hope I'm going to have that dear, sweet little one," cried Phronsie, giving up all her mind, since the soft noses couldn't be patted, to happy thoughts of to-morrow's bliss. "See, Grandpapa," she pulled his hand gently, "to ride up the mountain on."

"Well, you'll have a good one, that is, as good as can be obtained," said the old gentleman; "but as for any particular one, why, they're all alike to me as two peas, Phronsie."

But Phronsie had her own ideas on the subject, and though on every other occasion agreeing with Grandpapa, she saw good and sufficient reason why every donkey should be entirely different from every other donkey. And when, on the next morning, their procession of donkeys filed solemnly into the hotel yard, she screamed out, "Oh, Grandpapa, here he is, the very one I wanted! Oh, may I have him? Put me up, do!"

"He's the worst one of the whole lot," groaned Grandpapa, his eye running over the file, "I know by the way he puts his vicious old feet down. Phronsie, here is a cunning little fellow," he added, artfully trying to lead her to one a few degrees better, he fondly hoped. But Phronsie already had her arms up by her particular donkey's neck, and her cheek laid against his nose, and she was telling him that he was her donkey, for she thought Grandpapa would say "Yes." So what else could he do, pray tell, but say "Yes"? And she mounted the steps, and was seated, her little brown gown pulled out straight, and the saddle girth tightened, and all the other delightful and important details attended to, and then the reins were put in her overjoyed hands.

She never knew how it was all done, seeing nothing, hearing nothing of the confusion and chatter, of the mounting of the others, her gaze fixed on the long ears before her, and only conscious that her very own donkey was really there, and that she was on his back. And it was not until they started and the guide who held her bridle loped off into an easy pace, by the animal's head, that she aroused from her dream of bliss as a sudden thought struck her. "What is my donkey's name?" she asked softly.

The man loped on, not hearing, and he wouldn't have understood had he heard.

"I don't believe he has any name," said old Mr. King just behind. "Phronsie, is your saddle all right? Do you like it, child?" all in one breath.

"I like it very much," answered Phronsie, trying to turn around.

"Don't do that, child," said Grandpapa, hastily. "Sit perfectly still, and on no account turn around or move in the saddle."

"I won't, Grandpapa," she promised, obediently, and presently she began again, "I want to know his name, Grandpapa, so that I can tell my pony when I get home."

"Oh, well, we'll find out," said Grandpapa. "Here you, can't you tell the name of that donkey?" he cried to the guide holding Phronsie's bridle. "Oh, I forgot, he doesn't understand English," and he tried it in French.

But this was not much better, for old Mr. King, preferring to use none but the best of French when he employed any, was only succeeding in mystifying the poor man so that he couldn't find his tongue at all, but stared like a clod till the old gentleman's patience was exhausted.

At last Jasper, hearing what the trouble was, shouted out something from his position in the rear, that carried the meaning along with it, and Phronsie the next minute was delighted to hear "Boolah," as the guide turned and smiled and showed all his teeth at her, his pleasure was so great at discovering that he could really understand.

"Why, that's the name of my donkey," said Polly, patting the beast's rough neck. "He told me so when he helped me to mount."

"So it is mine," announced Jasper, bursting into a laugh. "I guess they only have one name for the whole lot."

"Well, don't let us tell Phronsie so," said Polly, "and I shall call mine 'Greybeard' because he's got such a funny old stiff beard and it is grey."

"And I shall christen mine 'Boneyard,'" declared Jasper, "for he's got such a very big lot of bones, and they aren't funny, I can tell you."

And so with fun and nonsense and laughter, as soon as they wound around by the little English church and across the meadows, and struck into the pine wood, the whole party of twelve, Grandpapa and all, began to sing snatches from the newest operas down to college songs. For Grandpapa hadn't forgotten his college days when he had sung with the best, and he had the parson on this occasion to keep him company, and the young people, of course, knew all the songs by heart, as what young person doesn't, pray tell! So the bits and snatches rolled out with a gusto, and seemed to echo along the whole mountain side as the procession of sure-footed animals climbed the steep curves.

"Oh, Polly, your donkey is going over," exclaimed Adela, who rode the second in the rear after Polly; "he flirts his hind legs right over the precipice every time you go round a curve."

"Well, he brings them round all right," said Polly, composedly; and, with a little laugh, "Oh, isn't this too lovely for anything!" she cried, with sparkling eyes.

"Well, don't let him," cried Adela, huddling up on her donkey, and pulling at the rein to make him creep closer to the protecting earth wall.

"Na -- na," one of the guides ran up to her, shaking his head. Adela, fresh from her Paris school had all her French, of the best kind too, at her tongue's end, but she seemed to get on no better than Mr. King.

"My French is just bad enough to be useful," laughed Jasper. So he untangled the trouble again, and made Adela see that she really must not pull at her bridle, but allow the donkey to go his own gait, for they were all trained to it.

"Your French is just beautiful," cried Polly. "Oh, Jasper, you know Monsieur always says -- "

"Don't, Polly," begged Jasper, in great distress.

"No, I won't," promised Polly, "and I didn't mean to. But I couldn't help it, Jasper, when you spoke against your beautiful French."

"We've all heard you talk French, Jasper, so you needn't feel so cut up if Polly should quote your Monsieur," cried Tom, who, strange to say, no matter how far he chanced to ride in the rear, always managed to hear everything.

"That's because we are everlastingly turning a corner," he explained, when they twitted him for it, "and as I'm near the end of the line I get the benefit of the doubling and twisting, for the front is always just above me. So don't say anything you don't want me to hear, old fellow," he sang out to Jasper on the bridle path "just above," as Tom had said.

"Now, don't you want to get off?" cried Jasper, deserting his donkey, and running up to Phronsie, as they reached the summit and drew up before the hotel.

"Oh, somebody take that child off," groaned old Mr. King, accepting the arm of the guide to help him dismount, "for I can't. Every separate and distinct bone in my body protests against donkeys from this time forth and forevermore. And yet I've got to go down on one," he added ruefully.

"No, I don't want to get down," declared Phronsie, still holding fast to the reins; "can't I sit on my donkey, Jasper, while you all walk over on the frozen water?"

"Oh, my goodness, no!" gasped Jasper. "Why, Phronsie, you'd be tired to death -- the very idea, child!"

"No," said Phronsie, shaking her yellow hair obstinately, "I wouldn't be tired one single bit, Jasper. And I don't want to get down from my donkey."

"Well, if you didn't go over the Mer de Glace, why, we couldn't any of us go," said Jasper, at his wits' end how to manage it without worrying his father, already extremely tired, he could see, "and that's what we've come up for -- "

Phronsie dropped the reins. "Take me down, please, Jasper," she said, putting out her arms.

"How are you now, father?" cried Jasper, running over to him when he had set Phronsie on the ground.

"It's astonishing," said old Mr. King, stretching his shapely limbs, "but all that dreadful sensation I always have after riding on one of those atrocious animals is disappearing fast."

"That's good," cried Jasper, in delight. "Well, I suppose we are all going to wait a bit?" he asked, and longing to begin the tramp over the Mer de Glace.

"Wait? Yes, indeed, every blessed one of us," declared his father. "Goodness me, Jasper, what are you thinking of to ask such a question, after this pull up here? Why, we sha'n't stir from this place for an hour."

"I supposed we'd have to wait," said Jasper, rushing off over the rocks, feeling how good it was to get down on one's feet again, and run and race. And getting Polly and Tom and Adela, they ran down where the donkeys were tethered and saw them fed, and did a lot of exploring; and it didn't seem any time before an Alpine horn sounded above their heads, and there was Grandpapa, tooting away and calling them to come up and buy their woollen socks; for they were going to start.

So they scrambled up, and picked out their socks, and, each seizing a pair in one hand and an alpenstock with a long, sharp spike on the end in the other, they ran off down the zigzag path to the glacier, two or three guides helping the others along. At the foot of the rocky path the four drew up.

"O dear, it's time to put on these horrible old stockings," grumbled Adela, shaking hers discontentedly.

"'Good old stockings,' you'd much better say," broke in Jasper.

"They're better than a broken neck," observed Tom, just meaning to ask Polly if he could put hers on for her. But he was too slow in getting at it, and Jasper was already kneeling on the rocks and doing that very thing.

"Now I'm all ready," announced Polly, stamping her feet, arrayed in marvellous red-and-white striped affairs. "Thank you, Jasper. Oh, how funny they feel!"

"Shall I help you?" asked Tom, awkwardly enough, of Adela.

"Oh, I don't want them on, and I don't mean to wear them," said Adela, with a sudden twist. "I'm going to throw them away."

"Then you'll just have to stay back," said Jasper, decidedly, "for no one is to be allowed on that glacier who doesn't put on a pair."

"I won't slip -- the idea!" grumbled Adela. Yet she stuck out her foot, and Tom, getting down on his knees, suppressed a whistle as he securely tied them on. Then the boys flew into theirs instanter.

"Mine are blue," said Phronsie, as the others filed slowly down the winding path between the rocks, and she pointed to the pair dangling across her arm. "I am so very glad they are blue, Grandpapa."

"So am I, Pet," he cried, delighted to find that he was apparently as agile as the parson. No one could hope to equal little Dr. Fisher, who was here, there, and everywhere, skipping about among the rocks like a boy let loose from school.

"Well, well, the children are all ready," exclaimed old Mr. King, coming upon the four, impatient to begin their icy walk.

"Didn't you expect it?" cried little Dr. Fisher, skipping up.

"Well, to say the truth, I did," answered old Mr. King, with a laugh. "Now, Phronsie, sit down on that rock, and let the guide tie on your stockings." So Phronsie's little blue stockings were tied on, and after Grandpapa had gallantly seen that everybody else was served, he had his pulled on over his boots and fastened securely, and the line of march was taken up.

"You go ahead, father," begged Jasper, "and we'll all follow."

So old Mr. King, with Phronsie and a guide on her farther side, led the way, and the red stockings and the brown and the black, and some of indescribable hue, moved off upon the Mer de Glace.

"It's dreadfully dirty," said Adela, turning up her nose. "I thought a glacier was white when you got up to it."

"Oh, I think it is lovely!" cried Polly; "and that green down in the crevasse -- look, Adela!"

"It's a dirty green," persisted Adela, whose artistic sense wouldn't be satisfied. "O dear me!" as her foot slipped and she clutched Mrs. Henderson, who happened to be next.

"Now, how about the woollen stockings?" asked Tom, while Polly and Jasper both sang out, "Take care," and "Go slowly."

Adela didn't answer, but stuck the sharp end of her alpenstock smartly into the ice.

"Something is the matter with my stocking," at last said the parson's wife, stopping and holding out her right foot.

The guide nearest her stopped, too, and kneeling down on the ice, he pulled it into place, for it had slipped half off.

"Now be very careful," warned Grandpapa, "and don't venture too near the edge," as he paused with Phronsie and the guide. The others, coming up, looked down into a round, green pool of water that seemed to stare up at them, as if to say, "I am of unknown depth, so beware of me."

"That gives me the 'creeps,' Polly, as you say," Mrs. Henderson observed. "Dear me, I shall never forget how that green water looks;" and she shivered and edged off farther yet. "Supposing any one should fall in!"

"Well, he'd go down right straight through the globe, seems to me," said Tom, with a last look at the pool as they turned off, "It looks as if it had no end, till one would fetch up on the other side."

"I love to hop over these little crevasses," said Polly, and suiting the action to the word.

"Something is the matter with my stocking again," announced Mrs. Henderson to the guide, presently. "I am sorry to trouble you, but it needs to be fixed."

He didn't understand the words, but there was no mistaking the foot thrust out with the woollen sock, now wet and sodden, half off again. So he kneeled down and pulled it on once more.

Before they reached the other side, the parson's wife had had that stocking pulled on six times, until at last, the guide, finding no more pleasure in a repetition of the performance, took a string from his pocket, and bunching up in his fist a good portion of the stocking heel, he wound the string around it and tied it fast, cut off the string, and returned the rest to his pocket.

"Why do you tie up the heel?" queried Mrs. Henderson. "I should think it much better to secure it in front." But he didn't understand, and the rest were quite a good bit in advance, and hating to give trouble, she went on, the stocking heel sticking out a few inches. But she kept it on her foot, so that might be called a success.

The little Widow Gray was not going over the Mauvais Pas, neither was Mrs. Selwyn, as she had traversed it twice before. So, on reaching the other side, they were just about bidding good-by to the others, when, without a bit of warning, the parson's wife, in turning around, fell flat, and disappeared to the view of some of them behind a boulder of ice.

All was confusion in an instant. The guides rushed -- everybody rushed -- pellmell to the rescue; Tom's long legs, as usual, getting him there first. There she was in a heap, in a depression of ice and snow and water.

"I'm all right, except" -- and she couldn't help a grimace of pain -- "my foot."

The little doctor swept them all to one side, as they seated her on one of the boulders of ice. "Humph! I should think likely," at sight of the tied-up stocking heel. "You stepped on that, and it flung you straight as a die and turned your foot completely over."

"Yes," said Mrs. Henderson. Then she saw the guide who had tied the stocking looking on with a face of great concern. "Oh, don't say anything, it makes him feel badly," she mumbled, wishing her foot wouldn't ache so.

Little Dr. Fisher was rapidly untying the unlucky stocking; and, whipping off the boot, he soon made sure that no ligaments were broken. Then he put on the boot and the woollen sock, being careful to tie it in front over the instep, and whipping out his big handkerchief he proceeded to bandage the ankle in a truly scientific way. "Now, then, Mrs. Henderson, you are all right to take the walk slowly back to the hotel."

Parson Henderson took his wife's hand. "Come, Sarah," he said, gently helping her up.

"Oh, you are going over the Mauvais Pas," she cried in distress at the thought of his missing it.

"Come, Sarah," he said gently, keeping her hand in his.

"I'll go back with her too," said little Dr. Fisher.

"Oh, Adoniram!" exclaimed his wife, but it was under her breath, and no one heard the exclamation.

"I think Dr. Fisher ought to go with the other party; he will be needed there," Mrs. Selwyn was saying, in her quiet way. "And I will bathe Mrs. Henderson's foot just as he says it should be done, so good-by," and any one looking down with a field glass from the Montanvert hotel, could have seen at this point, two parties, one proceeding to the Mauvais Pas and the Chapeau, and the other of three ladies, the parson and a guide, wending their way slowly on the return across the crevasses.



XXVI

"Well, Here We Are In Paris!"


Notwithstanding all the glory of the shops, and the tempting array of the jewellery and trinkets of every description therein displayed, after a few days of sailing on the exquisite lake, and some walks and drives, Polly, down deep in her heart, was quite ready to move on from Geneva. And, although she didn't say anything, old Mr. King guessed as much, and broke out suddenly, "Well, are you ready to start, Polly?"

"Yes, Grandpapa," she answered. "I have the presents for the girls. I'm all ready."

"Why, Polly, you haven't anything for yourself," Mother Fisher exclaimed, as Polly ran into her room and told the news -- how Grandpapa said they were to pack up and leave in the morning. "You haven't bought a single thing."

"Oh, I don't want anything," said Polly. "I've so many things at home that Grandpapa has given me. Mamsie, isn't this pin for Alexia just too lovely for anything?"

She curled up on the end of the bed, and drew it out of its little box. "I think she'll like it," with anxious eyes on Mother Fisher's face.

"Like it?" repeated her mother. "How can she help it, Polly?"

"I think so too," said Polly, happily, replacing it on the bed of cotton, and putting on the cover to look over another gift.

Mrs. Fisher regarded her keenly. "Well, now, Polly," she said, decidedly, "I shall go down and get that chain we were looking at. For you do need that, and your father and I are going to give it to you."

"Oh, Mamsie," protested Polly, "I don't need it; really, I don't."

"Well, we shall give it to you," said Mother Fisher. Then she went over to the bed and dropped a kiss on Polly's brown hair.

"Mamsie," exclaimed Polly, springing off the bed, and throwing her arms around her mother's neck, "I shall love that chain, and I shall wear it just all the time because you and Papa-Doctor gave it to me."

When they neared Paris, Adela drew herself up in her corner of the compartment. "I expect you'll stare some when you get to Paris, Polly Pepper."

"I've been staring all the time since we started on our journey, Adela, as hard as I could," said Polly, laughing.

"Well, you'll stare worse than ever now," said Adela, in an important way. "There isn't anything in all this world that isn't in Paris," she brought up, not very elegantly.

"I don't like Paris." Tom let the words out before he thought.

"That's just because you are a boy," sniffed Adela. "Oh, Polly, you ought to see the shops! When Mademoiselle has taken us into some, I declare I could stay all day in one. Such dreams of clothes and bonnets! You never saw such bonnets, Polly Pepper, in all your life!" She lifted her hands, unable to find words enough.

"And the parks and gardens, I suppose, are perfectly lovely," cried Polly, feeling as if she must get away from the bonnets and clothes.

"Yes, and the Bois de Boulogne to drive in, that's elegant. Only Mademoiselle won't take us there very often. I wish I was rich, and I'd have a span of long-tailed, grey horses, and drive up and down there every day."

Polly laughed. "Well, I should like the tram-ways and the stages," said Polly.

"Oh, those don't go into the Bois de Boulogne," cried Adela, in a tone of horror. "Why, Polly Pepper, what are you thinking of?" she exclaimed.

This nettled Tom. "Of something besides clothes and bonnets," he broke out. Then he was sorry he had spoken.

"Well, there's the Louvre," said Polly, after an uncomfortable little pause.

"Yes," said Adela, "that's best of all, and it doesn't cost anything; so Mademoiselle takes us there very often."

"I should think it would be," cried Polly, beaming at her, and answering the first part of Adela's sentence. "Oh, Adela, I do so long to see it."

"And you can't go there too often, Polly," said Jasper.

"It's the only decent thing in Paris," said Tom, "that I like, I mean; that, and to sail up and down on the Seine."

"We'll go there the first day, Polly," said Jasper, "the Louvre, I mean. Well, here we are in Paris!" And then it was all confusion, for the guards were throwing open the doors to the compartments, and streams of people were meeting on the platform, in what seemed to be inextricable confusion amid a babel of sounds. And it wasn't until Polly was driving up in the big cab with her part of Mr. King's "family," as he called it, through the broad avenues and boulevards, interspersed with occasional squares and gardens, and the beautiful bridges here and there across the Seine, gleaming in the sunshine, that she could realise that they were actually in Paris.

And the next day they did go to the Louvre. And Adela, who was to stay a day or two at the hotel with them before going back into her school, was very important, indeed. And she piloted them about, the parson and Mrs. Henderson joining their group; the others, with the exception of the little Widow Gray, who stayed at home to look over Adela's clothes, and take any last stitches, going off by themselves.

"I do want to see the Venus de Milo," said Polly, quite gone with impatience. "Oh, Adela, these paintings will wait."

"Well, that old statue will wait, too," cried Adela, pulling her off into another gallery. "Now, Polly, Mademoiselle says, in point of art, the pictures in here are quite important."

"Are they?" said poor Polly, listlessly.

"Yes, they are," said Adela, twitching her sleeve, "and Mademoiselle brings us in this room every single time we come to the Louvre."

"It's the early French school, you know," she brought up glibly.

"Well, it's too early for us to take it in," said Tom. "Come, I'm for the Venus de Milo. It's this way;" and Adela was forced to follow, which she did in a discontented fashion.

"Oh!" cried Polly, catching her breath, and standing quite still as she caught sight of the wonderful marble, instinct with life, at the end of the long corridor below stairs. "Why, she's smiling at us," as the afternoon sunshine streamed across the lovely face, to lose itself in the folds of the crimson curtain in the background.

The parson folded his arms and drew in long breaths of delight. "It's worth fifty journeys over the ocean to once see that, Sarah," he said.

"Do come back and look at the pictures," begged Adela, pulling Polly's arm again after a minute or two.

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Polly, under her breath. "Oh, she's so beautiful, Adela!"

"Well, it's much better to see the pictures," said Adela. "And then we can come here again to-morrow."

"Oh, I haven't seen this half enough," began Polly, "and I've wanted to for so long." Then she glanced at Adela's face. "Well, all right," she said, and turned off, to come directly into the path of Grandpapa, with Phronsie clinging to his hand, and the rest of his part of the "family" standing in silent admiration.

"We thought we'd come here first," said old Mr. King. "I don't mean to see anything else to-day. The Venus de Milo is quite enough for me. To-morrow, now, we'll drop in again, and look at some of the pictures."

"There is beauty enough in that statue," said a lady, who just passed them, to the gentleman with her, "to satisfy any one; but living beauty after all is most appealing. Just look at that child's face, Edward."

They were guilty of standing in a niche at a little remove, and studying Phronsie with keen, critical eyes.

"It's a wonderful type of beauty," said Edward; "yellow hair and brown eyes, -- and such features."

"I don't care about the features," said the lady, "it's the expression; the child hasn't a thought of herself, and that's wonderful to begin with."

"That's about it," replied Edward, "and I suppose that's largely where the beauty lies, Evelyn."

"Let us walk slowly down the corridor again," said Evelyn, "and then come up; otherwise we shall attract attention to be standing here and gazing at them."

"And I'd like to see that little beauty again," remarked Edward, "I'll confess, Evelyn."

So Evelyn and Edward continued to gaze at intervals at the living beauty, and Mr. King and his party were absorbed in the marble beauty; and Adela was running over in her mind how she meant to have Polly Pepper all to herself at the visit to the Louvre the next afternoon, when she would show her the pictures she specially liked.

But they didn't any of them go to the Louvre that next day, as it happened. It was so beautifully bright and sunshiny, that Grandpapa said it would be wicked to pass the day indoors; so they had all the morning in a walk, and a sail on the Seine, -- and that pleased Tom, -- and all the afternoon, or nearly all, sitting up in state in carriages, driving up and down the Bois de Boulogne. And that pleased Adela.

And when they tired of driving, old Mr. King gave orders for the drivers to rest their horses. And then they all got out of the carriages, and walked about among the beautiful trees, and on the winding, sheltered paths.

"It's perfectly lovely off there," said Polly, "and almost like the country," with a longing glance off into the green, cool shade beyond. So they strolled off there, separating into little groups; Polly and Jasper in front, and wishing for nothing so much as a race.

"I should think we might try it," said Jasper; "there is no one near to see. Come on, Polly, do."

"I suppose we ought not to," said Polly, with a sigh, as Adela overtook them.

"Ought not to what?" she asked eagerly.

"Jasper and I were wanting to run a race," said Polly.

"Why, Polly Pepper! You are in Paris!" exclaimed Adela, quite shocked.

"I know it," said Polly, "and I wish we weren't. O dear! this seems just like the country, and -- "

Just then a child screamed. "That's Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, her cheek turning quite white. And she sped back over the path.

"Oh, no, Polly," Jasper tried to reassure her, as he ran after her. They were having their race, after all, but in a different way from what they had planned.

"Dear me! you are running!" said Adela, who hadn't got it into her head what for, as she didn't connect the scream with any of their party. And she walked just as fast as she could to catch up with them. As that was impossible, she gave a hasty glance around the shrubbery, and seeing no one to notice her, she broke out into a lively run.

"Yes, Phronsie," Grandpapa was saying, as the young people had left them, and the others had wandered off to enjoy the quiet, shady paths, "this place was the old Fôret de Rouvray. It wasn't a very pretty place to come to in those days, what with the robbers and other bad people who infested it. And now let us go and find a seat, child, and I'll show you one or two little pictures I picked up in the shop this morning; and you can send them in your next letter, to Joel and David, if you like."

Old Mr. King took out his pocket-book, and had just opened it, when a man darted out from the thick shrubbery behind him, cast a long, searching glance around, and quick as lightning, threw himself against the stately old gentleman, and seized the pocket-book.

It was then that Phronsie screamed long and loud.

"What ho!" exclaimed Mr. King, starting around to do battle; but the man was just disappearing around the clump of shrubbery.

"Which way?" Tom Selwyn dashed up. It didn't seem as if Phronsie's cry had died on her lips.

Old Mr. King pointed without a word. And Polly and Jasper were close at hand. Polly flew to Phronsie, who was clinging to Grandpapa's hand, and wailing bitterly. "What is it? Oh! what is it?" cried Polly.

"My pocket-book," said Grandpapa; "some fellow has seized it, and frightened this poor child almost to death." He seemed to care a great deal more about that than any loss of the money.

"Which way?" cried Jasper, in his turn, and was off like a shot on getting his answer.

Tom saw the fellow slink with the manner of one who knew the ins and outs of the place well, -- now gliding, and ducking low in the sparser growth, now making a bold run around some exposed curve, now dashing into a dense part of the wood.

"I'll have you yet!" said Tom, through set teeth; "I haven't trained at school for nothing!"

A thud of fast-flying feet in his rear didn't divert him an instant from his game, although it might be a rescue party for the thief, in the shape of a partner, -- who could tell? And realising, if he caught the man at all, he must do one of his sprints, he covered the ground by a series of flying leaps, -- dashed in where he saw his prey rush; one more leap with all his might, and -- "I have you!" cried Tom.

The man under him, thrown to the ground by the suddenness of Tom's leap on him, was wriggling and squirming with all the desperation of a trapped creature, when the individual with the flying footsteps hove in sight. It was Jasper. And they had just persuaded the robber that it would be useless to struggle longer against his fate, when the parson, running as he hadn't run for years, appeared to their view. And after him, at such a gait that would have been his fortune, in a professional way, was the little doctor. His hat was gone, and his toes scarcely seemed to touch the ground. He was last at the scene, simply because the news had only just reached him as he sauntered leisurely up to meet Mr. King in his promenade.

When the thief saw him, he looked to see if any more were coming, and resigned himself at once and closed his eyes instinctively.

He was a miserable-looking man -- tall, thin, and stoop shouldered -- they saw, when they got him on his feet. Unkempt and unwashed, his long, black hair hung around a face sallow in the extreme. And he shook so, as Tom and Jasper marched him back, escorted by the body-guard of the parson and the little doctor, that the two boys put their hands under his arms to help him along.

"Well -- well -- well!" ejaculated Mr. King, as he saw this array. Polly gathered Phronsie's other hand in hers, while she clung closer than ever to Grandpapa.

"Here's your pocket-book," said Tom, handing the article over; "he hasn't spent much."

"Don't, Tom," said Jasper, "joke about it."

"Can't help it," said Tom. "Well, now, shall we turn him over to the sergents de ville?"

"Turn him over?" repeated Mr. King. "I should say so," he added drily, "and give him the best recommendation for a long term, too. What else is there to do, pray tell?"

"Grandpapa," suddenly cried Phronsie, who hadn't taken her eyes from the man's face, "what are you going to do -- where is he going?"

"We are going to hand him over to the police, child," answered old Mr. King, harshly. "And as soon as possible, too."

"Grandpapa, perhaps he's got some little children at home; ask him, Grandpapa, do."

"No, no, Phronsie," said Mr. King, hastily. "Say no more, child; you don't understand. We must call the sergents de ville."

At the words sergents de ville the man shivered from head to foot, and wrenched his hands free from the boys' grasp to tear open his poor coat, and show a bare breast, covered with little, apparently, but the skin drawn over the bones. He didn't attempt to say anything.

"Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed old Mr. King, starting backward and putting up his hands to his face to shut out the sight. "Cover it up, man -- bless me -- no need to ask him a question. Why, the fellow is starving."

His little children -- four of them -- his wife -- all starving -- hadn't a bit to eat since, he could scarcely say when, it seemed so very long ago since he had eaten last -- it all came out in a torrent of words that choked him, and like the true Frenchman that he was, he gestured in a way that told the story with his face and his fingers, as well as with his tongue.

A sergent de ville strolled by and looked curiously at the group, but as Mr. King met his eye coolly, and the party seemed intelligent and well able to take care of themselves, it wasn't necessary to tender his services -- if they were talking to a worthless vagabond.

"Hum -- hum -- very bad case; very bad case, indeed!" Mr. King was exploding at intervals, while the torrent was rushing on in execrable French as far as accent went. No one else of the spellbound group could have spoken if there had been occasion for a word. Then he pulled out the pocket-book again, and taking out several franc notes of a good size, he pressed them between the man's dirty fingers. "Go and get something to eat," was all he said, "and take care of the children."



XVII

"I've Found Him!" Exclaimed Jasper


And for the next few days Phronsie talked about the poor man, and wished they could see his children, and hoped he had bought them some nice things to eat, and worried over him because he was all skin and bones.

"Ah! the bones were real, even if the children aren't," Grandpapa would say to himself. "Well, I suppose I have been taken in, but at least the fellow hasn't starved to death."

And then off they would go sight-seeing as fast as possible, to take up the mind of Phronsie, who watched for Grandpapa's poor man in every wretched creature she saw. And there were plenty of them.

And then Adela went back to school, happy in the thought of the little pile of sketches she had to show as her summer's work, and with ever so many studies and bits to finish up under Mademoiselle's direction; and little old Mrs. Gray, breathing blessings on Mr. King's head, departed for her English country home.

"Now, then, I have ever so much shopping to do," announced old Mr. King, briskly, "and I shall want you to help me, Phronsie."

"I'll help you, Grandpapa," promised Phronsie, well pleased, and gravely set herself to the task.

So they wandered away by themselves, having the most blissful of times, and coming home to the hotel, they would gaily relate their adventures; and Phronsie would often carry a little parcel or two, which it was her greatest delight to do; and then the trail of big boxes would follow them as they were sent home to the hotel to tell of their experiences in the shops.

"And Grandpapa is going to get me a new doll," announced Phronsie, on one of these days.

"Do you mean a peasant doll to add to the collection?" asked Polly; for old Mr. King had bought a doll in the national costume in every country in which they had travelled, and they had been packed away, together with the other things as fast as purchased, and sent off home across the sea.

"Yes," said Phronsie. "I do, Polly, and it's to be a most beautiful French doll -- oh!"

And sure enough, Mr. King, who knew exactly what kind of a doll he meant to purchase, and had kept his eyes open for it, stumbled upon it by a piece of rare good luck in a shop where he least expected to find it.

"Oh, may I carry her home, Grandpapa?" begged Phronsie, hanging over the doll in a transport. "Please don't have her shut up in a box -- but do let me carry her in my arms."

"Oh, Phronsie, she's too big," objected Mr. King, "and very heavy."

"Oh, Grandpapa, she's not heavy," cried Phronsie, not meaning to contradict, but so anxious not to have her child sent home shut up in a box, that she forgot herself.

"Well, I don't know but what you may," said Grandpapa, relenting. "I will call a cab after we get through with this next shop," he reflected, "and it won't hurt her to carry the doll that short distance." So they came out of the shop, and deciding to take a short cut, they started across the boulevard, he taking the usual precaution to gather Phronsie's hand in his.

As they were halfway across the street, with its constant stream of pedestrians and vehicles, a sudden gust of wind flapped the doll's pink silk cape up against Phronsie's eyes, and taking her hand away from Grandpapa's a second to pull down the cape, for she couldn't see, she slipped, and before she knew it, had fallen on top of the doll in the middle of the street.

A reckless cabby, driving as only a French cabman can, came dashing down the boulevard directly in her path, while a heavily loaded omnibus going in the opposite direction was trying to get out of his way. Ever so many people screamed; and some one pulled Mr. King back as he started to pick her up. It was all done in an instant, and every person expected to see her killed, when a long, gaunt individual in a shabby coat dashed in among the plunging horses, knocked up the head of the one belonging to the reckless cabby, swung an arm at the other pair to divert their course, and before any one could quite tell how, he picked up Phronsie and bore her to the curbstone. Some one got Mr. King to the same point, too exhausted with fright to utter a word.

When he came out of his shock, the shabby man was standing by Phronsie, the crowd that saw nothing in the incident to promise further diversion, having melted away, and she was holding his hand, her little, mud-stained face radiant with happiness. "Oh, Grandpapa," she piped out, "it's your poor man!"

"The dickens it is!" exploded Mr. King. "Well, I'm glad to find you. Here, call a cab, will you? I must get this child home; that's the first thing to be done."

The shabby man hailed a cab, but the cabman jeered at him and whirled by. So the old gentleman held up his hand; Phronsie all this time, strange to say, not mentioning her doll, and Mr. King, who wouldn't have cared if a hundred dolls had been left behind, not giving it a thought. Now she looked anxiously on all sides. "Oh, where is she, Grandpapa dear?" she wailed, "my child; where is she?"

"Never mind, Phronsie," cried Mr. King, "I'll get you another one to-morrow. There, get in the cab, child."

"But I want her -- I can't go home without my child!" And Phronsie's lip began to quiver. "Oh, there she is, Grandpapa!" and she darted off a few steps, where somebody had set the poor thing on the pavement, propped up against a lamp-post.

"Oh, you can't carry her home," said Mr. King, in dismay at the muddy object splashed from head to foot, with the smart pink cape that had been the cause of the disaster, now torn clear through the middle, by the hoof of a passing horse. He shuddered at the sight of it. "Do leave it, Phronsie, child."

"But she's sick now and hurt; oh, Grandpapa, I can't leave my child," sobbed Phronsie, trying with all her might to keep the tears back. All this time the shabby man stood silently by, looking on.

A bright thought struck the old gentleman. "I'll tell you, Phronsie," he said quickly. "Give the doll to this man for one of his little children; they'll take care of it, and like it."

"Oh, Grandpapa!" screamed Phronsie, skipping up and down and clapping her muddy little hands, then she picked up the doll and lifted it toward him. "Give my child to your little girl, and tell her to take good care of it," she said.

As Phronsie's French had long been one of Grandpapa's special responsibilities in the morning hours, she spoke it nearly as well as Polly herself, so the man grasped the doll as he had seized the money before.

"And now," said Mr. King, "you are not going to run away this time without telling me -- oh, bless me!"

This last was brought out by an excited individual rushing up over the curbstone to get out of the way of a passing dray, and the walking-stick which he swung aloft as a protection, coming into collision with Mr. King's hat, knocked it over his eyes.

"A thousand pardons, Monsieur!" exclaimed the Frenchman, bowing and scraping.

"You may well beg a thousand pardons," cried Mr. King, angrily, "to go about in this rude fashion through the street."

"A thousand pardons," repeated the Frenchman, with more empressement than before, and tripping airily on his way.

When old Mr. King had settled his hat, he turned back to the man. "Now tell me -- why -- " The man was nowhere to be seen.

"It surely does look bad," said the old gentleman to himself as he stepped into the cab with Phronsie; "that man's children are a myth. And I wanted to do something for them, for he saved Phronsie's life!"

This being the only idea he could possibly retain all the way home to the hotel, he held her closely within his arm, Phronsie chattering happily all the way, how the little girl she guessed was just receiving the doll, and wondering what name she would give it, and would she wash its face clean at once, and fix the torn and muddy clothes?

"Oh, yes, yes, I hope so," answered Grandpapa, when she paused for an answer. Jasper came running out as the cab drove into the court. "Oh!" he exclaimed, at sight of Phronsie's face, then drove the words on his tongue back again, as he lifted her out.

"Give her to Polly to fix up a bit," said his father. "She's all right, Jasper, my boy, I can't talk of it now. Hurry and take her to Polly."

And for the following days, Mr. King never let Phronsie out of his sight. A new and more splendid doll, if possible, was bought, and all sorts and styles of clothes for it, which Phronsie took the greatest delight in caring for, humming happily to herself at the pleasure the poor man's little girl was taking at the same time with her other child.

"Grandpapa," she said, laying down the doll carefully on the sofa, and going over to the table where Mr. King had just put aside the newspaper, "I do wish we could go and see that poor man and all his children -- why didn't he tell us where he lived?"

"The dickens!" exclaimed old Mr. King, unguardedly, "because the fellow is an impostor, Phronsie. He saved your life," and he seized Phronsie and drew her to his knee, "but he lied about those children. O dear me!" And he pulled himself up.

"Then he hasn't any little children?" said Phronsie, opening her eyes very wide, and speaking very slowly.

"Er-oh-I don't know," stammered Grandpapa; "it's impossible to tell, Phronsie."

"But you don't believe he has any," said Phronsie, with grave persistence, fastening her brown eyes on his face.

"No, Phronsie, I don't," replied old Mr. King, in desperation. "If he had, why should he run in this fashion when I was just asking him where he lived?"

"But he didn't hear you, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, "when the man knocked your hat off."

"Oh, well, he knew enough what I wanted," said Mr. King, who, now that he had let out his belief, was going to support it by all the reasons in his power. "No, no, Phronsie, it won't do; the fellow was an impostor, and we must just accept the fact, and make the best of it, my child."

"But he told a lie," said Phronsie, in horror, unable to think of anything else.

"Well." Mr. King had no words to say on that score, so he wisely said nothing.

"That poor man told a lie," repeated Phronsie, as if producing a wholly fresh statement.

"There, child, I wouldn't think anything more of it," said Grandpapa, soothingly, patting her little hand.

"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, "I've given away my child, and she's sick because she fell and hurt her, and there isn't any little girl, and -- and -- that poor man told a lie!" And she flung herself up against Grandpapa's waistcoat, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Old Mr. King looked wildly around for Polly. And as good fortune would have it, in she ran. This wasn't very strange, for Polly kept nearly as close to Phronsie in these days, as Grandpapa himself.

"Here, Polly," he called brokenly, "this is something beyond me. You must fix it, child."

"Why, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, in dismay, and her tone was a bit reproachful. "Crying? Don't you know that you will make Grandpapa very sick unless you stop?"

Phronsie's little hand stole out from over her mouth where she had been trying to hold the sobs back, and up to give a trembling pat on old Mr. King's cheek.

"Bless you, my child," cried Grandpapa, quite overcome, so that Polly said more reproachfully, "Yes, very sick indeed, Phronsie, unless you stop this minute. You ought to see his face, Phronsie."

Phronsie gathered herself up out of his arms, and through a rain of tears looked up at him.

"Are you sick, Grandpapa?" she managed to ask.

"Yes, dear; or I shall be if you don't stop crying, Phronsie," said Mr. King, pursuing all the advantage so finely gained.

"I'll stop," said Phronsie, her small bosom heaving. "I really will, Grandpapa."

"Now, you are the very goodest child," exclaimed Polly, down on her knees by Grandpapa's side, cuddling Phronsie's toes, "the very most splendid one in all this world, Phronsie Pepper."

"And you'll be all well, Grandpapa?" asked Phronsie, anxiously.

"Yes, child," said old Mr. King, kissing her wet face; "just as well as I can be, since you are all right."

"And, oh, Grandpapa, can't we go to Fontainebleau to-day?" begged Polly.

"Phronsie, just think -- it will be precisely like the country, and we can get out of the carriages, and can run and race in the forest. Can't we, Grandpapa?"

"All you want to," promised Grandpapa, recklessly, and only too thankful to have something proposed for a diversion. "The very thing," he added enthusiastically. "Now, Polly and Phronsie, run and tell all the others to get ready, just as fast as they can, and we'll be off. Goodness me, Jasper, what makes you run into a room in this fashion?"

"I've found him!" exclaimed Jasper, dashing in, and tossing his cap on the table, and his dark hair back from his forehead. "And he's all right -- as straight as a die," he panted.

"Now what in the world are you talking of?" demanded his father, in extreme irritation. "Can't you make a plain statement, and enlighten us without all this noise and confusion, pray tell?"

Polly, who had Phronsie's hand in hers, just ready to run off, stood quite still with glowing cheek.

"Oh, I do believe -- Grandpapa -- it is -- it is!" -- she screamed suddenly -- "your poor man! Isn't it, Jasper -- isn't it?" she cried, turning to him.

"Yes, Polly," said Jasper, still panting from his run up the stairs; "and do hurry, father, and see for yourself; and we'll all go to him. I'll tell you all about it on the way."

When Mr. King comprehended that the man was found, and that he was "all right," as Jasper vehemently repeated over and over, he communicated that fact to Phronsie, whose delight knew no bounds, and in less time than it takes to write it, Tom, who was the only one of the party to be collected on such short notice, had joined them, and they were bowling along in a big carriage, Jasper as guide, to the spot where the man was waiting.

"You see it was just this way," Jasper was rapidly telling off. "I was going down by the Madeleine, and I thought I would bring Phronsie some flowers; so I stopped at the market, and I couldn't find a little pot of primroses I wanted, though I went the whole length; and at last, when I had given up, I saw just one in front of a woman who sat at the very end."

"Do hurry, Jasper, and get to the conclusion," said his father, impatiently.

Polly dearly loved to have the story go on in just this way, as she leaned forward, her eyes on Jasper's face, but she said nothing, only sighed.

"Well," said Jasper, "I'll tell it as quickly as I can, father. And there were a lot of children, father, all round the woman where she sat on a box, and she was tying in a bunch some flowers that were huddled in her lap, and the children were picking out the good ones for her; and just then a man, who was bending over back of them all, breaking off some little branches from a big green one, straightened up suddenly, and, father, as true as you live," cried Jasper, in intense excitement, "it was your poor man!"

"The children?" asked Mr. King, as soon as he could be heard for the excitement.

"Are all his," cried Jasper, "and he took the money you gave him, and set his wife up in the flower business down in front of the Madeleine. Oh! and Phronsie, the doll you gave him was sitting up on another box, and every once in a while the littlest girl would stop picking out the flowers in her mother's lap, and would run over and wipe its face with her apron."



XXVIII

"Well, I Got Him Here," Said The Little Earl


They were really on their way to see the little old earl, after all! How it came about, Mr. King, even days after it had all been decided, couldn't exactly remember. He recalled several conversations in Paris with Tom's mother, who showed him bits of letters, and one in particular that somehow seemed to be a very potent factor in the plan that, almost before he knew it, came to be made. And when he held out, as hold out he did against the acceptance of the invitation, he found to his utmost surprise that every one, Mother Fisher and all, was decidedly against him.

"Oh, well," he had declared when that came out, "I might as well give in gracefully first as last." And he sat down at once and wrote a very handsome note to the little old earl, and that clinched the whole business.

And after the week of this visit should be over, for old Mr. King was firmness itself on not accepting a day more, they were to bid good-by to Mrs. Selwyn and Tom, and jaunt about a bit to show a little of Old England to the Hendersons, and then run down to Liverpool to see them off, and at last turn their faces toward Dresden, their winter home -- "and to my work!" said Polly to herself in delight.

So now here they were, actually driving up to the entrance of the park, and stopping at the lodge-gate.

An old woman, in an immaculate cap and a stiff white apron over her best linsey-woolsey gown which she had donned for the occasion, came out of the lodge and courtesied low to the madam, and held open the big gate.

"How have you been, Mrs. Bell?" asked Mrs. Selwyn, with a kind smile, as the carriage paused a bit.

"Very well, my lady," said Mrs. Bell, her round face glowing with pride. "And the earl is well, bless him! and we are glad to welcome you home again, and Master Tom."

"And I'm glad enough to get here, Mrs. Bell," cried Tom. "Now drive on at your fastest, Hobson."

Hobson, who knew very well what Master Tom's fastest gait was, preferred to drive through the park at what he considered the dignified pace. So they rolled on under the stately trees, going miles, it seemed to Polly, who sat on the back seat with Tom.

He turned to her, unable to conceal his impatience. "Anybody would think this pair were worn out old cobs," he fumed. "Polly, you have no idea how they can go, when Hobson lets them out. What are you wasting all this time for, crawling along in this fashion, Hobson, when you know we want to get on?"

Thus publicly addressed, Hobson let the handsome bays "go" as Tom expressed it, and they were bowled along in a way that made Polly turn in delight to Tom.

"There -- that's something like!" declared Tom. "Don't you like it, Polly?" looking into her rosy face.

"Like it!" cried Polly, "why, Tom Selwyn, it's beautiful. And these splendid trees -- " she looked up and around. "Oh, I never saw any so fine."

"They're not half bad," assented Tom, "these oaks aren't, and we have some more, on the other end of the park, about five miles off, that -- "

"Five miles off!" cried Polly, with wide eyes. "Is the park as big as that, Tom?"

He laughed. "That isn't much. But you'll see it all for yourself," he added. Then he rushed off into wondering how his dogs were. "And, oh, you'll ride with the hounds, Polly!"

Just then some rabbits scurried across the wood, followed by several more pattering and leaping through the grass.

"Oh, Tom, see those rabbits!" cried Polly, excitedly.

"Yes, the warrens are over yonder," said Tom, bobbing his head in the right direction.

"What?" asked Polly, in perplexity.

"Rabbit-warrens; oh, I forgot, you haven't lived in England. You seem so much like an English girl, though," said Tom, paying the highest compliment he knew of.

"Well, what are they?" asked Polly, quite overcome by the compliment coming from Tom.

"Oh, they are preserves, you know, where the rabbits live, and they are not allowed to be hunted here."

"Oh, do you ever hunt rabbits?" cried Polly, in horror, leaning out of her side of the big coach to see the scurrying little animals.

"Not often," said Tom, "we mostly ride after the fox. You'll ride with the hounds, Polly," he cried with enthusiasm. "We'll have a hunt while you're here, and we always wind up with a breakfast, you know. Oh, we'll have no end of sport." He hugged his long arms in huge satisfaction.

And away -- and away over the winding road and underneath the stately trees, rolled the big coach, to be followed by the other carriages, like a dream it seemed to Polly, and more than ever, when at last they stopped in front of a massive pile of buildings with towers and arches and wings.

And the little old earl was kissing her rosy cheek in the most courtly fashion, and saying while he shook her hand in his long fingers, "And how do you do, my dear?" And Mrs. Selwyn was by his other side. And Tom was screeching out, "How do you do, Granddaddy!" And then, "Oh, Elinor and Mary!" to two quiet, plain-looking girls standing in the background. And "Ah, how d'ye kids!" as the faces of his two small brothers appeared. And Polly forgot all about the fact that she was in an earl's house, and she laughed and chatted; and in two minutes one of Tom's sisters was on either side of her, and the small boys in front, and the little groups were moving in and out of the old hall, as Grandpapa and the rest came in, and the head housekeeper in a black silk gown that seemed quite able to stand alone, and a perfect relay of stiff figures in livery were drawn up underneath the armour hanging on the wall.

And the little old earl worked his way up to her, and he had Grandpapa on his arm. "Well, I got him here," he said with twinkling eyes, and a chuckle.

But the next morning -- oh, the next morning! -- when Polly tried to compass as much of the thronging attractions as she could, and Jasper was at his wits' end whenever he was appealed to, to decide what he wanted to do first -- "cricket," or "punting on the river," that ran through the estate, or "riding through the park, and to the village owned by his grandfather"? "I always go see the tenantry as soon as I get home," said Tom, simply.

"Oh, then, let us go there by all means," said Jasper, quickly.

"I mean -- oh, I'm no end awkward," exclaimed Tom, breaking off, his face covered with confusion. "It's not necessary to go at once; we can fetch up there to-morrow."

"Oh, do let us go, Tom," begged Polly, clasping her hands. "I should dearly love most of all to see the tenantry and those dear little cottages." And so that was decided upon.

And Tom had his beloved hunt, several of the gentry being asked. And Polly rode a special horse selected by the little old earl himself.

"It's perfectly safe; he has an excellent disposition," he declared to old Mr. King, "and he'll carry her all right."

"I'm not afraid," said Mr. King, "the child rides well."

"So she must -- so she must, I was sure of it," cried the little old earl, with a series of chuckles. And he busied himself especially with seeing her mounted properly when the party gathered on the lawn in front of the old hall. The hounds were baying and straining at the leashes, impatient to be off; the pink hunting-coats gave dashes of colour as their owners moved about over the broad green sward, -- under the oaks, -- and Polly felt her heart beat rapidly with the exhilarating sights and sounds. It was only when they were off, and Tom riding up by her side expatiated on the glory of running down the fox and "being in at the death," that the colour died down on her cheek.

"Oh, Tom!" she said, reining in her horse. If he hadn't been the possessor of a good disposition, he certainly would have bolted in his disappointment at being pulled up so abruptly. "It's so cruel to kill the poor fox in that way."

"Eh -- what!" exclaimed Tom, not hearing the words, falling back to her side, consternation all over his face. "Why, I never knew Meteor to break in this way before."

"Oh, it isn't his fault," said Polly, hastily, and patting her horse's neck. "I pulled him up. Oh, Tom, it's all so very cruel."

"Eh?" said Tom, in a puzzled way.

"To kill the fox in this way," said Polly, her heart sinking as she thought how dreadful it was for her to object, when visiting, to anything her host might plan. "O dear me!" and she looked so distressed that Tom turned comforter at once.

"We all do it," he was saying, as Jasper rode up.

"Anything the matter?" he asked in great concern. "What's happened?"

"Nothing," said Tom, "only Polly doesn't like the fox-hunt."

"It's so cruel," cried Polly, turning to Jasper, with a little pink spot coming in either cheek. "I ought to have thought of it before, but I didn't; it only seemed so very splendid to be rushing along with the horses and dogs. But to chase that poor fox to death -- O dear me!"

"We'll go back," suggested Tom, in distress; "don't be afraid, Polly, I'll make it all right with granddaddy." He concealed as best he might his awful disappointment as the echoes of the horn, the baying of the dogs, and now and then a scrap of chatter or a peal of laughter was borne to them on the wind.

"Polly," said Jasper, in a low voice, "it isn't quite right, is it, to disturb the party now? Just think, Tom will go back with us."

The pink spots died out on Polly's cheek. "No, Jasper," she said, "it isn't right. Tom, you needn't say one word about going back, for I am going on." She gave the rein to Meteor and dashed off.

"We'll have a race through the park some day, Polly," called Tom, as he sped after her, "without any fox."

"Too bad, Polly, you weren't in at the death," said the little old earl, sympathisingly, when at the hunt-breakfast following, the brush dangling to a victorious young lady's belt, had been admired as an extremely fine one. "Never mind; better luck next time, little girl."

But the fête to the tenantry, oh! that was something like, and more to Polly's taste, when this annual affair, postponed while Tom's mother and Tom were away, took place. For days before, the preparations had been making, the stewards up to their eyes in responsibility to carry out the plans of the little old earl, who meant on this occasion to outdo all his former efforts, and show his American friends how an Englishman treats those under his care.

Oh, the big joints of beef, the haunches of venison, the fowls, the meat pies and the gooseberry tarts, the beer and the ale, and the tea for the old women, with nuts and sweeties for the children! Oh, Polly knew about it all, as she went about with the little old earl while he gave his orders, her hand in his, just as if she were no older than Phronsie, and not such a tall, big girl.

And Mrs. Selwyn was busy as a bee, and Mother Fisher was just in her element here, in helping her; for flannel petticoats were to be given out, and stuff frocks, and pieces of homespun, and boots and shoes, as prizes for diligent and faithful service; or an order for coals for the coming winter for some poor cottager, or packages of tea, or some other little comfort. And before any of them quite realised it, the days flew by, and in two more of them the King party would be off.

"It's perfectly useless to mention it," said the little old earl, quite confident in his power to influence old Mr. King to remain when he saw how happily everything was running on. "My dear sir, you were asked for a fortnight."

"And I accepted for a week," retorted Mr. King, "and I go when that time is up. We've had a visit -- I can't express it to you, what a fine time -- as near to perfection as it is possible for a visit to be; but day after to-morrow we surely must leave."

Tom was so despondent, as well as the old earl, that it was necessary to cheer him up in some way. "Just think what a splendid thing for us to be in the midst of that fête for the peasantry," exclaimed Polly, with sparkling eyes. "It's quite too lovely for our last day."

But Tom wasn't to be raised out of his gloom in this way. "We've had only one game of cricket," he said miserably.

"And one afternoon at tennis, and we've been out punting on the river three times," said Polly.

"What's that? only a bagatelle," sniffed Tom, "compared to what I meant to do."

"Well, let's have the race on horseback this afternoon," proposed Polly, "down through the park, that you said you were going to have, Tom. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Do," urged Jasper. "It would be so capital, Tom."

"All right," assented Tom, "if you'd really rather have that than anything else; but it seems as if I ought to think up something more for the last afternoon, but the fête; and that doesn't count."

"Oh, nothing could be finer," declared Polly, and Jasper joined. So Tom rushed off to the stables to give the orders. And Polly on Meteor was soon flying up and down with the boys, and Elinor and Mary. And the two small lads trotted after on their Shetland ponies, in and out the winding roads of the park confines, without any haunting fear of a poor red fox to be done to death at the end.

And on the morrow, the sun condescended to come out in all his glory, upon the groups of tenantry scattered over the broad lawns. There were games in abundance for the men and boys; and others for the children. There were chairs for the old women, and long benches for those who desired to sit under the spreading branches of the great oaks to look on. And there were cups of tea, and thin bread and butter passed around by the white-capped maids, superintended by the housekeeper and the butler, quite important in their several functions. This was done to appease the hunger before the grand collation should take place later. And there was music by the fiddlers on the upper terrace, and there was, -- dear me, it would take quite too long to tell it all!

And at last, the order was given to fall into line, and march around the long tables resplendent with their cold joints and hot joints; their pasties, and tarts, and cakes, and great flagons of ale. And over all was a wealth of bloom from the big old English gardens in the rear of the old hall. The posies filled Polly with delight, as she and Tom's sisters and Phronsie had gathered them under the direction of the gardeners in the early morning; and then -- oh, best of all -- Mrs. Selwyn had allowed her to give the finishing touches to them as they became the decoration for the feast.

And the little old earl called the large assemblage to order, and the vicar asked the grace, and the feast was begun!

And then one of the tenants found his feet, and leaning on his staff, he thanked the Earl of Cavendish for all his goodness, and he hoped there would be many blessings in store for 'im and 'is, and sank on his bench again, mopping his face with his big red handkerchief.

And then the little old earl responded in as pretty a speech as could well be imagined, in which he forgot nothing that he ought to say. And there were many "God bless 'ims!" to follow it, and then there were cries of "Master Tom, Master Tom," who appeared to be an immense favourite; and the earl, well pleased, pulled him forward, saying, "Go ahead, youngster, and give it to them."

And Tom, extremely red in the face, tried to duck away, but found himself instead in front of the longest table, with everybody looking at him. And he mumbled out a few words and bobbed his head. And every one was just as well pleased. And then they gave cheer on cheer for the earl, and as many more for his oldest grandson. And then the little old earl raised his hand and said, "And now, my men, give a rousing good one for my dear American friends!"

And didn't they do it!

And on the following morning, the old hall, with its towers and its wings, had only the memory of the happy week to sustain it.

*   *   *   *   *

Jasper ran up to Polly on the deck. "We ought to go," he said, "the order has been given to leave the steamer."

"Yes, Polly," said Mother Fisher, "we must go, child."

"Give my love to dear Grandma Bascom," said Polly, for about the fiftieth time. "Oh, Mrs. Henderson, and don't forget to take over the new cap just as soon as you can, will you?"

"I won't forget," promised the parson's wife.

"And take mine to my dear Mrs. Beebe," begged Phronsie, twitching gently at Mrs. Henderson's sleeve, "and tell her I got pink ribbon because I know she loves that best."

"I won't forget," said Mrs. Henderson, again.

"Oh, and give the big handkerchief to my dear Mr. Beebe," said Phronsie, "please, Mrs. Henderson, to tie his throat up in, because, you know, he says it gets so cold when he goes out."

"I'll remember every single thing," promised the parson's wife. "Don't you worry, children. Oh, how we hate to leave you, only we are going to see our boys. We really are, Polly!" And her eyes shone.

"Polly! Polly!" called Jasper.

"All off who aren't going!" roared the order out again.

"Polly!" The little doctor seized one arm and Phronsie's hand. "There now, here you are!" and whisked them off, amid "good-by -- good-by" -- and a flutter of handkerchiefs.

"And give my love to dear Grandma Bascom," piped Phronsie, on the wharf by old Mr. King's side, as the big steamer slowly pushed from its moorings.

<eob>

The Scotch Twins

By

Lucy Fitch Perkins



I. The Little Gray House On The Brae


If you had peeped in at the window of a little gray house on a heathery hillside in the Highlands of Scotland one Saturday morning in May some years ago, you might have seen Jean Campbell "redding up" her kitchen. It was a sight best seen from a safe distance, for, though Jean was only twelve years old, she was a fierce little housekeeper every day in the week, and on Saturday, when she was getting ready for the Sabbath, it was a bold person indeed who would venture to put himself in the path of her broom. To be sure, there was no one in the family to take such a risk except her twin brother Jock, her father, Robin Campbell, the Shepherd of Glen Easig, and True Tammas, the dog, for the Twins' mother had "slippit awa'" when they were only ten years old, leaving Jean to take a woman's care of her father and brother and the little gray house on the brae.

On this May morning Jean woke up at five o'clock and peeped out of the closet bed in which she slept to take a look at the day. The sun had already risen over the rocky crest of gray old Ben Vane, the mountain back of the house, and was pouring a stream of golden sunlight through the eastern windows of the kitchen. The kettle was singing over the fire in the open fireplace, a pan of skimmed milk for the calf was warming by the hearth, and her father was just going out, with the pail on his arm, to milk the cow. She looked across the room at the bed in the corner by the fireplace to see if Jock were still asleep. All she could see of him was a shock of sandy hair, two eyes tight shut, and a freckled nose half buried in the bed-clothes.

"Wake up, you lazy laddie," she called out to him, "or when I get my clothes on I'll waken you with a wet cloth! Here's the sun looking in at the windows to shame you, and Father already gone to the milking."

Jock opened one sleepy blue eye.

"Leave us alone, now, Jeanie," he wheedled. "I was just having a sonsie wee bit of a dream. Let me finish, and syne I'll tell you all about it."

"Indeed, and you'll do nothing of the kind" retorted Jean, with spirit. "Up with you, mannie, or I'll be dressed before you, and I ken very well you'd not like to be beaten by a lassie, and her your own sister, too."

Jock cuddled down farther into the blankets without answering, and Jean began putting on her clothes. It seemed but a moment before she slid to the floor, rolled her sleeves high above a pair of sturdy elbows, and went to finish her toilet at the basin. There she washed her face and combed her hair, while Jock, cautiously opening one eye again, observed her from his safe retreat. He watched her part her hair, wet it, plaster it severely back from her brow, and tie it firmly in place with a piece of black ribbon. Jock could read Jean's face like print, and in this stern toilet he foresaw a day of unrelenting house-cleaning.

"Aye," he said to himself bitterly, "she's putting on her Saturday face. There's trouble brewing, I doubt! It'll be Jock this and Jock that both but and ben all day long, and whatever is the use of all this tirley-wirly I can't see, when on Monday the house will look as if it had never seen the sight of a besom! I'll just bide where I am." He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

It is true that Jean's Saturday face had such a housekeepery pucker between the eyes and such a severe arrangement of the front hair that any one who did not peep behind the black ribbon might have thought her a very stern young person indeed, but behind the black ribbon Jean's true character stood revealed! However prim and smooth she might make it look in front, where the cracked glass enabled her to keep an eye on it, behind her back, where she couldn't possibly see it, her hair broke into the jolliest little waves and curls, which bobbed merrily about even on the worst Saturday that ever was; and spoiled the effect whenever she tried to be severe.

When she had given a final wipe with the brush, she took another look at Jock. There was still nothing to be seen of him but the shock of sandy hair and a series of bumps under the blanket. Jock could feel Jean looking at him right through the bed-clothes.

"Jock," said Jean, -- and her voice had a Saturday sound to it, -- "You can't sleep in this day! Get up!"

There was no answer. Jock might well have known that Jean was in no mood for trifling, but, having decided on his course of action, he stuck to it like a true Scotchman and neither moved nor opened his eyes. Jean was driven to desperate measures. She took a few drops of water in the dipper, marched firmly to the bedside, and stood with it poised directly above Jock's nose.

"Jock," she said solemnly, "I'm telling you! Don't ever say I didn't. If you don't stir yourself before I count five, you'll be sorry. One, two, three!" Still no move from Jock. "Four, five," and, without further parley, she emptied the dipper on his freckled nose.

There was a wrathful snort and a violent convulsion of the blankets, and an instant later Jock was tearing about the kitchen like a cat in a fit, but by this time Jean was out of doors and well beyond reach.

"Come here, you limmer!" he howled. But Jean knew better than to accept his invitation. Instead she skipped laughing down the path from the door to the brook which ran bubbling and gurgling by the house. Even in her hasty exit from the cottage, Jean had had the presence of mind to take the pail with her, and now she stopped to fill it from the clear, sparkling water of the burn. It was such a wonderful bright spring morning that, having filled it, she stopped for a moment to look about her at the dear familiar surroundings of her home.

There was the little gray house itself, with the peat smoke curling from the chimney straight up into the blue sky. Back of it was the garden-patch with its low stone wall, and back of that were the fowl-yard and the straw-covered byre for the cow. Beyond, and to the north lay the moors, covered with heather and dotted with grazing sheep. Jean could hear the tinkle of their bells, the bleating of the lambs, and the comforting maternal answers of the ewes. Above the dark forest which spread itself over the slopes of the foot-hills toward the south and east a lave rock was singing, and she could hear the cry of whaups wheeling and circling over the moors. They were pleasant morning sounds, dear and familiar to Jean's ear, and oh, the sparkle of the dew on the bracken, and the smell of the hawthorn by the garden wall! Jean lifted her pail of water and went singing with it up the hill-slope to the house for sheer joy that she was alive.

"The Campbells are coming, O ho, O ho!" she sang, and the hills, taking up the refrain, echoed "O ho, O ho!"

True Tammas, who had slept all night under the straw-stack by the byre, came bounding down the little path to meet her, wagging his tail and barking his morning greeting. They reached the door together, but Jock, mindful of his injuries, had shut and barred it, and was grinning at them through the window. Jean sat placidly down upon the step with True Tammas beside her and continued her song. Her calmness irritated Jock.

"Aye," he shouted through the crack, "the Campbells may be coming, but they'll not get in this house! You can just sit there blethering all day, and I'll never unbar the door."

Jean stopped singing long enough to answer: "You'll get no breakfast, then, you mind, unless you'll be getting it yourself, for the porridge is not cooked and the kettle's nearly boiled away. I've the water-pail with me, and there's not a drop else in the house."

She left him to consider this and resumed her song. For several minutes she and True Tammas sat there gazing westward across the valley with the little river flowing through it, to the hills swimming in the blue distance beyond.

At last she called over her shoulder, "Jock, Father's coming," and Jock, seeing that his cause was hopelessly lost, unfastened the door. Jean, her father, and True Tammas all came into the kitchen together, and the moment she was in the room again you should have seen how she ordered things about!

"Set the milk right down here, Father," she said, tapping the table with her finger as she flew past to get the strainer and a pan, "and you, Jock, fill the kettle. It's almost dry this minute. And stir up the fire under it. Tam," -- that was what they called the dog for short, -- "go under the table or you'll get stepped on!"

You should have seen how they all minded! -- even the father, who was six feet tall, with a jaw like a nut-cracker and a face that would have looked very stern indeed if it hadn't been for his twinkling blue eyes. When the milk was strained and put away in the little shed room back of the kitchen chimney, Jean got out the oatmeal-kettle and hung the porridge over the fire, and while that was cooking she set three places at the tiny table and scalded the churn. Meanwhile Jock went out to feed the fowls. By half past six the oatmeal was on the table and the little family gathered about it, reverently bowing their heads while the Shepherd of Glen Easig asked a blessing upon the food.

There was only porridge and milk for breakfast, so it took but a short time to eat it, and then the real work of the day began. The Shepherd put on his Kilmarnock bonnet and called Tam, who had had his breakfast on the hearth, and the two went away to the hills after the sheep. Jock led the cow to a patch of green turf near the bottom of the hill, where she could find fresh pasture, and Jean was left alone in the kitchen of the little gray house. Ah, you should have seen her then! She washed the dishes and put them away in the cupboard, she skimmed the milk and put the cream into the churn, she swept the hearth and shook the blankets out of doors in the fresh morning air. Then she made the beds, and when the kitchen was all in order, she "went ben" -- that was the way they spoke of the best room -- and dusted that too. There wasn't really a bit of need of dusting the room, for it was never, never used except on very important occasions, such as when the minister called. The little house was five miles from the village, so the minister did not come often, but Jean kept it clean all the time just to be on the safe side.

There wasn't so very much work to do in the room after all, for there was nothing in it but the fireplace, a little table with the Bible, the Catechism, and a copy of Burns's poems on it, and three chairs. The kitchen was a different matter: There were the beds, and they were hard for a small girl to manage, and the cupboard with its shelves of dishes. There were three stools, and a big chair for the Shepherd, and the great chest where the clothes were kept, and besides all these things there was the wag-at-the-wall clock on the mantel-shelf which had to be wound every Saturday night. If you want to know just where these things stood, you have only to look at the plan, where their places are so plainly marked that, if you were suddenly to wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself in the little gray house, you could go about and put your hand on everything in it in the dark.

Jock stayed with the cow as long as he dared, and went back to the house only when he knew he couldn't postpone his tasks any longer. Jean was sweeping the doorstep as he came slowly up the hill.

"Come along, Grandfather," she called out, her brow sternly puckered in front and her curls bobbing gaily up and down behind. "A body'd think you were seventy-five years old and had the rheumatism to see you move! Come and work the churn a bit. 'Twill limber you up."

Jock knew that arguments were useless. His father had told him, girl's work or not, he was to help Jean, so he slowly dragged into the house and slowly began to move the dasher up and down.

"Havers!" said Jean, when she could stand it no longer. "It's lucky there's a cover to the churn else you'd drop to sleep and fall in and drown yourself in the buttermilk! The butter won't be here at this rate till to-morrow, when it would break the Sabbath by coming!"

She seized the dasher, as she spoke, and began to churn so vigorously that the milk splashed up all around the handle. Soon little yellow specks began to appear; and when they had formed themselves into a ball in the churn, she lifted it out with a paddle and put it in a pan of clear cold water. Then she gave Jock a drink of buttermilk.

"Poor laddie!" she said. "You are all tired out! Take a sup of this to put new strength in you, for you've got to go out and weed the garden. I looked at the potatoes yesterday, and the weeds have got the start of them already."

"If I must weed the garden, give me something to eat too," begged Jock. "This milk'll do no more than slop around in my insides to make me feel my emptiness."

Jean opened the cupboard door and peeped within.

"There's nothing for you, laddie," she said, "but this piece of a scone. I'll have to bake more for the Sabbath, and you can have this to give yourself a more filled-up feeling. And now off with you!"

She took him by the collar and led him to the door; and there on the step was Tam.

"What are you doing here?" cried Jean, astonished to see him. "You should be with Father, watching the sheep! It's shame to a dog to be lolling around the house instead of away on the hills where he belongs."

Tam flattened himself out on his stomach and dragged himself to her feet, rolling his eyes beseechingly upward, and if ever a dog looked ashamed of himself, that dog was Tam. Jean shook her head at him very sternly, and oh, how the jolly little curls bobbed about.

"Tam," she said, "you're as lazy as Jock himself. Whatever shall I do with the two of you?"

Jock had already finished his scone and he thought this a good time to disappear. He slipped round the corner of the house and whistled. All Tam's shame was gone in an instant. He gave a joyous bark and bounded away after Jock, his tail waving gayly in the breeze.



II. The Rabbit And The Gamekeeper


Out in the garden a rabbit had for some time been enjoying himself nightly in the potato-patch, biting off the young sprouts which were just sticking their heads through the ground. When the rabbit heard Tam bark she dashed out of sight behind a burdock leaf and sat perfectly still. Now if Tam and Jock had come into the garden by the wicket gate, as they should have done, this story might never have been written at all, because in that case the rabbit would perhaps have got safely back to her burrow in the woods without being seen, and there wouldn't have been any story to tell.

But Tam and Jock didn't come in by the gate. They jumped over the wall. Jock jumped first and landed almost on top of the rabbit, but when Tam, a second later, landed in the same place, she was running for dear life toward the hole in the stone wall where she had got in. Shouting and barking, Jock and Tam tore after her. Round and round the garden they flew, but just as they thought they had her cornered, the rabbit slipped through the hole in the wall and ran like the wind for the woods. Jock and Tam both cleared the wall at a bound and chased after her, making enough noise to be heard a mile away.

It happened that there was some one much less than a mile away to hear it. And it happened, too, that he was the one person in all the world that Jock would most wish not to hear it, for he was gamekeeper to the Laird of Glen Cairn, and the Laird of Glen Cairn owned all the land for miles and miles about in every direction. He owned the little gray house and the moor, the mountain, and the forest, and even the little brook that sang by the door. To be sure, the Laird seemed to care very little for his Highland home. He visited it but once in a great while, and then only for a few days' hunting. The rest of the year his great stone castle was occupied only by Eppie McLean, the housekeeper, and two or three other servants. The Laird did not know his tenants, and they did not know him. The rents were collected for him by Mr. Craigie, his factor, who lived in the village, and Angus Niel was appointed to see that no one hunted game on the estate.

Angus was a man of great zeal in the performance of his duty, to judge by his own account of it. He was always telling of heroic encounters with poachers in the forests, and though he never seemed to succeed in catching them and bringing them before the magistrate, his tales were a warning to evil-doers and few people dared venture into the region which he guarded. He was often seen creeping along the outskirts of the woods, his gun on his shoulder, his round eyes rolling suspiciously in every direction, or even loitering around the cow byres as if he thought game might be secreted there.

At the very moment when Jock and Tam came flying over the fence and down the hill like a cyclone after the rabbit, Angus was kneeling beside the brook to get a drink. His lips were pursed up and he was bending over almost to the surface of the water, when something dashed past him, and an instant later something else struck him like a thunderbolt from behind, and drove him headforemost into the brook! It wasn't Tam that did it. It was Jock! Of course, it was an accident, but Angus thought he had done it on purpose, and he was probably the most surprised as well as the angriest man in Scotland at that moment. He lifted his head out of the brook and glared at Jock as fiercely as he could with little rills of water pouring from his hair and nose, and trickling in streams down his neck.

"I'll make you smart for this, you young blatherskite," he roared at Jock, who stood before him frozen with horror. "I'll teach you where you belong! You were running after that rabbit, and your dog is yelping down a hole after her this minute!" He was such a funny sight as he knelt there, dripping and scolding, that, scared as he was, Jock could not help laughing. More than ever enraged, Angus made a sudden lunge forward and seized Jock by the ear.

"You come along o' me," he said. His invitation was so urgent that Jock felt obliged to accept it, and together the two started up the slope to the little gray house. Tam, meanwhile, had given up the chase and joined them, his tail at half-mast.

When they reached the house Angus bumped the door open without knocking, and stamped into the kitchen. Jean was bending over the fire turning a scone on the girdle, when the noise at the door made her jump and look around. She was so amazed at the sight which met her eye that for an instant she stood stock-still, and Angus, seeing that he had only two children to deal with, gave Jock's ear a vicious tweak and began to bluster at Jean.

But, you see, he didn't know Jean. When she saw that great fat man abusing her brother and tracking mud all over her kitchen floor at the same time, instead of being frightened, as she should have been, Jean shook her cooking-fork at Angus Niel and stamped her foot smartly on the floor.

"You let go of my brother's ear this instant," she shouted, "and take your muddy boots out of my kitchen!"

Angus let go of Jock's ear for sheer surprise, and Jock at once sprang to his sister's side, while Tam, seeing that trouble was brewing, gave a low growl and bared his teeth. Angus gave a look at Tam and decided to explain.

"This young blatherskite here," he began, in a voice that caused the rafters to shake, "has been trespassing. He was after a rabbit. I caught him in the very act. I'll have the law on him! He rammed me into the burn!"

"I didn't mean to," shouted Jock, "I thought you were a stone, and I just meant to step on you and jump across the burn."

"You meant to step on me, did you?" roared Angus. "Me! Do you know who I am?" Jock knew very well, but he didn't have time to say so before Angus, choking with rage, made a furious lunge for his ear and left two more great spots of mud on the kitchen floor. It was not to be borne. Jean pointed to his feet.

"You're trespassing yourself," she screamed. "You've no right in this house, And you take yourself out of it this minute! Just look at the mud you've tracked on my floor!"

Angus did look. He looked not only at the floor but at Tam, for Tam was now slowly approaching him, growling as he came.

Angus thought best to do exactly as Jean said and as quickly as possible. He reached the door in two jumps with Tam leaping after him and nipping his heels at each jump, and in another instant found himself on the doorstep with the door shut behind him.

Angus considered himself a very important man. He wasn't used to being treated in this way, and it's no wonder he was angry. He swelled up like a pouter pigeon; and shook his fist at the door.

"You just mind who I am," he shouted. "If ever I catch you poaching again, I'll have you up before the bailie as sure as eggs is eggs!"

But the door didn't say a word, and it seemed beneath his dignity to scold a door that wouldn't even answer back, so he stamped away growling. The children watched him until he disappeared in the woods, and when at last they turned from the window, the scone on the girdle was burned to a cinder and had to be given to the chickens!

You might have thought that by this time Jean had done enough work even for Saturday, but there was still the broth to make for supper and for the Sabbath, and the kitchen floor to be scrubbed, and, last of all, the family baths! When the little kitchen was as clean as clean could be, Jean got the wash-tub and set it on the hearth. Jock knew the signs and decided he'd go out behind the byre and look for eggs, but Jean had her eye on him.

"Jock Campbell," said she, "you go at once and get the water."

In vain Jock assured her he was cleaner than anything and didn't need a bath. Jean was firm. She made him fill the kettles, and when the water was hot, she shut him up in the kitchen with soap and a towel while she took all the shoes to the front steps to polish for Kirk on the morrow. When at last Jock appeared before her he was so shiny clean that Jean said it dazzled her eyes to look at him, so she sent him for the cow while she took her turn at the tub.

By four o'clock, Tam, who had spent an anxious afternoon by the hole in the garden wall watching for the rabbit, suddenly remembered his duties and started away over the moors to meet the Shepherd and round up any sheep that might have strayed from the flock, and at five Jock, returning from the byre, met his father coming home with Tam at his heels.

The regular evening tasks were finished just as the sun sank out of sight behind the western hills, and the birds were singing their evening songs, and when they went into the kitchen a bright fire was blazing on the hearth, the broth was simmering in the kettle, and Jean had three bowls of it ready for them on the table.

While they ate their supper Jock told their father all about the rabbit and Angus Niel and his ducking in the burn, and when Jock told about Jean's ordering him out of the kitchen, and of his jumping to the door with Tam nipping at his heels, the Shepherd slapped his knee and laughed till he cried. Tam, sitting on the hearth with his tongue lolling out, looked as if he were laughing, too.

"Havers!" cried the Shepherd, "I wish I'd been here to see that sight! Angus is that swollen up with pride of position, he's like to burst himself. He needed a bit of a fall to ease him of it, but I'd never have picked out Jean Campbell to trip him up! You're a spirited tid, my dawtie, and I'm proud of you."

"But, Father," said Jock, "whatever shall we do about the rabbits? The woods are full of them, and there'll not be a sprig of green left in the garden. They can hop right over the wall, even if we do stop up the hole."

"Aye," answered his father solemnly, "and that's a serious question, my lad. They get worse every year, and syne we'll have no tatties for the winter, let alone other vegetables. A deer came into Andrew Crumpet's garden one night last week and left not a green sprout in it by the morning. The creatures must live that idle gentlemen may shoot them for pleasure, even though they eat our food and leave us to go hungry." His brow darkened and a long-smouldering wrath burst forth into words. "There's no justice in it," he declared, thumping the table with his fist till the spoons danced, "Lairds or no Lairds, Anguses or no Anguses."

The Twins had never before heard their father speak like that, and they were a little frightened. They were too young to know the long years of injustice in such matters that stretched far back into the history of Scotland.

For a few minutes after this outburst the Shepherd remained silent, gazing into the fire; then he roused himself from his brown study and said: "I've been keeping something from you, my bairns. Mr. Craigie told me last week that the Auld Laird has taken a whim to turn all this region into a game preserve, and that he will not renew our lease when the time is up. It has till autumn to run, and then, God help us, we'll have to be turned out of this house where I've lived all my life and my forebears before me, and seek some other place to live and some other work to do."

"But what can you do else?" gasped Jock. He felt that his world was tumbling about his ears.

"The Lord knows," answered the Shepherd. "Emigrate to America likely. I've always been with the sheep and nothing else. It may be I can hire out to some other body, but chances are few hereabouts, and if the Auld Laird carries out this notion, there'll be many another beside ourselves who'll need to be walking the world. It seems unlikely he would be for taking away the town too, even if it is but a wee bit of a village, and the law gives him the right, for times have changed since that lease was made, long years ago, and there are few in this day who would venture to enforce it. But the Auld Laird's a hard man, I'm told, and he chooses hard men to carry out his will. Mr. Craigie has little heart, and as for Angus Niel, he'd make things worse rather than better if he had his way." Then, seeing tears gathering in Jean's eyes, he said to comfort her, "There now, dinna greet, my lassie! There's no sense in crossing a bridge till you come to it, and this bridge is still four months and a bittock away. We've the summer before us, and the Lord's arm is not shortened that it cannot save. We'll make the best of it and have one more happy summer, let the worst come at the end of it."

"But, Father," urged Jock, "will he turn every one out, do you think?"

"Who can foretell the whimsies of a selfish man?" answered the Shepherd. "He has only his own will to consider, but my opinion is he'll turn out those whose holdings lie nearest the forests and would be best for game, whatever he may do with the rest."

This was overwhelming news, and the children sat silent beside their silent father, trying to think of something to comfort their sad hearts. At last Jean lifted her head with a spirited toss and said, "Gin we were to go to-morrow, the dishes would still have to be washed," and she began to clear the table.

Her father laughed, and oh, how his laugh brightened the little kitchen and seemed to bid defiance to the fates!

"That's right, little woman," he said. "You've the true spirit of a Campbell in you. We must aye do the duty at hand and trust the Lord for the rest."

Jock was so impressed with the solemn talk of the evening that he wiped the dishes without being asked and went to bed of his own accord when the wag-at-the-wall clock struck eight. The Shepherd sat alone beside the fire until the children were in bed and asleep; then he sent Tam to the straw stack, wound the clock, and took his own turn at the tub. Last of all he covered the coals with ashes for the night and crept into bed beside Jock.



III. The Sabbath


The Sabbath morning dawned bright and clear, and the Campbells were all up early and had the chores done before seven o'clock. Then came breakfast, and after breakfast Jean ran "ben the room," and brought the Bible to her father. Then she and Jock sat with folded hands while he read a long chapter about the "begats." Jock thought there seemed to be a very large family of them. This was followed by a prayer as long as the chapter. The prayer was so long that True Tammas went sound asleep on the hearth and had a dream that must have been about the rabbit, for his ears twitched and he made little whiny noises and jerked his legs. It was so long that the kettle boiled clear away and made such alarming, crackling sounds that Jean couldn't help peeking through her fingers just once, because it was their only kettle, and if it should go and burst itself during family prayers, whatever should they do! The moment the Shepherd said "Amen," Jean sprang so quickly to lift it from the fire that she stumbled over Tam and woke him up and almost burned her fingers besides. The kettle wasn't really spoiled, and while the water was heating in it for the dishes, Jean took up the little yellow book and said to Jock,

"Come here now, laddie, and see if you can say your catechism. Do you ken what is the chief end of man?"

"Dod, and I do," answered Jock. "You let me spier the questions."

"No," answered Jean firmly. "I'll spier them first myself."

"You're thinking I can't answer," said Jock. "I'll fool you."

He stood up as straight as a whole row of soldiers and fired off the answer all in one breath.

"The-chief-end-of-man-is-to-glorify-God-and-enjoy-Him-forever," he shouted.

Jean nodded approvingly. "You ken that one all right, but that is the first one in the book and everybody knows that one. Now I'm going to skip around."

"Don't skip," urged Jock. "Take them just the way they come. I can remember 'em better."

But Jean gave no quarter. "What is predestination?" she demanded.

This was a poser, but Jock tackled it bravely.

"Whom he did foreknow he also did predestinate to-to-" he got so far and stuck.

"To what?" asked Jean.

"To be reformed," Jock hazarded, wallowing in difficulties.

"Conformed," corrected Jean. "You don't know that one at all! What is Saving Grace?"

Jock fell down entirely on saving grace. "It's a -- It's a -- " he began. Then he bit his lip and scowled, and looked up at the ham hanging from the rafters, and out of the windows, but as nothing more about saving grace occurred to him he said, "Aw, Jean, I know, but I can't think."

"If you knew, you wouldn't have to think," Jean retorted, and then she made him take the book and sit down on the stool by the window and learn both answers while she finished the dishes.

It was ten miles to the village and back, and there was no way to get there except by walking, but the Campbells would sooner have thought of going without their food than of staying away from the Kirk, and so by eight o'clock they were all dressed in their best clothes and ready to start. They left True Tammas sitting on the doorstep with his ears drooped and his eyes looking very sorrowful. He wanted to go with them, but he knew well that he must stay at home to guard the sheep from stray dogs.

It was springtime, and the world was so lovely that the troubles the little family had faced the evening before seemed far away and impossible in the morning light. It was as if they had awakened from a bad dream. Who could help being happy on such a morning? The birds were flying about with straw and bits of wool in their bills to weave into their nests, and singing as if they would split their little throats. The river splashed and gurgled and sang as it dashed over its rocky bed on its way to the sea. From the village came the distant music of the church bells. The hawthorn was in bloom, and the river-banks and roadsides were gay with dandelions and violets, daisies and buttercups. Far away the mountains lifted their blue summits to the sky, and on a nearer hill they could see the gray towers of the castle of the Laird of Glen Cairn.

The bell was ringing its final summons and all the people were pouring into the little vestibule as the Campbells reached the steps of the Kirk. Angus Niel pushed past them, looking as puffy as a turkey-cock with its feathers spread, and glaring at the Twins so fiercely that Jock whispered to Jean, "If I poked my finger at him I believe he'd gobble," and made her almost laugh aloud. When they passed Mr. Craigie, who held the plate for people to drop their money in, Jean whispered to Jock, "He looks for all the world like a pair of tongs in his blacks, he's that tall and thin," and then Jock certainly would have laughed outright if he hadn't seen Mrs. Crumpet's eye on him.

The sermon was very long and the seats were hard and high, but the service did come to an end at last, although Jock was sure it was never going to, and afterward the children with their father stood about in the churchyard for a little while talking to their neighbors and friends.

The farm of Andrew Crumpet lay in the same direction as the home of the Campbells, so it was natural that they should walk along together and that the two men should talk about the thing that was uppermost in their minds. Mrs. Crumpet had gone on ahead with another neighbor, and Sandy Crumpet, who was twelve too, and had yellow hair, a snub nose, and freckles like Jock's own, walked with the Twins behind the two fathers. As they turned into the road, the children heard Andrew say, with a heavy sigh: "Aye, Robin, we must just make up our minds to it. The Auld Laird's bent on getting us out."

"Has Mr. Craigie given you notice, too?" asked the Shepherd.

"Aye, has he," Andrew answered with bitterness, "and short work he made of it. It means little to him telling a man to leave his home and go out in the world to seek new work at our time of life."

"He passes for a religious man," said the Shepherd.

"So did the Pharisee in the temple," said Andrew, "but 'by their fruits ye shall know them,' and we're not gathering any figs off of Mr. Craigie, nor grapes from that thorn of an Auld Laird that I can see!"

"Nor from Angus Niel, either," agreed Robin Campbell. "The Auld Laird's servants are of a piece with himself."

"Fine I ken that," answered Andrew.

"Well," sighed the Shepherd, "the toad under the harrow cannot be expected to praise the plowman, and we're just like the toad."

"Very true," said Andrew, "but the toad has the best of it. We are being destroyed; not that some one may till the land, but that it may go to waste, and be kept out of use. We suffer that the rich may be richer and the poor poorer, that less food may be produced instead of more. I tell you, Robin, it is not justice."

"It may be so. It may be so," sighed the Shepherd, "but it is the law, and we must just submit."

The two men walked on in silence to the bridge, where the Crumpets turned, while the Campbells kept on beside the river. The children were silent, too, only calling out "Good-bye" to Sandy as they parted, Jock adding, "Come on by to-morrow if you can," and Sandy, waving his hand, calling back, "Aye, will I."

As the Twins and their father neared the "wee bit hoosie," Tam came bounding down the brae to meet them, and in less time than it takes to tell it Jean had run into the house, taken off her Sabbath dress, and put on her old one, with her kitchen apron over it, had mended the fire and heated the broth, and the little family was seated about the table eating their frugal meal with appetites sharpened by their long walk.

The afternoon seemed endless to the children, for they spent it trying hard not to do any of the things they wanted to do. They studied the catechism while their father sat with his bonnet on his head nodding over the Bible, and the wag-at-the-wall clock ticked the hours solemnly away. Jock whispered to Jean that he didn't see why Sunday was so much longer than any other day, and didn't believe her when she said it wasn't really that it only seemed so.



IV. The New Boy


Usually Jean and Jock went to school in summer, for in winter the snow made the roads impassable, but at this time the Dominie was ill and until he should get well they had the long days to themselves. When breakfast was over the next morning and the Shepherd had gone with Tam to the hills, Jean decided to wash the clothes. Sandy Crumpet came early, and the two boys went off to play, leaving Jean standing on a stone in the middle of the burn, soaping the clothes and scrubbing them on the flat surface of a rock. The water was so cold it made her arms ache, and she soon decided to let the fast-running stream do the washing for her. She soaped the garments well, weighted them down with stones, and then went to join the boys. She found them flat on their stomachs by the stream, gazing down into a pool of clear water.

"What do you see?" she called out to them.

"Trout," answered Jock, his eyes shining with excitement.

"Let me take a keek," said Jean, flopping down beside them and craning her neck over the edge.

They were all three peering with breathless interest into the water when a strange voice behind them made them jump. For an instant they thought it might be Angus Niel.

"Hello!" said the voice.

The children whirled around, and there before them stood a boy not much older than themselves, but taller and thinner. He had a pale face with large black eyes and dark hair partly covered with a Glengarry bonnet set rakishly over one ear. He wore a suit of gray tweed with plaid-topped stockings, and carried a fishing-rod over his shoulder.

"Hello!" said the stranger again.

"Hello, yourself!" responded Jock.

Jean and Sandy were so relieved to find it wasn't Angus Niel that for an instant they merely gazed at him without speaking.

"What's there?" asked the new boy.

"Fish," said Jock.

"Fish!" cried the new boy, shifting his rod into position. "Where? Let me have a crack at 'em!"

"Na, na, don't be so hasty," cried Jock, heading him off. "You'll get yourself into trouble! Angus Niel would be after you in no time, and if he caught you, he'd cuff your lug for you, and drag you before the bailie for poaching!"

"Who's Angus Niel?" demanded the boy. "I'm not afraid of him."

"Not yet," answered Jock, "but just go on and you will be! He's gamekeeper to the Laird, and he'd rather do for you than not. Aye, he'd just like the feel of you in his fingers, he would." Jock rubbed his ear. "It's but two days gone since he nearly pulled the lug off me because I was running after a rabbit that was eating up our garden. He's terrible suspicious, is Angus, and he's mad at us besides."

"What for?" asked the boy.

"I stepped on him by accident," explained Jock, "and butted him into the burn."

"No wonder he was mad," laughed the boy. "Come on, now. Surely a body can fish. There's no law against that!"

"Well," said Sandy, "law or no law, Angus is against it, and the Auld Laird is terrible particular. He's going to turn out all the farmers in this region and make it into a great game preserve. Nothing else. You're strange hereabouts, I doubt, or you'd ken all this yourself. Where are you from?"

"I'm from London," replied the boy. "I'm staying with Eppie McLean at the castle."

"Are you, now?" gasped Sandy. "Is Eppie your aunt, maybe? She'll be telling you about Angus herself."

"Eppie's not my aunt," said the boy. "She's a friend of my mother, and my mother got her to take me in because I've been sick, and she thought I'd get strong up here, and I'm not going to have my summer spoiled by Angus Niel or any other old bogie man. Stand back now while I cast."

He swung his rod over his head, and the fly fell with a flop in the middle of the pool. He waited a breathless instant while Jock, Sandy, and Jean watched the fly with him, and then, as nothing happened, he cast again. When several such attempts brought no result, he said, "You're sure they 're there?"

"They're lying at the bottom as soft as a baby in a cradle," said Jean. "I could catch them with a skimmer! Gin they don't bite, maybe I'll try it!"

Jock looked at Jean in amazement.

"You're a braw lassie, Jean Campbell," he said severely, "and you just telling about Angus Niel!"

"T'was yourself and Sandy here telling about Angus Niel," Jean answered. "I said nothing at all about him. I'm not afraid of him, either."

"Good for you!" said the new boy with admiration. "You can have a turn with my rod. Try it once before you get the skimmer!"

Jean sprang to her feet and took the rod, though she had never had one like it in her hand before. She made a mighty sweep with it as she had seen the new boy do, but somehow the fly flew off in an unexpected direction and caught in a tree, while the line wound itself in a hopeless snarl around the tip. Jock and Sandy, who had stood by, green with envy, clapped their hands over their mouths and danced with mirth.

"It looks easy," said poor Jean mournfully, "but maybe I'd best stick to the skimmer when I fish."

"Oh, it always does that the first time," said the new boy comfortingly, as he rescued the fly and straightened out the line.

"When a girl tries to do it," added Jock witheringly.

The new boy held out the rod.

"You try it," he said to Jock, and Jock, full of confidence, did not wait for a second invitation.

"Look here, Jean," he said. "This is the way you do it."

He swung the rod with a mighty flourish over his head, bud alas, the fly surprised him too. It caught in Sandy's trousers and surprised Sandy as well. Not only that, it scratched him.

"Ow!" howled Sandy, leaping about like a monkey on the end of the string. "Leave go of me!"

There was a snarl even worse than Jean's, too, and between that and Sandy's jumping about it was some time before the line was disentangled and the hook freed so that Sandy was able to take his turn. Jean, meanwhile, said nothing at all, for Jock looked so crestfallen that she hadn't the heart. When Sandy tried it things were still worse, for the fly flew about so wildly that Jock and Jean fled before it and hid behind some bushes.

"Whoever could catch fish with such gewgaws as them anyway?" said Sandy scornfully, when a second attempt brought no better result. "The fish aren't used to it."

Jock rolled up his sleeves, crept to the side of the burn, and looked over into the pool.

"Hold to me, Sandy," he said, and Sandy immediately sat down on his legs. Then Jock suddenly plunged his arms into the water and before the fish could whisk their tails he had caught one in his hand and thrown it on the grass.

Springing to his feet and upsetting Sandy, he jumped to a rock in the middle of the brook and caught two more. It was now the new boy's turn to be astonished. Apparently Jock had stirred up a whole school of trout, for Sandy, following Jock's lead, also leaped into the stream, and in a few moments six fine trout were flopping about the grass.

"Let's build a fire and cook them," urged the new boy, whose name they soon learned was Alan McRae. "And if old Angus Niel comes nosing around we'll offer him a bite! He can do nothing with four of us, anyway, unless he shoots us, and he'd hang for that. Come on!"

By this time they were all so thrilled with the sport and were having such fun that nobody thought any more about Angus anyway, so Jean ran for a pan, while Jock and Sandy cleaned the fish with Alan's knife, and Alan gathered dry twigs and bracken for the fire. Jean brought down some scones, which she split and spread with butter while the fish were frying. When they were done to a golden brown she put a hot fish on each piece of scone and handed them out to the boys, and when they had eaten every scrap they buried the fish-bones in case Angus should come that way.

After lunch Jean went to wring out the clothes and hang them on the bushes to dry, while Jock and Sandy examined Alan's wonderful book of flies and his reel, and even the creel in which he was to have put the fish, if he had caught any.

"Losh, man!" exclaimed Sandy, swaggering about with his hands in his pockets, "that's all very well. Aye, it's a good game, and you might go dandering along a stream all day playing with it, but if you really want fish, just go after 'em yourself! That's my way. Guddling for trout like you saw me and Jock do, that's the real sport!"

"I believe you," said Alan. "I'm going to try it myself. Come on. Let's go farther up stream and see if we can find another good fishing-hole. I told Eppie I'd bring her a fish to her tea, and I'd hate to go back with nothing at all," and the three boys disappeared in the woods.

Jean finished her work by the brook and went to the house to make more scones, for the picnic had exhausted the supply and they used no other bread. She bustled about the kitchen, mixing, spreading them on the girdle over the fire, keeping the coals bright, and turning them out nicely browned on the mixing-board. She was just finishing the sixth one, when there was a great thumping at the door, and she ran to see what was the matter. There on the doorstep stood the three boys, Alan dripping wet from head to heel, shivering with cold, and with mud and water running from him in streams. Jean threw up her hands.

"It's most michty," she cried, "if I can't ever bake scones in this kitchen without some man body coming in half drowned to mess up my clean floor! However did you go and drop yourself in the burn, Alan McRae? 'Deed and I wonder that your mother lets you go out alone, you're that careless with yourself. And you not long out of a sick bed, too."

"He was guddling for trout," shouted Jock and Sandy in one breath; "and the hole was deep. There was no one sitting on him, and syne over he went!"

Jean seized Alan by the shoulder and drew him into the kitchen, and set him to drip on the hearth while she gave her orders.

"Jock, do you fill the basin with warm water, and you, Sandy, put more peat on the fire. He must have a rinse with hot water and something hot to drink."

"What'll he do for clothes?" cried Jock.

"Dinna fash yourself about clothes," said Jean, rummaging furiously in the "kist." "I'm laying out Father's old kilts he had when he was a boy. He can put them on till his own things are dry. Here's a towel for you," she added, tossing one to Alan. "Rub yourself down well, and when you've dressed, just give a chap at the door, and I'll come in and get you a sup of tea."

Then she disappeared. You can imagine what the kitchen looked like when she came back again. Alan's wet clothes were spread out on her father's chair by the fire, and Alan, gorgeous in his plaid kiltie, was strutting back and forth giving an imitation of the bagpipes on his nose, with Jock and Sandy marching behind him singing "Do ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay" at the top of their lungs.

"Have you gone clean daft?" Jean shouted. "Sit down by the fire and get out of my way while I mop up after you!"

The boys each seized one of the kitchen stools without stopping the song and marched with it to the hearth, and when they came to "Peel's view halloo would awaken the dead," they gave a howl that nearly brought down the ham from the rafters as they banged them down on the hearth-stones. Jean clapped her hands over her ears and ran for the mop, and in no time at all the puddles had disappeared and the boys were drinking tea by the fire.

Of course, Alan had no shoes to put on because his were soaking wet, and as it was now late in the afternoon it began to be a question how he should get back to the castle. It was still cold for going barefoot, and he was not used to it besides, and his clothes certainly would not be fit to put on for a long time. They held a consultation. Alan thought he could go without shoes.

"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Jean firmly. "What sickness was it you had, anyway?"

"Measles," said Alan, looking ashamed of it.

"Measles!" shouted Sandy. "That's naught but a baby disease. My little sister had that. Sal, but I've had worse things the matter with me! I've had the fever, and once I cut my toe with the axe!"

"Hold your tongue, Sandy," said Jean, "and dinna boast! If Alan's had measles he can't go back to the castle barefoot; so you must just be stepping yourself, and stop by at the castle to tell Eppie McLean that Alan will bide here till his things are dry."

Sandy rose reluctantly and set down his empty mug.

"Well, then, if I must, I must," he said, and started off down the hill whistling.



V. Evening In The Wee Bit Hoosie


When he was out of sight, Jean brought in the washing and then it was time to get supper. Alan helped set the table and kept the fire bright under the pot, while Jock fed the hens and brought in the eggs; and when the Shepherd and Tam returned from the hills, you can imagine how surprised they were to find three children waiting for them instead of two. At supper the Shepherd had to be told all the adventures of the day and how it happened that Alan was wearing the kilts, and by the time it was over you would have thought they had known each other all their lives. While Jean cleared away the dishes, the Shepherd drew his chair to the fire and beckoned Alan to him.

"Come here, laddie," he said, "and give us a look at your plaidie. It's been lying there in the kist, and I've not seen a sight of it since I was a lad. It's the Campbell plaid, ye ken, and I mind once when I was a lad I was on my way home from the kirk and a hare crossed my path. It's ill luck for a hare to cross your path, and fine I proved it. I clean forgot it was the Sabbath and louped the dyke after him. My kiltie caught on a stone, and there I was hanging upside down. My father loosed me, but my kiltie was torn and I had to go to bed without my supper for breaking the Sabbath."

"Is the hole there yet?" asked Jean.

"Na, na;" said the Shepherd. "You didn't think your grandmother was such a thriftless wifie as that! She mended the hole so that you could never find where it had been."

He examined fold after fold carefully.

"There, now," he exclaimed at last, "if you want to see mending that would make you proud to wear it, look at that."

Jean and Jock stuck their heads over his shoulder, and Alan twisted himself nearly in two trying to see his own back.

"We have a plaid a good deal like this," said Alan, looking closely at the pattern. "My mother's name was McGregor, but she has relations named Campbell."

"Are you really a Scotch body, then?" cried Robin with new interest in Alan. "I thought you were an English boy."

"I live in London," Alan answered, "but my mother's people are all Scotch, and she loves Scotland. That's one reason why she sent me up here to be with Eppie McLean."

"Losh, mannie," cried the Shepherd, "if you have Campbell relatives and your mother's name was McGregor, it's likely you are a descendant from old Rob Roy himself, and if so, we're all kinsmen. Inversnaid, where Rob Roy's cave is, is but a few miles from here, and it was in this very country that he hid himself among rocks and caves, giving to the poor with his left hand what he took from the rich with his right. Well, well, laddie, the old clans are scattered now, but blood is thicker than water still, and you're welcome to the fireside of your kinsman!"

"Is he really a relation?" cried Jean and Jock eagerly.

"Well," said the Scotchman cautiously, "I'm not saying he is precisely, but I'm not saying he is not, either. The Campbells and the McGregors have lived in these parts for better than two hundred years, and it's not likely that Alan could lay claim to both names and be no relation at all. If there were still clans, as there used to be in the old days, we'd all belong to the same one, and that I do not doubt."

"I'm sure I'd like that," said Alan, and Jock was so delighted with his new relative that he stood on his head in the middle of the floor to express his feelings. When the excitement had died down a bit, Alan drew his stool up beside the Shepherd's knee and said: "Won't you please tell us about Rob Roy, Cousin Campbell? If he's an ancestor of mine, I ought to know more about him."

"Oh, do, Father," echoed the Twins, planting their stools beside the other knee. Even Tam was interested. He sat on the hearth in front of the Shepherd, looking up into his face as if he understood every word.

The Shepherd gazed thoughtfully into the fire for a moment; then he said: "I can tell you what my grandsire told me, and he got it from his grandsire, so it must be true. In the beginning Rob Roy was as staunch a man as any, and held his own property like other gentlemen. Craig Royston was the name of his place, and fine and proud he was of it, too. He was a gey shrewd man in the cattle-dealing, and his neighbor, the Duke of Montrose, thinking to benefit his own estate, lent Rob money to set him up in the trade. There was a pawky rascal named McDonald who was partner to Rob, and didn't he run away with the money, leaving Rob in debt to the Duke and nothing to pay him with? The Duke foreclosed on Rob at once, and took away Craig Royston and added it to his own estate. You can well believe that Rob was not the man to take such dealings with patience. If the Duke had not been so hasty, Rob would more than likely have got hold of McDonald and made him pay either out of his purse or out of his skin, but he did neither the one nor the other. Instead he left his home and took his clan with him into the mountains and became the terror of the whole country-side."

"Wasn't he a good man?" asked Jean, gazing at her father with round eyes.

"Well," said the Shepherd, "not just what you'd call pious, maybe, and it cannot be said that he was aye regular at the kirk. It's true he never forgot an enemy, but he never forgot a kindness either and was loyal and true to them that were true to him."

"What did he do when they weren't true to him?" asked Jock.

"He made them wish they had been," replied the Shepherd mildly.

"But what made the Duke of Montrose take away Craig Royston?" asked Jock. "Didn't he have a great big place of his own?"

"Aye," answered Robin, "but what difference does that make? The more land he had, the more land he wanted, the same as other lairds. Be that as it may, Craig Royston was certainly taken away from Rob, and a bitter man it made of him."

"Why, it's just like ourselves and the Auld Laird," cried Jean. "He's going to take away our home from us!"

"It's not just the same, little woman," said the Shepherd, laying his big brown hand on Jean's small one on his knee. "But the loss of it hurts just the same. Rob Roy loved Craig Royston no better than we love this wee bit hoosie."

"But why must you go, then?" asked Alan, his eyes shining with interest and sympathy.

"You see; lad," answered the Shepherd, "it's like the tale of the dog in the manger. The Auld Laird will neither use the land nor let us." He explained about the lease, and when he had finished, Alan said, "But what will you do when you leave this place?"

"I'm spiering the same question myself," answered the Shepherd. "As yet I dinna ken."

"I tell you what," shouted Jock, springing to his feet and knocking over his stool. "Why don't we live in the caves the way Rob Roy did? If the Crumpets and all the people who have to give up their homes should band together in a clan and hide themselves in the glen, the Auld Laird could send all the Mr. Craigies and Angus Niels in the world after us and they'd never get us!"

The Shepherd smiled and shook his head. "The time for that has gone by," he said sadly. "Na, na, we must just submit. But one thing I do know, and that is, we'll not seek a place with the Laird of Kinross. They say he will let his land to none but members of the Established Church, and I'll not give up my religion for any man not if I'm forever walking the world!"

"But come, now," he went on, seeing them downcast, "you all have faces on you as long as a summer Sabbath. Cheer up, and I'll tell you a tale my grandfather told me of the water cow of Loch Leven. You mind the song says, 'The Campbells are coming from bonnie Loch Leven.' Well, it was around that loch that the Campbells pastured their cattle. One day when my grandsire was a young lad he was playing with some other children on the pastures near the shore, when all of a sudden what should they see among their own cows but a fine young dun-colored heifer without any horns. She was lying by herself on the green grass, chewing her cud and looking so gentle and pretty that the children played around her without fear. They wound a wreath of daisies and put it on her neck, and then they got on her back. The cow stretched out longer and longer to make room for them until they were all on her back except my grandsire. Then all of a sudden the dun cow rose up, first on her hind legs, tipping the children all forward, and then on her forelegs tipping them all back ward, yet no one fell off at all, and when she was up on her feet, didn't she start straight away for the deep waters of the loch? The children screamed and tried to get off her back, but no matter how hard they tried, there they stuck. My grandsire ran screaming toward them, and put up his hand to pull them down, and his finger touched the dun cow's back! Now never believe me, if his finger didn't stick so he could not pull it away, and by that he knew the dun heifer for a water cow and that she had bewitched the children. He was being dragged along with them toward the water, when all of a sudden he slipped out his knife and with one blow chopped off his own finger and he was wanting that finger till the day of his death."

"What became of the others?" gasped Alan, his black eyes glowing like coals.

"They went on the dun cow's back into the lake, and the water closed over them and they were never seen again," said the Shepherd, "and that's the end of the tale."

While the Shepherd talked, the twilight had deepened into darkness, the fire had died down, and the corners of the room were filled with mysterious tricky shadows that danced with the flickering flames on the hearth. Jean looked fearfully over her shoulder. There was a creepy feeling in the back of her neck, and Jock's eyes were as round as door-knobs. The Shepherd laughed at them.

"Good children have little to fear from the fairy folk," he said. "Come, now, your eyes are fair sticking out of your heads. I'll give you a skirl on the bagpipes if Jeanie'll bring them from the closet. Jock, stir up the fire, and Alan, give your clothes a turn and see if they are drying."

The children ran to do these errands, and in a moment the fire was flaming gayly up the chimney, chasing the murky shadows out of the corners and making the room bright and cheerful again, while the Shepherd, tucking the bag under his arm, stirred the echoes on old Ben Vane with the wild strains of "Bonnie Doon" and "Over the Water to Charlie." At last he struck up the music of the Highland Fling, and the three children sprang to the middle of the floor and danced the wild Scotch dance together.

Just as the fun was at its height, and Alan, looking very handsome in his kilts, was doing the heel and toe with great energy, there came a loud rap at the door. Instantly everything stopped, just as short as Cinderella's ball did when the clock struck twelve, and the Shepherd, laying aside his bagpipes, opened the door. There stood a man with a bundle on his arm. "Eppie McLean sent these clothes to the lad," he said, handing the bundle to the Shepherd, "and he's to come back along with me." Alan took the bundle, thanked the man, and disappeared with Jock into "the room," where he changed his clothes, returning the kilts, with regret, to Jock. "I've had just a grand day," he said to Jean and the Shepherd as he shook hands and took leave of them in the kitchen afterward. "I'll be back to-morrow for my clothes."

"Come back and play then," said Jock.

When he was gone, Jean folded the kilts away in the closet again. "He's a fine braw laddie," said the Shepherd.

"Aye," said Jock. "He had two suits of clothes, one as good as the other, but he was not proud."

"I wonder what his father's work is," said Jean.

"He never spoke of his father at all, just his mother," said Jock, and at that moment the wag-at-the-wall clock struck nine.

"Havers!" said Jean. "Look at the hour, Jock Campbell! Get you to your bed."



VI. Two Discoveries


That night Jock dreamed of water cows, and clans dressed in kilts, and when Sandy appeared the next morning, his head was still buzzing with wild schemes of adventure.

"Come awa', Sandy," he said, "let's explore. We'll go up the burn and see if we can't find out where it begins."

"What'll we do for lunch?" asked Sandy, who was practical. "I brought a scone with me -- but it'll never be enough for two."

"Ho!" said Jock. "If Rob Roy and all his men could live in caves all the time and take care of themselves, I guess we can do it for one day. We can fish, and maybe we might find some birds' eggs. I'm not afraid."

"What about Alan?" asked Jean.

"If he comes to play, tell him to follow us right up the burn and keep whistling the pewit's call three times over, and if we don't see him, we'll hear him," said Jock. "There's no danger of not finding us if he follows the water," and he and Sandy set forth at once.

Jean had finished her work and was wondering what to do with the long day which stretched before her, when Alan came running up the hill and burst into the kitchen.

"Look here what I've got, Jean," he said, thumping a parcel down on the kitchen table and tearing it open. "Eppie put this up for me."

Jean looked and there was a whole pound of bacon, three big scones, and a dozen eggs. "Save us!" cried Jean, clasping her hands in admiration. "What will you do with it all?"

"I'll show you!" said Alan. "Where's Jock?"

"He and Sandy have gone up the burn, exploring," said Jean. "They said you were to follow, and if you didn't find them, keep whistling the pewit's call three times till they answered you."

"What is the pewit's call?" asked Alan.

"Michty me!" said Jean. "Think of not knowing that!" She pursed up her lips and whistled "Pee-wit, pee-wit, pee-wit."

"You see, we don't have them in London;" Alan apologetically explained, "unless it's in the Zoo; but I say, Jean, aren't you coming, too? You're as good as a boy any day. Come along!"

"All right," said Jean. "I wanted to dreadfully. I'll get a basket for the lunch." She went to the closet and brought out a basket which her father had made out of split willow twigs, packed the lunch in it, and off they started.

They passed the place where the fish-bones were buried, and the spot where Alan had fallen into the water the day before, and then plunged into the deep pine forest which filled the glen and covered the mountain-sides. The pine-needles lay thick on the ground, and above them the pine boughs waved in the breeze, making a soft sighing sound, "like a giant breathing," Jean said. The silence deepened as they went farther and farther into the woods. There was only the purring of the water, the occasional snapping of a twig, or the lonely cry of a bird to break the stillness. It was dark, too, except where the sunshine, breaking through the thick branches overhead, made spots of golden light upon the pine-needles.

"It's almost solemn; isn't it?" said Jean to Alan in a hushed voice. "I was never so far in the woods before."

"I wonder which side of the burn the boys went. If we should take the wrong side, we might not find them," said Alan.

"Let's whistle," said Jean. She puckered her lips and gave the pewit call, but there was no answer.

"Perhaps they didn't hear it because the burn makes such a noise. It keeps growing louder and louder," said Alan.

Whistling and listening for an answer at every few steps, they climbed over rocks and fallen trees, keeping as close as possible to the stream, until suddenly they found themselves gazing up at a beautiful waterfall which came gushing from a pile of giant rocks reaching up among the topmost boughs of the pines.

"Oh, it's bonny! but how shall we get up?" cried Jean.

"We must just find a way," said Alan.

"It's a grand place for robbers and poachers," said Jean, looking fearsomely at the cliffs stretching far above them. "Angus Niel says the forests are full of them."

"I'd as soon meet a poacher as Angus Niel himself," said Alan, laughing, "but I'm not afraid as long as you're with me. It's Angus that's afraid of you, Jock says."

Jean laughed too. "I'm not afraid when I'm in my own kitchen, but it's different in the woods," she said.

Alan had been nosing around among the rocks as they talked, getting nearer and nearer to the fall, and now he suddenly disappeared, and for a few moments Jean was quite alone in the woods. Soon Alan reappeared from behind the fall itself and beckoned her to follow him.

Jean was looking at the wall of rock which loomed above them. "Sal!" she remarked, "we'll be needing wings to get up there, or we'll smash all the eggs for sure."

For answer Alan popped out of sight again behind the fall, and Jean, following closely in his wake, was just in time to catch sight of his legs as he dived into a hole opening into the rocky wall. The cliff from which the water plunged overhung the rocks below in such a way that she could pass behind the veil of water without getting wet at all.

Into this mysterious opening behind the fall Jean followed her leader, and found herself climbing a narrow dry channel through which the stream had once forced its way. It was a hard, rough scramble up a narrow passage worn by the water and through holes almost too small to squeeze through, but at last she saw Alan's heels just disappearing over the edge of a jutting rock and knew they were coming out into daylight again. An instant later Alan's head appeared in the opening, his hand reached down to help her up, and with one last effort she came out upon an open ledge and looked about her.

She could not help an exclamation of delight at what she saw. The rock was so high that they could look out over the treetops clear to the slope where the little gray house stood. The waterfall, plunging from a still higher level, made a barrier on one side of them, and on the other side the cliff rose, a sheer wall of rock. Between the wall of water and the wall of rock there was a cave extending into the solid rock for a distance of about twenty feet. There was absolutely no way of reaching this fastness except through the hidden stair, and one might wander for years through the forest and never see it at all.

"Oh," exclaimed Jean, "it's wonderful! How Jock will love this place! Don't you believe this very cave was used by Rob Roy and his men?" and Alan, swelling with pride to think he had found it all himself, said yes, he was sure of it.

"I tell you what we'll do," cried Alan, a minute later. "We'll just leave the basket here in the cave, and when we've found the boys we'll come back and have our lunch here."

They tucked the basket away out of sight on a rocky shelf in the cave, and found their way down the steep rough stairway to the bed of the stream again and, making a wide detour, came out above the fall. They struggled on for nearly a mile farther still without finding any trace of the boys, and were beginning to be discouraged, when they saw a break in the trees with glimpses of blue sky beyond, and a few moments later came out upon the shores of a tiny mountain lake, shining like a beautiful blue jewel in the dark setting of the pine trees on its banks.

Beyond the lake the purple peaks of higher mountains made a ragged outline against the sky. The sun was now almost directly overhead; the waters of the lake were still, and its lovely shores were mirrored on the placid surface. A great eagle soared in stately circles in the deep blue sky. It was so beautiful and so still that the children stood a moment among the rocks where the tarn emptied itself into the mountain stream to look at it.

"It's just the place for a water cow, or a horse maybe," Jean whispered to Alan.

"Sh!" was Alan's only reply. He seized Jean's hand and dragged hear down behind a rock and pointed toward the south. There, coming out of the woods, was a beautiful stag. It poised its noble head, and sniffed the air, as if it suspected there might be human beings about, and then stepped daintily to the lake-shore and bent to drink. Its lips had scarcely touched the water when the children were startled by the loud report of a gun.

"Poachers," gasped Jean, hiding her face and wishing they had never come. "Oh, where are Jock and Sandy?" Her only thought was to make herself as small as possible and keep out of sight behind the rocks, but Alan peered through the screen of bushes which hid the rock and made violent gestures to Jean to make her look, too. Jean crawled on her hands and knees to Alan's side, and when she looked, what she saw made her so angry that she would have sprung to her feet if Alan had not held her down with a fierce grip. The stag was lying by the lake-shore, and a man with the muzzle of his gun still smoking was running toward it from the woods. The man was Angus Niel!

Jean was so astonished that for an instant she could not believe her own eyes. The two children flattened themselves out on their stomachs and watched him pull a boat from its hiding-place among some bushes on the shore, paddle quietly to the spot where the dead stag lay, and load it swiftly into the boat. Then he raced back to the woods again and reappeared, carrying a string of dead rabbits. These also he crowded into the boat, and then, taking up the oars, rowed across the lake to a landing-place on the other side. The children watched him, scarcely breathing in their excitement, until he had unloaded his game from the boat and disappeared into the woods, dragging the body of the stag after him. In a few moments he came back for the rabbits and, having disposed of them in the same mysterious way, returned to the boat.

Then Jean exploded in a fierce whisper. "The old thief!" she said, shaking her fist after him. "He's the poacher himself! That's why he never brings any one before the bailie, though he's always telling about catching them at it! And he making such a fuss because Jock chased the rabbit that was eating up our garden! Oh, oh, oh!"

She clutched Alan and shook him in her boiling indignation. Alan laughed and shook her back. "I didn't do it, you little spitfire!" he whispered, and Jean moaned, "Oh, I know it, Alan, but I can't catch him and I'm so angry I've just got to do something to somebody."

"Do you know what that old thief does?" said Alan. "He sends that game down to the city -- to Glasgow, or Edinburgh, or even London, maybe -- and gets a lot of money for it! No wonder he tells big stories to make people afraid to go into the woods."

"I hope he won't meet the boys," moaned Jean. "Jock would be sure to let his tongue loose, and then maybe he'd shoot him too!"

"Listen," said Alan. He gave the pewit's call and waited. It was answered from a point so near that they were startled. They looked in every direction but saw nothing of the boys.

"Maybe it was a real pewit after all," whispered Jean, but just then a tiny pebble struck Alan's cap, and, looking around in the direction from which it came, he saw two freckled faces rise up from behind the rock on the opposite side of the spring.

"There they are," he said, punching Jean and pointing; "they came up the other side of the burn." Then, making a cup of his hands, he called across the stream, "Did you see him?" The boys nodded. "Slip back as fast as you can down that side of the burn," Alan said, "and we'll meet at the fall. Wait at the foot if you get there first. We've got something to show you. Whist, and be quick, for he'll be coming back before long, and this way like as not."

Jock and Sandy nodded and disappeared, and Alan and Jean, springing from their hiding-place, hurried as fast as they could down their side of the stream to the trysting-place.



VII. The Clan


When Jean and Alan reached the waterfall, they found Jock and Sandy there before them. "Come over to our side," Alan called. The two boys ran further down stream and crossed the brook on stones which stood out of the water, and in a moment more were back again at the foot of the fall.

"What have you got to show us?" demanded Jock. "I hope it's something to eat." Jock had bitterly regretted his morning decision to find his food in the forest. The scone which Sandy had brought from home had been divided and eaten long ago; and all four of the children were now so hungry that they could think of nothing else, not even of Angus Niel and their adventures by the lake.

Alan looked cautiously around in every direction. "Follow me, and keep quiet tongues in your heads," he said. Then he disappeared under the fall, and Jean instantly followed him. For a moment Jock and Sandy were as mystified as Jean had been when Alan first found the secret stairway, but it was not long before they, too, saw the hole in the rock, plunged in and, following the winding passage-way, came out upon the top of the rock.

"There," said Alan, beaming with pride, as he displayed his wonderful lair, "doesn't this beat Robinson Crusoe all to pieces? If he had found a place like this on his desert island, he wouldn't have had to build a stockade or anything."

"It's one of the very caves where Rob Roy hid! I'm sure of it," Jock declared with conviction, and Sandy was so overcome with admiration that he turned a back somersault and almost upset Jean, who was coming out of the cave with the basket on her arm.

"You see," said Alan, "we could stay here a week if we had food enough, and never come down at all. All we'd have to do for water would be to hold a pan under the edge of the fall. There's no way of getting up here except by the secret stair, and that's not easy to find. There never was such a place for fun."

Sandy had righted himself by this time and was gazing ecstatically at the basket, which Jean had begun to unpack. "Losh!" he cried. "Look, Jock! Bacon and eggs and scones! Oh, my word!" Jock gave one look and whooped for joy.

"Keep still," said Alan. "Angus may be coming back this way, and he has a gun with him. We're safe enough up here, if we keep quiet, but if you go howling around like that, he'll surely hunt for the noise."

For a moment they kept quiet and listened, but there was no sound except the noise of the falling waters. "Huh!" Sandy snorted, "he couldn't hear anything, anyway. The roar of the fall hides all the other noises."

"Oh, let's eat!" begged Jock, caressing his empty stomach and gazing longingly at the food.

"You can't eat now," said Jean; "the food must be cooked first, and what shall we do for a fire?"

"We could make one right here on the rock," said Alan, "if we had something to burn. I've got matches."

"We'll have to get twigs and dry pine-needles and broken branches," said Jock, "and bring them up the secret stair, though it'll be hard work getting them through the narrow places. We ought to have a rope. We could pull a basketful up over the edge of the rock as easy as nothing."

"We'll bring a rope next time," said Alan. "Hurry! I'm starving!"

The three boys disappeared down the secret stair, and while they were gone, Jean found loose stones, with which she made a support for the frying-pan around a space for the fire. The boys were soon back with plenty of small fuel, and in a short time a bright fire was blazing on the rock and there was a wonderful smell of frying bacon in the air. The boys sat cross-legged around the fire, while Jean turned the bacon and broke the eggs into the sputtering fat.

"You look just exactly like Tam watching the rabbit-hole," laughed Jean. "I wonder you don't paw the ground and bark!"

At last the scones were handed out, each one laden with a slice of bacon and a fried egg, and there was blissful silence for some moments.

"Oh, aren't you glad you didn't die of the measles and miss this?" Sandy said to Alan, rolling over on his back and waving his legs in the air as he finished his third egg. Alan's mouth was too full for a reply other than a cordial grunt.

"Why, Sandy Crumpet!" exclaimed Jean, reprovingly, "don't you believe heaven is nicer than Scotland?"

"Maybe it is," Sandy admitted, doubtfully, "but I like this better than sitting around playing on harps and trumpets the way the angels do."

"Sandy Crumpet played the trumpet," howled Jock in derision. "Indeed and indeed, Sandy, I like this better than having to hear you." Then, before Sandy could think of an answer a memory of the catechism crossed his mind, and he added as afterthought, "How do you ken you're one of the elect, anyway, Sandy Crumpet? If you're not, you'd not be playing on any trumpets, or harps either, but like as not frying in the hot place like that bacon there."

Sandy rushed to the defense of his character. "I'm just as elect as you are, Jock Campbell," he said.

This time Jock had no answer ready, and Jean reproved them both. "Shame on you!" she said. "You'll neither one of you get so much as a taste of heaven, I doubt, and you talking like that."

"Where will Angus Niel be going, then, when he dies?" asked Jock. "I don't just mind whether there's a chance for thieves, but the Bible says drunkards and such-like stand no chance at all."

"It's not for us to judge," said Jean primly, "but I have my opinion."

Alan had been busily eating during this conversation, and now he joined in. "I say," he began, "I'm not worrying about what will become of Angus Niel after he's dead. I want to know what's going to be done with him right now. We're the only ones that know about this. Are we just going to keep whist, or shall we tell on him?"

"Let's tell on him!" shouted Sandy.

"Who'll you be telling?" said Jean with some scorn.

"Why, the bailie, maybe, or the Auld Laird himself," said Sandy.

"Havers!" said Jean. "You're a braw lad to go hobnobbing with the bailie. He'll not believe you, anyway; he's a friend of Angus himself, and, as for the Auld Laird, how would you get hold of him at all, and he far away in London?"

Sandy subsided, crushed, and then Jock had a bright idea. "I tell you what we'll do," he cried, springing to his feet. "Let's have a clan, like Rob Roy, and we'll just badger the life out of Angus Niel. We'll never let him know who we are, but keep kim forever stepping and give him no rest. If he thinks somebody's following him up all the time, he'll not sleep easy o' nights!"

This suggestion was greeted with riotous applause. "He'd not sleep easy if he knew Jean was after him, I'll go bail," laughed Alan.

"Hooray!" shouted Sandy, waving his legs frantically. "What shall we call it?"

"Let's call it the Rob Roy Clan," said Alan.

"Hooray!" roared Sandy again.

"If we're a Clan, we'll have to have a chief," said Jean, "and if the Chief bids us do anything, we'll just have to do it. That's the way it was in the real Rob Roy Clan. Father said so."

"Jock thought of it first. Let him be Chief," said Alan.

"No!" cried Jean promptly. "Are you thinking I'll put my head in a bag like that, and he my own brother? 'Deed, I'd never get a lick of work out of him on Saturday if I did! Na, na, lads! Whoever's Chief, it won't be Jock."

"Maybe you'd like to be the Chief yourself," retorted Jock, "but it's enough to be bossed by you at home! Besides, whoever heard of a girl being Chief, anyway?"

"Alan can be Chief," said Jean, and so the matter was settled.

"If I'm Chief," said Alan, "you'll all have to swear an oath of fealty to me."

"What's an oath of fealty?" Jock demanded suspiciously, and Jean added in a shocked voice, "Alan, you'd never be asking us to take the name of the Lord in vain!"

"It's not that kind of an oath," laughed Alan. "You just have to vow to obey the Chief in everything." Then an idea popped into his head. "In a real Clan they are all kinsmen, but here's Sandy, and he's neither Campbell nor McGregor. We'll have to make a blood brother of him before he can join."

"What's a blood brother? How do you make 'em?" asked Sandy.

"I'll show you," said Alan. He drew his knife from his pocket and while the other three watched him in breathless admiration, he made a little cut in his wrist and immediately passed the knife to Jock. "You do the same," he commanded.

Jock obeyed his Chief and passed the knife to Jean, who promptly followed his example.

"Now, Sandy," said Alan.

Sandy hated the sight of blood, and he was a little pale under his freckles as he shut his eyes and jabbed himself gingerly with the point. Then Alan took a drop of blood from each wrist and mingled them with a drop from Sandy's.

"Now, Sandy," he said, as he stirred the compound into a gory paste, "you repeat after me, 'My foot is on my native heath, my name it is McGregor.'" Sandy obeyed with solemnity, and, this important ceremony over, Alan pronounced him a member of the Clan in good and regular standing.

Then, by the Chief's orders, Jean, Jock, and Sandy, each in turn placed their hands under Alan's hand, while they promised to obey him without question in all matters pertaining to the Clan.

"Only," said Jean, "you mustn't tell us to do anything wrong."

"I won't," promised Alan. And so the Rob Roy Clan came into being.

Alan took command at once. "We must have a sign," he said. "Just like Clan Alpine in 'The Lady of the Lake.' Go, my henchmen," he cried, striking a noble attitude, and waving his hand toward the forest, "bring hither sprays of the Evergreen Pine, and we'll stick 'em in our bonnets just like Roderick Dhu and his men. Roderick Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! iero!"

The two boys instantly disappeared down the hole in the rock on this errand, leaving Jean and Alan to guard the cave.



VIII. The Poachers


While all these things were happening, Angus Niel had returned from his errand across the little lake, and was making his way slowly toward home, following the course of the stream. As he came near the fall he stopped and sniffed. There was certainly a most appetizing smell of bacon in the air!

"It can't be!" he said aloud to himself. He sniffed again, and his face turned purple with rage. "Meat," he snorted, "as I live! The bold rascals! Poaching in broad daylight and cooking their game right under my nose!" It wasn't under his nose at all, of course, for the rock was far above him, and it wasn't game either.

"I'll soon cure them of that trick," he muttered, as he climbed silently over the rocks and gazed searchingly about. It was not long before he caught sight of a thin curl of blue smoke rising from the top of the rock.

"Aha!" he growled under his breath, "I've got you now, my bold gentlemen! I'll teach you to flaunt your thefts in the face of the Laird's own gamekeeper, once I get my hands on you!" At once he began nosing about the rocks in search of the path by which the poachers had climbed the cliff.

Meanwhile Sandy and Jock had found the sprays of the Evergreen Pine and were on their way back to the cave with them, when Jock suddenly seized Sandy by the arm and ducked down behind a boulder. There, not a hundred feet away, stood Angus Niel gazing up at the top of the rock! His back was toward them, and the noise of the waterfall had drowned out the sound of voices, or they surely would not have escaped his notice. As it was, they slipped behind the fall, whisked into the hole, and began climbing the secret stair like two frightened squirrels. An instant later they startled Alan and Jean, who were in the cave, by dashing in after them on all fours.

"What on earth is the matter?" cried Jean.

"Matter, indeed!" gasped Jock, out of breath. "Angus Niel is down there, and he's seen the smoke! He almost saw us, but we just gave him the slip and got by."

"Keep out of sight, all of you," commanded the Chief, "and leave him to me."

The obedient Clan flattened themselves against the back of the cave, while Alan crept to the edge of the rock on his stomach like a lizard, and, lying there, was able to peep through the thick screen of leaves and see what was going on below. The gamekeeper was still scrambling over the rocks and looking, as Alan said afterward, "for all the world like a dog who had lost the trail and was trying to find it again."

As the lookout was well screened, Alan soon allowed the rest of the Clan to join him, and Angus Niel little guessed, as he prowled about over the rocks, that every move was watched from above. Despairing of finding the path, he decided at last to get up a tree and make an observation. He selected a large pine which grew near the cave and began to climb.

So long as he stood on the ground, the children knew it was impossible for Angus to see them, but when he began to climb, they scuttled back into the cave as fast as they could go.

Climbing is hard work for a fat man, and the gamekeeper found himself covered with pitch before he had gone more than halfway up, but he puffed on in spite of difficulties and at last reached a point from which he could look directly across the surface of the rock, but from which the cave was entirely hidden behind a projection in the wall of the cliff.

Angus saw what he supposed to be the whole shelf of the rock, and he saw that there was no one there. He could see the fire and the frying-pan, the egg shells lying about, and even the portion of bacon that Jean had not cooked. They were all in full view, but apparently the poachers had gone away into the woods, leaving their airy camp deserted. There was no one there; of that he felt, certain.

"I'll just give'em a surprise," thought the gamekeeper to himself. "If they found a way up, I can, too. I'll help myself to a snack of that bacon, and if they come back and find me -- well, I have my gun with me and I don't like being interrupted at my meals."

He backed down the tree like a fat cat, and made a desperate search for the path, and this time he actually succeeded in finding it. He chuckled to himself as he plunged into the passage and began to climb. He had gone about a third of the way up, when he reached the narrowest point of the channel and tried to force himself through, but the space was so small that no matter how much he tried, he could not get by. His gun was in his way too, but he could not leave it below, as that would be putting it into the hands of the poachers if they should return too soon.

In vain he twisted and squirmed, he could get no farther, and moreover he was afraid the gun might go off by accident in his struggles. When he found that he could not possibly go up, he decided to go down; but he found, to his horror, that he couldn't do that either. There he stuck, and an angrier man than Angus Niel it would have been hard to find. A projecting rock punched him in the stomach, and when he pressed back against the rock behind him, to free himself, he scraped the skin off his back. Casting prudence to the winds, he howled with pain and rage, and the sound, carried up through the narrow passage, echoed in the cave like the roar of a lion.

The children, meanwhile, had kept in hiding, and when they heard these blood-curdling sounds, they at first did not know what caused them, because, of course, they could not see what was happening below, but they knew very soon that they were not made by a wild animal because wild animals do not swear.

"It's Angus, stuck in the secret stairway," Alan said, smothering his laughter. "He's too fat to get through!" He crept to the edge and peeped down the hole. There, far below, he could see the top of Angus's head and the muzzle of his gun.

The Chief was a boy of great presence of mind. He backed hastily away from the hole and ran to the fall, snatching up the pan as he passed. This he filled with water and, rushing back, he instantly sent a small deluge down upon the head of the hapless Angus.

The gamekeeper was dumbfounded by this new attack. Had he not with his own eyes seen that the rocky shelf was empty? How, then, could this thing be? He rolled his eyes upward, but there was no one in sight. He had heard all his life tales of witches and water cows, of spells cast upon people by fairies, of their being borne away by them into mountain caverns and held as prisoners for years and years; and he made up his mind that such a fate had now befallen him.

Firmly convinced that he was the victim of enchantment, he became palsied with terror, arid began to plead with the unseen tormentors who he believed held him in thrall. "Only leave me loose, dear good little people," he howled, "and I'll never, never trouble you more!"

At this point Alan, shaking with mirth, sent down another panful of water, and Angus, redoubling his efforts, wrenched himself free, scraping off quantities of skin as he did so. They could hear him scuttling down the secret stair as fast as his legs would carry him, and when he emerged below, they watched him hurry away through the forest, casting fearful glances over his shoulder as he ran. Alan made a hollow of his two hands and sent after him a wild note, like the wailing of a banshee.

"Angus Niel, Angus Niel," rose the piercing note, "bring back my beautiful stag, my stag that lived by the tarn!"

As the sound reached his ears, Angus redoubled his speed, and they could hear him crashing through the underbrush as if the devil himself were really at his heels.

When the sounds died away in the distance, the Rob Roy Clan rolled on the floor of the cave with laughter.

"There!" said Alan, as he sat up and wiped his eyes. "That'll fix Angus Niel! We've scared him out of a year's growth, and he'll never dare meddle with this place again. Come on, now. It's time to go home, but to-morrow we'll come back and fix this place up in a way that would make Robinson Crusoe green with envy."

They carefully put water on the ashes of their fire, stuck the sprigs of Evergreen Pine in their bonnets, and sped down the secret stairway and home.



IX. A Rainy Day


The next morning, as she was finishing the beds, Jean heard the pewit call and at once knew that the Clan was abroad. She ran to the door, and the three boys came in together, -- Jock from the garden, where he had been pulling weeds in the potato-patch, and Sandy and Alan from the road. They were carrying a large basket, and Sandy was laden down with a coil of rope in addition.

"What have you got there?" demanded Jean.

"Stores for the Cave," said Alan, "and a rope to let down from the rock. Come on; let's go as soon as we can, for it looks like rain and we've got a lot to do to get the cave ready for wet weather."

"Where did you get 'em?" asked Jock, eyeing the basket with interest and wondering what was inside.

"Oh," said Alan, "I just asked Eppie. She lets me have anything I want. My mother told her to stuff me while I'm here, and if I take the food off to the woods with me she doesn't have to cook it at home, so she's suited, and I am, too."

Jean hastily gathered together a few cooking utensils, and a few minutes later the four set forth, carrying the provisions and wearing proudly in their bonnets the sprig of pine, the insignia of the Clan. The sky was downcast and the woods seemed dark and gloomy as they made their way toward the waterfall.

"What'll we do if it rains?" cried Sandy. "It's no such fine thing just sitting still in a cave."

"I've a plan in my head," said the Chief. "Wait and see."

As they reached the fall, Alan sent Sandy and Jock to gather wood, while Jean guarded the basket at the foot of the rock and he himself darted up the secret stairway with the rope. From the top he let down the rope and Jean fastened it through the handles of the basket. Alan then drew it up, emptied the contents, and sent back the basket for the wood which Sandy and Jock had by that time collected.

They all worked as swiftly as possible, for the woods were growing darker and darker every minute and they could now hear the roll of thunder above the noise of the waterfall. They had gathered and sent up six basketfuls, when the rain came splashing down in earnest, and the Clan scrambled up the secret stair and into the cave for shelter. Alan had piled the wood in the cave as fast as he had pulled it up, and there was now a fine pile of dry fuel.

"Sandy, you build the fire," commanded the Chief, seating himself on the wood-pile.

"The rain will put it out," said Sandy.

"Make it in the cave," said Alan.

"Then the smoke will put us out," cried Jean.

"Try it and see," said Alan. "We can't have lunch without a fire, for I've brought mealy puddings."

"Mealy puddings!" cried Sandy, licking his lips, and he went to work with a will. Fortunately the wind blew from the east, so they were not absolutely choked by the smoke, and soon the fire was burning briskly; making a spot of flaming color against the dark background of the cave. Jock ran to the fall and filled the pan with water, and soon the mealy puddings were bobbing merrily about in the boiling water, while the boys, snug and safe in the shelter of the cave, watched the boughs of the pine trees swaying in the wind and waited for Jean to tell them that dinner was ready. She could cook but one thing at a time over the fire, but it was not long before the feast was spread, and they fell to with appetites that caused the food to disappear like dew before the morning sun.

"Losh!" said Sandy, rolling over with his feet to the fire, when he could eat no more, "I thought you said you had a rainy day plan, Chief."

"So I have," said Alan, drawing a little book from his pocket. "I'm going to read to you."

Sandy glanced at the book. "Not poetry, Chief!" he said with alarm. "Surely you don't mean that!"

"It isn't just poetry," said Alan. "It's a story about Roderick Dhu and Clan Alpine, and hunting deer in these very mountains. You'll like it, I know."

Sandy groaned and laid his head on his arm. "Go ahead," he said with resignation. "You're the Chief and I can't help myself."

"I'll be washing up the dishes while you read," said Jean.

"Blaze away," said Jock, who loved books as much as he disliked work.

"It's 'The Lady of the Lake,'" Alan began.

"Oh!" snorted Sandy, to whom Walter Scott was scarcely more than a name, "I thought it was about fighting and robbers, and things like that, and here it's about a lady! and it's about love too, I doubt! I wonder at you, Alan McRae!"

Alan made no reply but began to read. When he reached a line about "Beauty's matchless eye," Sandy snored insultingly and was promptly kicked by Jock. But when Alan reached the lines

"The stag at eve had drunk his fill Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,"

Sandy sat up and began to think the despised poem might amount to something after all. Jean had finished the dishes by this time and sat cross-legged with her chin in her hand, staring into the fire, as Alan read how the splendid stag pursued by hunters,

"Like crested leader proud and high Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale,"

Then she cried out, "Michty me! It's just exactly like the stag we saw Angus Niel shoot by the tarn; isn't it, now, Alan?"

"And Benvoirlich is the very mountain we can see far away to the south from our house," interrupted Jock, when Alan reached that part of the poem.

"Did the hunters get the stag?" demanded Sandy, and "Go on with the tale," shouted all three. Alan read on and on by the flickering light of the fire, and so absorbed were they all in the story of the region they knew and loved so dearly that a shaft of sunlight from the west shot across the cave, lighting up the gloomy corners, before they realized that the day was far gone and the rain had stopped.

"It's time to go home," said Jean. "The sun is low in the west, and Father and Tam will be coming back wet and hungry from the hills, and no broth hot."

They packed the remainder of their supper carefully away in the basket and left it in the corner of the cave behind the wood-pile, put out every spark of the fire, and picked their way carefully down the wet chasm to the ground.

"Hark," said Jock, as they started home. Faraway in the distance there was the frantic barking of a dog. They stopped and listened.

"It's Tam," said Jean, with conviction, "and he's after something. It's either the rabbit or else he's found a weasel hole," and instantly all the children were off at a bound, tearing through the woods in the direction of the sound. They had been having such a good time they had not once thought of Angus Niel, but as they reached the edge of the forest, there he was, standing behind a tree with his gun pointing toward the little gray house! They stopped short in their wild race and instantly hid themselves among the trees. They could see Tam barking and pawing the ground with the greatest excitement in the open field which lay between the forest and the garden-patch.

"Tam's after the rabbit as sure as sure," Jock whispered to Alan, who had crept with him underneath a spreading pine. "That's the very place where he went after him before. If that old thief kills Tam, I'll -- I'll -- " Jock could think of no fit punishment for such a crime, and in his rage and excitement would have run right out into the open, after the dog if Alan had not held him by his jacket. "Let go -- let go!" said Jock, struggling to get away. "I tell you, if he shoots that dog."

Just then a brown flash appeared from the garden wall, and Tam was after it at a bound, barking like mad. "It's the rabbit, and he's got him -- he's got him!" murmured Jock, bouncing up and down with excitement with Alan still clinging to his coat. "Good old dog! good old Tam!" He was watching the dog so intently that he did not see Angus take careful aim, but the moment Tam reached the rabbit, seized it in his teeth, and shook it, a shot rang out; and the dog, with a howl of pain, dropped the rabbit and ran yelping toward the house on three legs, holding the fourth one in the air.

Angus immediately ran out from his hiding-place, leaped the brook, and, dashing up the slope toward the house, picked up the dead rabbit and ran with it back into the woods. The children watched him as he fled, and, the moment he was out of sight, they burst from the shelter of the woods and tore up the hillside to the little gray house.

They found Tam sitting on the doorstep licking his paw and howling. He was instantly surrounded by four amateur doctors all anxious to relieve his pain. Jock ran for water to wash his leg, the flesh of which had been cruelly torn open by the bullet. Jean ransacked the kist for bandages, and Alan held up the injured paw and tried to see if any bones were broken, while Sandy helplessly stroked Tam's tail, murmuring, "Good dog! good old Tam!" as he did so. By dint of their combined efforts the wound was cleansed and carefully bound with a rag, and by the time the Shepherd got home, Tam was lying on the hearth beside the fire, with Alan on his knees before him feeding him broth from a pan.

The Shepherd listened with a darkening brow to the story of Tam's injury. He had heard an account of the stag the day before, so the new revelation of Angus's character did not surprise him, but when Alan rose from his knees and said, "To-morrow the Rob Roy Clan will begin to make Angus Niel wish he'd never been born," Robin Campbell's comment was, "Give him rope enough and he'll hang himself, laddie," and Alan, his black eyes flashing with understanding, answered, "We'll see to it that he gets the rope."



X. On The Trail


Alan and Sandy left the little gray house in the late afternoon and walked together down the river road toward the village. At the bridge which spanned the stream they parted company, and Alan gave Sandy final instructions as to his duties on the next day. He was to watch Angus Niel's house, which lay some distance north of the village, and see what direction he took as he started upon his daily tour in the forests.

The estate of Glencairn covered a territory so large that Angus could not by any possibility make his rounds in one day or even in one week. The Clan knew well where he had spent his time for the two preceding days, and they thought he would be likely to start in a different direction on the morrow. They did not dare count upon his doing so, however, and so Sandy was detailed to give a positive report as to his movements. The next morning, therefore, found Sandy sitting on a stone dyke not a great way from Angus's house, apparently absorbed in whittling and whistling, but in reality keeping a sharp lookout for any sign of life in the Niel household. He had not long to wait before he saw Angus leave the house and wander away into the forest with his gun on his shoulder. As they had surmised, he took a direction entirely different from his route of the two days before.

Sandy waited until he was out of sight, and then hurried back to the bridge, where he met Alan by appointment, and the two walked briskly on to the little gray house together. When they reached it, the wag-at-the-wall clock was just striking nine, and Jean, her morning work done, was "caning" the hearth with blue chalk as a final touch of elegance to her clean kitchen.

"Come on," said Alan. "I've a plan in my head, and we'll have to start directly if we're going to carry it out. Let me have some of that blue chalk, Jean; we may need it. I've got plenty of food with me, so don't wait to put up anything."

"I'm with you," said Jean, giving a final flourish with the blue chalk before she clapped on her bonnet, and in another minute the Rob Roy Clan was afoot, leaving Tam nursing his wounded paw on the doorstep and gazing after them with pathetic eyes.

They left their luncheon in the cave and hurried on at Alan's command to the little mountain tarn where Angus had killed the stag, and there the Clan gathered about him to hear his plan.

"I've been thinking about this," Alan began, "and I'm sure of two things. Angus must have a place where he puts the game he kills, and he must have somebody to help him. The other man comes along and carries it down the mountain to some point where he can ship it to the city. I say, let's find out where that hiding-place is."

"What will we do with it when we find it?" asked Jean.

"That's where the blue chalk comes in," said Alan. "We'll let him know we've been there!"

"You'll never be writing your name there?" asked Sandy anxiously. "He'd be shooting us next!"

"Oh! Sandy, you're a daft body," said Jean, and Jock added: "Mind the Chief, you dunderhead, and keep your tongue behind your teeth. He's none so addled as you think!"

Sandy subsided a little sulkily, and Alan went on.

"When Angus crossed the lake with the stag he landed right over there by that dead pine tree, for I watched him to see, and the place where he hid the stag can't be far from there, because he came back so soon. We'll just take his boat and see if we can't find it."

"Oh!" gasped Jean, who had never been in a boat in her life, "do you know how to make it go?"

"I can row and I can swim," said Alan, "but I tell you if any one goes bouncing around in the boat, it will be just as bad as being bewitched by the water cow, you'll go to the bottom!"

"I can row, too," said Sandy.

Jean wished she hadn't come, but she was bound she would not show it before the boys, so she said, "Sal! who's afraid?" and when they found the boat, she was the first one in it.

Angus was so sure that no one would find his boat, which was carefully screened by the bushes, that he had not even hidden the oars. So it was soon afloat with Jock at the tiller, Sandy on the bottom, Jean in the prow holding to the sides of the boat, scarcely daring to speak for fear of upsetting it, and Alan at the oars. The lake was smooth, and they reached the opposite shore without mishap, except that twice Alan "caught a crab" and splashed water all over Jock, and Sandy filled both shoes as he jumped out of the boat. They pulled it up under the shelter of the dead pine, anchored it by a stone, and cautiously made their way into the woods.

They were now in a very wild section of the mountains, where it seemed as if no one had ever been since the beginning of the world.

"Just hear the stillness," whispered Jean, keeping close to Jock. There was a sort of trail leading back into the woods, which looked as if it might have been made by wild animals going to the lake for a drink. This they followed for some distance until it became indistinct, and then Alan called the Clan together for counsel.

"We'll go just a little farther," he said, "and then, if we don't see any sign of the place, it may be best to go back, for it is easy to get lost in these woods. We are going east now and luckily the sun is shining. When we do turn back, we must keep the sun behind us and we can't help coming out somewhere on the lake. Remember the pewit call if we lose sight of each other."

They resumed their stealthy walk through the woods, and a few rods farther on came to a wide open space which sloped eastward for some distance down the mountain-side. Here they paused.

"We're getting a good way from the boat," said Jean.

"Yes," said Alan, "and I am just wondering whether we'd better go any farther. We don't want to cross this open space, and I see no sign of Angus's storehouse. I hate to give up, though, for we must be very near it." He searched in every direction with his eyes, and suddenly exclaimed under his breath, "Look there!"

"Where?" breathed the Clan, rigid with excitement.

"Do you see that pile of rocks?" said Alan, pointing into the woods beyond the clearing.

"Yes," said Jock, "but there are rocks all around. I don't see that they're any different from others."

"Maybe not," said Alan, "but I see something that looks like the corner of a hunter's shelter sticking out behind that big boulder, and I say, let's skirt around this open place and see."

"Do you want us all to go?" asked Sandy, hoping the Chief would say no.

"You stay here," Alan answered, to his great relief, "and Jean, you come a little farther with us. Then you and Sandy can keep out of sight and watch. If you see a man, keep still in your places and give the pewit call. Jock and I will go on around the clearing and get a better look at those rocks."

Sandy crouched down in the bracken, and two or three hundred feet farther on Jean stopped also, while Alan and Jock cautiously crept on toward their goal, and, by making a wide detour, approached the rocks from the north instead of the west. As they neared them, it was plain that Alan was right. There really was a shelter built against an overhanging rock and almost concealed from view by pine boughs which formed a screen before it. Little by little the boys crept nearer and nearer, stopping every few steps to be sure there was no sign of life about the place. At last they were within a few feet of the rude camp. The shelter was scarcely more than a hole under the rocks, but there was a blackened spot where there had been a fire, a few pans were standing about, and in one corner a pile of evergreen boughs was covered with well-cured deer-skins. A fresh hide ready to cure was spread out on the rocks near by.

"This is the place," whispered Jock. "There is the skin of the stag. Now what are you going to do?" For answer Alan slipped from behind the rocks, crept stealthily into the camp, and on the underside of the rock wrote in big letters with blue chalk

ANGUS NIEL POACHER Your sin has found you out! R. R. C.

Then he crawled swiftly back out of sight and, followed by Jock, made his way as fast as he could toward Jean's hiding-place. To Jean the time that they were gone seemed hours long. The place was lonely, and she was afraid, not only of their finding the man at home in his wild lodge, but even of brownies and elves.

A rabbit stuck his ears up over a nearby log and scuttled away when he saw her. The leaves made a lonely sound as they rustled over her head, and when at last she saw a black object moving about among the trees at some distance beyond the rock-pile, it is not surprising that she immediately gave the pewit call, loud and clear.

The boys heard it and instantly vanished behind some bushes. The dark object moving among the trees seemed to hear it too and, springing forward, came bounding toward the rocks, barking as it came. Jean was not much less anxious when she knew for certain that it was a dog, for a watch dog in that lonely place might be quite as dangerous as a wolf. Moreover, she soon saw, a little distance behind the dog, a man with a gun on his shoulder. She saw the dog reach the camp and go sniffing about on the rocks, and her heart almost stood still as it gave a deep howl and started away as if it scented game.

"He's on the trail of Alan and Jock," thought Jean, wringing her hands. "Oh, what shall I do? The man will surely follow, for he'll think the dog is after game." She sprang to her feet and ran back to Sandy.

"Come quick," she said in a low voice. "The dog smells them; we must get into the boat and have it ready for the boys to jump into. There is not a moment to lose." She sped past him as she spoke, and Sandy came galloping after.

Alan and Jock, who had seen and heard all that Jean had, were now tearing at top speed through the woods and knew from answering whistles that Jean and Sandy were on the way to the boat.

The man had by this time reached the camp and was staring at the blue chalk-marks on the rock, as if unable to believe his own eyes. He did not stop there long. He saw at once that an enemy had found his hiding-place, and that the dog was on his trail. Leaping down the rocks, he started across the clearing on a run toward the lake, his gun in his hand. Jock and Alan realized that they could hardly reach the landing-place before the dog did, so they changed their course and veered a little to the north, thinking that in this way they stood more chance of concealment and that they could signal the boat and get aboard in a less conspicuous place.

By this dodge the dog lost the scent of the boys and, nosing the ground, found the trail of Sandy and Jean. Baying frightfully he came bounding through the underbrush and arrived at the landing just in time to see Sandy push the boat from the shore with Jean in the bow. Furious at being cheated of his prey, the dog ran back and forth on the shore, making mad leaps in the direction of the boat and barking as if possessed.

"Oh, where are the boys?" cried the distracted Jean. They lingered in an agony of suspense, not daring to leave until they saw that Jock and Alan were safe, and then from a little distance up the shore came the pewit call. Sandy rose to the emergency and, pulling frantically at the oars, succeeded in reaching the point from which the call seemed to come. The scared faces of Jock and Alan rose from the bracken, and in another moment they had leaped into the boat, nearly upsetting it as they did so. Alan seized an oar, and he and Sandy together got the boat out of sight behind a bend in the shore. Here they hid among the bushes on the bank until they saw the man appear at the landing-place, scan the lake carefully, and then go back into the woods, calling the dog to go with him. Even then they were afraid to stir for they did not know whether he had gone back to camp or was stalking about among the trees searching for them.

They waited for what seemed a week but saw nothing further of the man, and when at last they heard the report of a gun and the barking of a dog far away down the mountain, they felt safe. He was evidently looking in another direction for the intruders, and at once Alan gave the word to go back to their own side of the lake. They skirted the shores, keeping a sharp lookout all the while, and at length reached the landing-place. The weary members of the Clan breathed a sigh of relief as they found themselves safe on their own ground again, arid their spirits rose.

Jock told what Alan had written on the rock, and Alan was so much impressed by that achievement that he took out the blue chalk and on a rock by the tarn wrote "Here Angus Niel, gamekeeper and poacher, shot a stag"; and on the stone where the boat had been, he put the mystic initials "R. R. C."

"There," said Alan, pausing to admire his handiwork, "that'll keep him guessing, and scared too."

"What can we do next?"

"Take away his boat," said Jean promptly.

"Good idea!" cried Alan.

"Where can we hide it?" asked Jock.

"I'm mortal hungry," said Sandy. "Couldn't we eat first?"

"No food until this job is done," said the Chief firmly. "We'll never have another chance when we know where the other man and Angus both are. It's now or never!"

"But where shall we hide it?" demanded Jock again.

"I'll tell you," cried Jean, her eyes dancing with mischief. "We can carry it to the burn and float it down to the cave!"

This was a stroke of genius, no less, and every member of the Clan looked upon Jean with respect bordering upon awe. At the point where the lake emptied into the burn there were loose rocks, about which the water rushed in a swift cataract, but, below, the current flowed more gently toward the fall. It was deep only in spots where the trout loved to hide, but it was not a stream anywhere in its course upon which one would launch a boat for pleasure. The rocks were so near the surface that the weight of even one person might ground it, but afloat and empty it might be carried clear to the rocks above the cave. The Clan considered the plan carefully, standing upon the rocky banks.

"How would we guide it?" asked Sandy doubtfully.

"There's a rope on the end of the boat," said Jean promptly, "and we could push it off with sticks if it got stuck."

"Come on," cried Alan, and the four plotters rushed bask to the lake and pulled the boat out of the water. Alan took the prow and Jock took the stern, while Sandy and Jean supported it on each side, and in this way, after many struggles, they succeeded in carrying it to a place below the rapids where they dared launch it.

"I'll hold the rope," said Alan, "and you, Sandy, take an oar and go down the other side of the stream, so you can push it off if it gets stuck on that side."

"How'll I get across?" asked Sandy.

This was a poser at first, but Alan found a way.

"Get into the boat," he said, "and we'll push it across where there aren't any stones sticking up. You can pole it across with your oar, and I'll keep hold of the rope."

Sandy jumped in at once, and the boat, in spite of some swirling, was finally near enough to the opposite bank so he could jump out. This he did, taking the oar with him. It was an exciting journey down stream, for the boat bumped against rocks and caught on fallen trees, and it was a good hour before the children, tired out but triumphant, finally dragged it out of the water just above the falls.

"If we had our rope, we could drag it to the edge of the cliff and let it down in front of the cave," cried Jean in another flash of inspiration, and Sandy instantly rushed down the rock, made the necessary detour, and climbed the secret stair to the cave. He then whistled, and three heads appeared over the top of the cliff.

"I'll throw up the rope and when you let the boat down, I'll steady it," said Sandy.

"Heave away," cried Alan, and after a few trials the rope came flying up on the cliff and was soon looped around the boat. Then the three braced their feet against the rocks and slowly lowered the boat by the rope fastened to the prow, and by their own rope, while Sandy steadied it below. They threw down the rope-end after it, and a few moments later the rapturous Clan hauled the boat into the cave! They sat in it to eat their luncheon and were so lost in admiration of their enterprise and their booty that they did not start home until the level rays of the sun warned them that it was late.



XI. Angus Niel And The Canny Clan


The days that followed were days of stirring adventure to the Rob Roy Clan, and days of continuous and surprising misery to Angus Niel. Never in his history as gamekeeper of Glen Cairn had he had such experiences. The very trees in the woods seemed to be bewitched. Wherever he went he was followed by some mysterious power that seemed to know his every movement. If he killed any game, the fact was advertised and the place marked by signs in blue chalk. Not only that, but the very path of his approach to the spot was marked by pointing arrows and some such legend as "This way to the glen where Angus Niel killed a deer" would decorate a neighboring rock. On other rocks appeared pertinent questions addressed to him. "How much did you get for the stag?" was one of them, and there were also queries as to where he found the best market for game. He was kept so busy searching the forest for these incriminating signs and rubbing them out, that he could not follow his regular rounds. Even this did not avail, for if he erased them on one day, it was but a matter of time before the letters appeared again as fresh and blue as ever. Nor was this all. He was haunted by a wailing voice which reached him even in the remote fastnesses of the forest. He was sure to hear it if he ventured into the neighborhood of the waterfall, and he usually avoided that region as if it harbored a pestilence.

Once late in the afternoon he shot two hares and hid them under some rocks, intending to carry them across the lake in the morning, but when he went for them, they had disappeared altogether, and above the place where they had been was written in blue chalk, "Sacred to the memory of two hares, killed and hidden here by Angus Niel on June 12th."

When he saw this epitaph, Angus's hair really stood on end with fright, and on the day he found that the boat was gone, leaving no trace, he became absolutely terror-stricken. He sought for it behind every rock and in every likely nook about the lake, consuming days in the quest, and was appalled on his next trip thither to find all the incidents of his search faithfully recorded on the rocks, each one signed with the mystic initials R. R. C.

It took ingenuity, persistence, and some degree of danger on the part of the clan to accomplish these things, but one could depend upon finding these qualities in any Campbell or McGregor, and Sandy, having been made a blood brother, faithfully lived up to the duties it entailed. He became an expert detective and sleuth-hound, discovering and reporting Angus's movements each day to the enterprising Clan and its resourceful Chief.

At Alan's suggestion, the Clan took for its motto "We must be canny," and canny they certainly were. They even changed their programme from day to day, and in this way just when Angus felt he was about to discover his tormentors and know if they were human and not witches, they found some new method of annoyance and he was all at sea again.

Once they gave him a respite of nearly a week and Angus, having erased many signs and finding no new ones, was beginning to think his troubles were over, when suddenly arrows bearing bits of paper inviting him to visit the fall would suddenly drop at his feet. It had taken the Clan nearly all their spare time for the week to make the bows and arrows, by which this wonder was accomplished. Meanwhile they had lived like lords, feasting upon trout and the generous store of provisions with which Alan continued to supply the cave. They even began to see how it was possible for Rob Roy and his men to live upon forest fare, for the pool below the fall was a wonderful fishing-hole, and small game was plentiful if they had cared to become poachers themselves.

On one red-letter day, they roasted the two hares which Angus had killed, and cooked potatoes in the ashes. Each day was filled with fresh adventures, and the wild outdoor life agreed with Alan so well that his thin cheeks began to fill out and glow with healthy color and it was not long before he looked as sturdy and strong as Jock himself.

It was curious that what Alan gained in flesh and spirits, Angus Niel at the same time seemed to lose. He was so worried by these strange visitations that his round eyes took on a haunted expression, and Sandy observed that he kept looking over his shoulder as if he thought some one were following him, even when he walked the village streets.

He dared not stay away from the forest lest others should discover the dreadful blue signs before he did, and at the same time he was afraid to go in. He swung like a pendulum between these two difficulties and grew daily more nervous and unhappy. By the end of June he had lost ten pounds of flesh as well as the money he might have made out of poaching and selling the game. By the middle of July he was so haggard that people began to remark on his appearance. There seemed no way out of his troubles but to lie about them, and soon wild stories were circulated through the village about the haunted forest and its dangers.

Women were warned not to let the children stray into the woods lest they be carried away by witches or water cows, and it was also reported that a gang of poachers of a particularly blood-thirsty character infested the region, carrying off game and property and leaving no trace. Angus had been watching this band of desperadoes for some time, he said, and knew there were at least twenty of them who would stop at nothing.

With Angus's tale of the mysterious loss of his boat, the excitement reached a climax, and there was talk of organizing an armed band of men from the village to protect the woods and rid the neighborhood of the bandits. The people were surprised that Angus himself should oppose this plan, but as he was gamekeeper and in authority, the matter was dropped. To Angus's horror, however, these rumors and events were all faithfully recorded on rocks not far from his own home soon after, and he realized that to the very doors of his own house he was pursued by the same mysterious and vigilant power. It was then that he lost his appetite, and if the Clan could have followed him into his home and seen him look under his bed before he got into it at night, their joy would have been full.

The wild stories he told had the effect of keeping every one else out of the forest and made the Clan more than ever free to stalk their prey without fear of discovery. In this occupation several exciting weeks passed by, and then there came an unhappy surprise to the Clan, and it was not Angus Niel who sprang it upon them either.

One morning in late July, Alan came up the road toward the little gray house, where he was now so much at home, looking very glum indeed. Sandy was with him, wearing a face as solemn as a funeral procession. Jock and Jean saw them coming and hailed them with a shout, and Tam, who had not quite recovered from his injury, came dashing down the brae on three legs to greet them. Even Tam's joyful bark did not lift the shadow from their faces.

Jean cried out from the top of the brae, "Whatever can be the matter with you? You're looking as miserable as two hens in a rainstorm!"

"Trouble enough," answered Sandy, and Jean and Jock at once came hurrying down the slope to hear the bad news. They met at the river-side, and Sandy, who was bursting to tell it, cried out, "What do you think? Alan's got to go home! His mother's sent for him!" One look at Alan's melancholy face confirmed this dreadful statement and the gloom instantly became general.

The Clan sat down on the ground in a depressed circle to discuss the matter and its bearing on their plans.

"Don't you think your mother would let you stay if you should ask her?" suggested Jock.

"No," said Alan, with sad conviction. "She said I was to come at once, and I'll have to start this very afternoon. I'm to drive down to the boat and get to Glasgow by water; I'll spend the night there and go on to London in the morning."

"Sal, but you'll be seeing a lot of the world," said Jock. "I wish I were going with you."

"I wish you all were," said Alan.

"We'll likely be having more traveling than we want," said Jean, "when we have to give up the wee bit hoosie and go out and walk the world." She looked up at the little gray house as she spoke, and her eyes filled with tears.

"It's the end of the Clan; that's what it is," said Sandy with deepening despondency.

"Oh, come now!" said Alan. "It's not so bad as all that, and I'm surely coming back next summer. I know my mother'll let me, for she'll see how much good it's done me to be here. Just look at that," he added, baring his arm and knotting his biceps. "Climbing around the cave and chasing after Angus Niel have made me as tough as a knot. She won't know me when she sees me."

"I wonder if we shall know you the next time we see you, if we ever do," said Jean.

"Ho!" said Alan, trying to smile gayly, "of course you will! I'll have a sprig of the evergreen pine and give the pewit call, and then you'll be sure."

"What good will your coming back next summer do us?" said Jock. "We shan't be here to see you! Our leases run out in October, and nobody knows where we'll go after that! We've got to move out, so the Auld Laird can have more space to raise game for Angus Niel to kill," he finished bitterly.

There seemed no way of brightening this sad prospect, and the Clan sat for a few moments in mournful silence. Alan tried hard to think of something comforting to say.

"I'll tell you what," he exclaimed at length. "We can still be a Clan, whether we see each other or not. We'll remember we're all blood brothers just the same."

"And that you are our Chief," added Jean, trying to look cheerful.

"Can't we go back to the cave just once more?" said Sandy.

"I've got to be at the bridge at one o'clock," said Alan. "I've said good-bye to Eppie, and she is packing my things, and putting up a lunch, so I don't have to do anything but step into the carriage when I get there. What time is it now?"

Jean flew up the slope to the house and called back from the door, "It's ten o'clock."

"Come on, then, my merry men!" cried Alan, and the four started off at a brisk trot, looking anything but merry as they went.

"We shan't want to come here any more," said Jock, when they reached the cave. "So we may as well take everything away."

"Oh," said Alan, "something might happen to keep you in the Glen Easig. You never can tell. You'd better take back the pots and pans, but leave the wood, and then if we are here next summer, it will be all ready for cooking a jolly old mess of trout."

"Whatever shall we do with the boat?" asked Jean. This was a conundrum, but the Chief, as usual, was equal to the occasion.

"There's only one thing we can do," he said. "It will just dry up and fall to pieces up here; we'll let it down over the rock by the ropes and leave it in the pool. Then when Angus finds it, he'll be perfectly sure he was bewitched and be more afraid of the falls than ever!"

They worked hurriedly, for the time was short, and in another hour the boat was floating in the fishing-pool, securely tied to a pine tree on the bank. They packed pots and pans in the basket and lowered it over the rock by the rope, and when everything was done, Alan took the blue chalk and drew a sprig of pine on the wall of the cave with the initials R. R. C. beside it. The four children then scrambled down the secret stairway, feeling as if they had said good-bye forever to a dear friend. When they reached the little gray house, they left the basket in the kitchen, and the entire Clan walked with Alan back to the bridge, where they found the carriage waiting.

Alan made short work of his good-byes. He shook hands all round and sprang quickly into the carriage, and as it rattled away with him down the road, he stood up, waving his bonnet with the spray of evergreen pine in it and whistling the pewit call.

"Dagon't," said Sandy, when the carriage passed out of sight around a bend in the road. "Dagon't, we'll never find another like the Chief." If Jean and Jock had felt able to say anything, they would have echoed the statement. As it was, Sandy drew his kilmarnock bonnet over his eyes, thrust his hands into his pockets, and started dejectedly toward his own house, leaving Jean and Jock, equally miserable, to return alone to the wee bit hoosie on the brae.



XII. News


The rest of the week seemed at least a month long to the lonely twins. Sandy came to see them, to be sure, but with the passing of the Chief, the flavor seemed gone from the play, and the Clan made no further expeditions after Angus Niel.

"He can just kill all the game he wants to," said Jean. "It's the worse for the Auld Laird, I doubt, but who cares for that, so long as he leaves Tam alone and keeps away from here? It's nothing to me."

Their father had been so taken up with his work and with turning over in his mind plans for the future, when they should be "walking the world," that he paid little attention to their punishment of Angus Niel, about which he knew little and cared less. He was absorbed in planning the best market for his sheep and in getting as much from his garden as he could, hoping to sell what he was unable to use himself, when the time came to leave. His usually cheerful face had grown more and more troubled as the summer wore on, and it was seldom now that his bagpipes woke the mountain echoes, and whenever he did while away a rainy evening with music, the melodies were as wild and mournful as his own sad thoughts.

Angus Niel's barometer now rose again. Finding himself no longer pursued by his unseen foes, his waning self-confidence returned, and it was only a week or two after Alan's departure that wonderful stories began to go about the village concerning his prowess in ridding the woods of thieves and marauders single-handed.

"I've even found my boat," he announced one evening to a group of men lounging about the village store, "and it was no human hands that put it where I found it either! It was below the falls, if you'll believe me, safe and sound and tight as ever. Any man that is easily scared would better not be walking the woods in that direction, I'm telling you, or likely he'd be whisked away by the little people and shut up in some cave in the hills. I felt the drawing myself once, but I knew how to manage. I was just gey firm with them, and they knew I wasna fearful and let me go. It's none so easy being a gamekeeper. It takes a bold man, and a canny one, and well the poacher gang knew that. They're gone and good riddance. It's taken me all summer to bring it about."

"Oh," murmured Jock to Jean, when this was repeated to them by Sandy the following Sabbath, "wouldn't Alan like to hear that?" It was on that very Sabbath, too, that they learned the Dominie had recovered and that school was to reopen on the following day. This was good news to the Twins, for like all Scotch children they longed for an education, and the next morning, bright and early, they were on the road to the village, carrying some scones and hard-boiled eggs for their luncheon, in a little tin pail.

The days passed swiftly after that, for, with the house to care for, lessons to get, and the walk of five miles to school and back, there was little time for moping or even dreading the day when they must leave their highland home.

It was late August when they came rushing home one afternoon, bursting with a great piece of news, which they had learned in the village. Never had they covered the five miles of the homeward journey more quickly, but when they reached the little gray house, their father had not yet returned from the pastures, though it was after his time. The two children ran back of the house to the cow byre, and there in the distance they saw him coming across the barren moor. He was walking slowly, with his head bent as though he were tired and discouraged, and Tam, limping along beside him, looked discouraged too. The Twins gave a wild whoop and raced across the moor to meet them. Jock got there first, but was too out of breath to speak for an instant.

"Dear, dear! What can the matter be?" said their father, looking from one excited face to the other.

"Oh, Father," gasped Jean, finding her tongue first, "you never can guess, so I'll tell you. The Auld Laird's dead."

The Shepherd stood still in his tracks, too stunned for words.

"Aye!" cried Jock, wishing to share in the glory of such an exciting revelation. "He's as dead as a salt herring."

"Oh, Father!" cried Jean, "aren't you glad? Now we won't have to leave the wee bit hoosie and the Glen."

"I'm none so sure of that," said the Shepherd slowly, when he had recovered from the first shock of surprise. "The new Laird may be worse than the old. Be that as it may, I'm not one to rejoice at the death of any man. Death is a solemn thing, my dawtie, but the Lord's will be done, and I'm not pretending to mourn."

"We went to the village," cried Jean, "to get a bit of meat for the pot, and there was a whole crowd of people around the post-office door. 'T was the post-master gave us the news, and Mr. Craigie and Angus Niel have put weeds on their hats and look as mournful as Tam when he's scolded. We saw them out of the school-house window not two hours gone."

"They have reason to mourn," said the Shepherd grimly, "not for the Auld Laird's death only, but for their own lives as well. Aye, that's a subject for grief." He shook his head dubiously, and, seeming to feel it was an occasion for a moral lesson, he added, "Mark the perfect man and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace."

"What has that to do with the Auld Laird?" asked Jock, much mystified.

"Nothing at all, maybe," answered the Shepherd, "but it's a wise word to remember against our own time."

"I wish Angus Niel would remember it," exclaimed Jean.

"And Mr. Craigie no less," added Jock.

"Well, well," said the Shepherd, "heard ye anything more in the village?"

"Aye, that we did," said Jean, who loved to prolong the excitement of news.

"Let me tell that," said Jock. "You told about the Auld Laird. Well, then, Father, there's all kinds of tales about the new Laird. It's said he's a wee bit of a laddie, not more than four years old, and not the son of the Auld Laird at all, but a cousin or something. It's said he's weak and sickly-like and not long for this world."

"Sandy's mother was in the village and walked with us to the bridge," interrupted Jean, "and she heard that the heir is a young man living in Edinburgh, and not even known to the Auld Laird, who had no near kin. She had it from the minister's wife, so it must be true."

"Didn't Mr. Craigie say anything? He ought to know more about it than any one. He's the Auld Laird's factor to carry out his will while he was living. It's likely he'd know more than any other about his will, now he's dead," said the Shepherd.

"Mrs. Crumpet says he goes about with his mouth shut up as tight as an egg, as though he knew a great deal more than other folk, being so intimate-like with the Laird," said Jean.

"Aye!" added Jock, "but she said she believed there was a muckle he did not know at all, and he was keeping his mouth shut to make folks think he knew but wasna telling."

Jean now took up the tale. "Mrs. Crumpet had all the news in town," she said, "and she told us that Angus Niel said he hoped the new Laird was fond of the hunting and would appreciate his work in preserving the game and driving poachers from the forests of Glen Cairn. He said he had done the work of ten men, and it was well that people should know it and be able to tell the new Laird, when he comes into his own!"

Even the Shepherd couldn't help smiling at that, and as for Jean and Jock, they shouted with laughter. In spite of themselves, the children and their father felt such relief from anxiety that they walked back to the little gray house with lighter hearts than they had felt for some time. Whoever the new Laird might be, it would take time to settle the estate and find out the will of its new owner, and meanwhile they could live on in their old home. Beyond that, they could even hope that they might not have to go at all.

That night Jean cooked the first of their early potatoes from the garden for supper and a bit of ham to eat with them, by way of celebrating their reprieve, and after supper the Shepherd got out his bagpipes and played "The Blue Bells of Scotland" until the rafters rang again. Jean stepped busily about the kitchen in tune to the music, humming the words to herself.

"Oh where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone? He's gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done, And it's oh! in my heart, I wish him safe at home."

And she thought of Alan as she sang. Afterward, when Jock and Jean were safely stowed away for the night, the Shepherd went over and brought from the table in the room his well-worn copy of Robert Burns's "Poems," and the last view Jean had of him before she went to sleep, he was reading "The Cotter's Saturday Night" aloud to himself by the light of a flickering candle.



XIII. The New Laird


It was Friday when news of the Auld Laird's death reached the village, and on the following Sabbath there was not an empty seat in the kirk, for every one was anxious to hear the latest gossip about the event which meant so much to every one in the region. There was no newspaper in the village, and the news of the week was passed about by word of mouth in the kirkyard after service, or on week days was retailed over the counter at the village post-office, which was post-office and general store in one.

The Campbells were early in their pew, and the Twins watched the other worshipers as they came slowly up the aisle and took their places before time for the service to begin. Sandy winked at them most indecorously across the church, but his mother poked him to remind him of his duty, and he sent no more silent messages to the other members of the Clan.

There was an air of expectation, which seemed to affect every one in the kirk. Even the minister looked as if he had something special on his mind, and as for Mr. Craigie, he was as solemnly important, Sandy said afterwards, "as though he were the corpse himself," while Angus Niel acted like nothing less than the chief mourner.

In the kirkyard he let it be known that he was entirely familiar with the details of the Auld Laird's funeral, which had occurred in London the day before, though how the particulars reached him in so short a time must forever remain a mystery.

It was Mr. Craigie, however, who gave out the important news which every one had felt must be coming. On the steps after service he said to Mr. Crumpet, "It's likely, Andrew, that you may have more time about your lease. I've had news that the new Laird is coming soon to the castle with his lawyers and some other people to look over the estate and take possession. Eppie McLean is to get ready for quite a party of the gentry."

Mrs. Crumpet was standing near her husband, and she was a bold woman who would have asked a question of the Auld Laird himself, if she had had occasion. "Then it's the sickly bit laddie who's the heir?" she said, "and not the Edinburgh man?"

Mr. Craigie looked majestic and waved her aside, merely saying, as he went down the steps, "It isna an Edinburgh body," but giving no hint as to whether it was man, woman, or child. The people who had gathered about him thinking to hear something definite looked resentfully at his back as he walked away, and Mrs. Crumpet openly expressed her opinion that he knew nothing more about it himself. "If he did, he couldn't help letting it dribble out by degrees, like a leaky kirn, being too stingy to tell it out free, like any other body," she said.

Mrs. Crumpet was a woman of rare penetration. Even Sandy didn't often get ahead of his mother.

For another week the village waited in suspense for further news, and then on Saturday the report spread like wildfire through the town that the new Laird with his party had arrived at the castle the night before.

It was Sandy who brought the news to the little gray house. "And they say there were three carriage-loads of them and they never got to Glen Cairn until dark," he cried; "and the tale is that the castle ovens have never been cool since the word came a week ago! Mother says Eppie McLean has been laying in provisions as if she looked for seven lean years like Joseph in Egypt."

"Losh!" interrupted Jock, "I wish Alan was here. Wouldn't we get some of those good things for the cave, though."

"But that isn't all the news," cried Sandy, who had come three miles to tell it and was not going to let it burst from him too suddenly. "There's more."

"What is it, Sandy?" cried Jean, dancing with impatience. "Hurry, lad; let out what's bottled up in you or you'll blow the cork!"

"Well," exploded Sandy, "you'll get some of the good things without Alan, I'm telling you, for there's to be a grand feast at the castle, and everybody is asked to come! There's a sign up in the village, and it's to be Monday at five o'clock. They say Eppie McLean has fowls waiting by the dozen and a barrel of tatties ready for the pot. Losh! I don't see how the new Laird can stay weakly with so much to fill him up."

"Sal!" cried Jean, "if he's such a wee laddie as they say, it's likely his mother will be the one to say what's to be done in Glen Cairn, and it's not likely she'll be wanting to go rampaging over the country shooting game like the Auld Laird."

"Ye can never tell," said Sandy, with a worldly air. "Some say ladies is worse than men."

"Never believe that," said Jean, promptly, and then she added a little wistfully, "especially if they are mothers."

At church the next day the congregation was in such a state of excitement it was with the greatest difficulty that the proper Sabbath decorum was observed. Sandy Crumpet brazenly looked over his shoulder every time any one passed up the aisle, thinking that perhaps the new Laird and his mother might come in at any moment, and even the grown people looked sidewise, but no new faces appeared and fear was expressed afterwards that the mother of the heir was of the Established Church. Mrs. Crumpet said she had always heard that among the gentry the women were fiercer in their religion than the men. The Shepherd remembered the Laird of Kinross, but said nothing.

On the way home from church Jean and Jock noticed that smoke was issuing from all the castle chimneys. It was now early autumn, and, as Jean said, the castle must be damp from, standing so long empty, and they had the right to warm it up for the wee Laird, him being so sickly.

The suspense of the long weeks of summer had now become acute. If the Auld Laird's wish to turn the tenants out of their holdings to make Glen Cairn into a large game preserve was to be carried out, the time for doing it was near, and the people looked forward to the supper at the castle with both hope and dread.

Every one was to be there, and on Monday a wonderful amount of preparation was going forward in every cottage and farmhouse on the estate. Jean had her father's blacks on the line and thoroughly brushed early in the morning, and the Sabbath clothes for all three of them laid out on the chairs in "the room" by noon. At four o'clock they were on their way to the castle. Jock had wanted to start at three, but Jean was firm.

"It isna genteel to be going so early," she said. "T'will look greedy, and you'll not get fed the sooner."

Any one would have said Jean looked pretty that day, for she was not wearing her "Saturday face," and the little curls had crept around her head unbeknownst and were blowing in bright tendrils about her forehead under the edge of her bonnet with its sprig of pine. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright with health and excitement, and Robert Campbell, looking with pride at his sturdy son and daughter, said to himself, "It's a sonsie lassie and braw lad. I wish their mother could see them."

They walked down the river road, where the autumn colors were beginning to appear, and at the bridge met the Crumpet family all dressed in their best, also on their way to the castle. Sandy had scrubbed himself till his face was shining like a glass bottle, and the sprig of pine waved proudly from his bonnet, too. At every branch road they were joined by others, and when they neared the castle gates there was already quite a large group of people from the village as well. Every one was in a state of tense excitement, for the fate of all hung in the balance. Since the tenure of their homes was at the mercy of the new Laird, his ideas and disposition were of vital importance in their lives, and they were keen to see him and find out for themselves what manner of person he might be. Mr. Crumpet was looking very glum. He took a morose view of life at best, and the present circumstances certainly warranted apprehension.

"If it's a wee bit of a laddie, as we are led to expect," he said to the Shepherd, "he'll have no judgment of his own, and be dependent on them as has him in charge. Mr. Craigie will not be loosening his hold, and with only a weak woman and a sickly boy to deal with, he'll wind 'em around his finger like a wisp o' wool. It's my opinion we'll have Mr. Craigie to deal with more than ever."

"Well," said Mrs. Crumpet philosophically, "and if we jump at all 't will be but from the fire back to the frying-pan again, I'm thinking."

Various other opinions were expressed by one and another as the tenants of Glen Cairn followed the wide drive which led to the castle doors. Most of them had never before been inside the walls of the park, and they looked about them with interest at the unkempt and overgrown drive and at the bracken and heather spreading even over the lawns. It was evident that the place had been left to take care of itself for many years.

It was a warm day in late September, and though there was a touch of red in the ivy which draped the gray castle walls, the air was mellow with the haze of autumn and musical with the buzzing of bees.

Mr. Craigie, looking more like a pair of tongs than ever, stood on the terrace with the minister and his wife, while Angus Niel, swelling with importance, ranged round the outskirts of the crowd as they approached the castle, gradually herding them toward the entrance. When they were all gathered in front of the terrace, the minister came forward to the steps and lifted his hand. A hush instantly fell upon the waiting people, and the minister spoke.

"Her ladyship has asked me to say to you that she and the new Laird will meet you here," he said, "and afterward conduct you to the banqueting-hall, where supper will be served. It is their desire to know you all personally, and I will be here to present you as you come up the steps."

There was a surprised look on every face as the minister finished speaking. What manner of landlord could this be, who made a point of knowing his tenants as men and women the moment he came to the estate? It was a breathless moment when at last the great castle doors swung open, revealing a group of people standing in the entrance. There was an instant's pause, and then a tall strong-looking woman stepped forward upon the terrace, with her hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a sturdy black-haired boy nearly as tall as herself. The boy was dressed in kilts, with the Campbell plaid flung over his shoulder and a spray of evergreen pine nodding gayly from his Glengarry bonnet.

"Michty me! It's Alan!" exclaimed Jock, so stunned by surprise that his knees nearly gave way under him, while Jean, her eyes shining like stars, clutched her father's hand, too stunned to realize at first that Alan and the new Laird of Glen Cairn were one and the same person. In fact, nobody realized it at once, for many of the tenants had come to know and like Alan during the summer, simply as "the boy who was staying with Eppie McLean."

They were still gazing at the castle door and wondering why the "puny wee laddie, who was not long for this world" did not appear, when the gracious lady, who still stood with her hand resting proudly on Alan's shoulder, began to speak.

"Many of you already know the new Laird of Glen Cairn as Alan McCrae," she said, smiling kindly down into their blank upturned faces. "He has been among you all summer and has learned to love our Highland country without dreaming that he himself would one day inherit this beautiful estate. He is next of kin to the Auld Laird, though not a near relative, and had no idea that I had any purpose beyond the improvement of his health in sending him here for the summer. I knew that which he did not, that he was likely soon to be called to take the Auld Laird's place here, and I wanted him to know you first, not as tenants, but as friends merely. He has come to love this region for its own sake, and comes among you like a true Scotchman, meaning to make this his home and the interests of this community his own interests. He is not yet of age, as you see, but his purposes and plans are clearly formed, and I will leave him to explain them to you himself."

She stopped speaking, and the people, overwhelmed with surprise and joy, burst into a hearty and prolonged cheer, as Alan stepped forward to make his speech. He was only a boy, and a very much embarrassed one at that, but he knew what he wanted to say and he got to the point at once.

"I just want you to know," he said, "that nobody's going to be turned out if he doesn't want to be. I know all about the lease, and that it's going to run out this fall, but any one who wants to stay on the land and improve it is going to have the chance to do it. My mother knows a lot about such things, and we're going to collect the rents ourselves, and we think, maybe, when I'm of age, there'll be some way by which people who really want to use the land may own it instead of being obliged to rent. Mother says they are beginning to do it in Ireland, and in England too in some places.

"I've found out that people are more important than rabbits and deer, and they are going to have first chance at the land of Glen Cairn as long as I'm Laird." This was greeted with such a roar of cheers that for a moment it was quite impossible for Alan to proceed. He smiled bashfully at his mother and then held up his hand for silence.

"I just want to say, too," he went on, biting his lips to keep from laughing, "that after this there won't be any gamekeeper on Glen Cairn. If the rabbits spoil your crops you're welcome to catch them if you can! I've ranged these woods myself all summer, and I have found out that gamekeepers are no safeguard against poachers." A gasp of astonishment greeted this statement, and Angus Niel was observed to turn ashy pale.

"In fact, I know that sometimes gamekeepers turn poachers themselves and make money selling what they have killed," he went on. Here Angus Niel, looking suddenly deflated, like a burst balloon, began quietly to slink out of sight, and Alan, brimful of mischief, raised his voice so it would be sure to reach him and said, "I've seen it done myself, and if Angus Niel wants to know any more about that gang of twenty blood-thirsty villains which has scared the life out of him all summer, he can come to me and I'll tell him. I'm the Chief of that gang, and there are three others just like me, and that's all!" He winked rapturously at the three other members of the Clan, who were gazing up at him in a stupor of astonishment, and fired his last shot at the fleeing Angus, while the audience, catching his meaning, burst into howls of derisive laughter.

"Don't hurry, Angus," he called. "I want to tell you about your boat and about the water witch that haunted you. I'm the water witch too!" But Angus was already out of hearing and scuttling as fast as his trembling legs could carry him to get out of sight, as well. When the roars of laughter had subsided, Alan said, with a boyish grin, "It's too bad he couldn't stay to supper. And now come up, everybody, and meet my mother."

It was then that the Shepherd of Glen Easig astonished himself and every one else by shouting at the top of his lungs, "Three cheers for the young Laird!" and when they had been given with such energy that the hills rang with the echoes, he called for three more for her ladyship, and Alan waved his cap in acknowledgment for them both.

Then the people, surprised out of their usual Scotch reserve by laughter and by the joy of good news, came swarming up the steps and were introduced to Alan's mother by Alan himself when he knew them, and by the minister when he did not.

The Shepherd, with the bashful Clan in his wake, came last of all, and the Twins heard him say to her ladyship, "God bless the laddie! It was a rare day for the Glen when he fell into the burn and came to dry himself by our fireside."

"It was a rare day for me, too, Cousin Campbell," said Alan, and then; catching sight of Sandy and the Twins hanging back behind their father, what did he do but pucker up his lips and whistle the pewit call? The Clan was too overcome then even to attempt a pucker, and Alan, springing forward, tried to grasp three hands at once and introduced them to his mother as his Rob Roy Clan.

The Twins and Sandy were not a bit like the bold buccaneers of the cave when the great lady of Glen Cairn smiled on them kindly.

"I told you I'd wear the sprig of evergreen pine and whistle the call of the Clan the next time you saw me," cried Alan, as they fell in behind the others, who were now entering the banquet-hall. "Why didn't you answer?"

"Oh, but," said Jean, a little sadly and blushing like a poppy, "we never thought you'd be coming back so grand like. You'll never be playing with the Clan any more in Glen Easig, surely, now that you 're a great Laird!"

"And why not, I'd like to know?" cried the great Laird, looking hurt. "I'm still Alan McRae, Chief of the Clan, the same as before, and as true to my friends as Rob Roy himself was before me. We'll have many a good day in the woods yet before snow flies; and listen, I've a plan in my head!"

"There speaks the Chief," cried Jock, forgetting to be afraid of him. "He was ever having plans in his head. Out with it, man."

"It's this," said Alan, "I'm going to have a tutor here at the castle, and you're all to have your lessons here with me, and no end of larks!" Here Sandy, who had so far merely gazed at his Chief with speechless devotion, suddenly burst into words.

"Aye, Chief," he cried, "that was a true word you spoke about no gamekeeper being needed in Glen Cairn. I'm none so keen for the learning, but if there should be poachers hanging about, they'll have Sandy Crumpet to deal with; let them take warning of that!"

Alan laughed and clapped Sandy on the back. "I'd rather have you than forty Angus Niels," he said, and then they were swept along, without a chance for further words, into the great hall, where they found long tables spread and Eppie McLean with a dozen helpers bringing in such stores of food that all Sandy had said about the preparations at the castle was justified at a glance.

Most of the people had already found places at the tables when the young Laird and his mother, followed by the minister and his wife and the castle guests, cams into the hall. The Twins and Sandy hung back behind all the other guests, but Alan found places for them opposite his own, and then he handed his mother to the seat of honor at the head of the table. The minister and the guests from the city ranged themselves on either side, and every one stood with bowed head while the minister asked a blessing upon the food, upon the new Laird and his mother, and upon all the people of Glen Cairn.

There was a great scraping of chairs, and then every one sat down and fell upon the good things like an army of locusts upon a harvest field. The great hall, so long silent, echoed with happy voices and the clatter, of knives and forks, and Jean, looking across the table at the new Laird, in all his glory, wondered if it could be possible that it was the very Alan whom she had shaken when Angus shot the stag, or who had helped her set the table in the kitchen of the little gray house, while his wet clothes were drying by the cottage fire. She ate her supper like one in a dream, and though she kept a watchful eye on Jock's table manners and warned Sandy's elbows off the table several times in her own efficient way, she could scarcely believe such wonderful things were really happening to her.

At last the wonderful day drew to a close, and the people of Glen Cairn, happier than they had been in a long time, said good-bye to the gracious lady of the castle and to the already beloved young Laird, and started home in the deepening twilight of the autumn evening.

The Clan, lingering behind their parents, looked back at the group on the castle terrace before the trees hid them from sight, and Jock sent the pewit call shrilling through the dusk. It was answered instantly from the terrace.

"He is just like Prince Charlie, I'm thinking," said Sandy, and Jock, to ease his feelings, whistled "Charlie is my darling" all the way to the gate of the park.

The evening star was shining brightly over the dark outline of old Ben Vane as the Campbells reached the little gray house on the brae, now safely their home forever, and Tam came bounding down the path to meet them. Jean kissed her hand to the star and murmured to herself,

"Star light, star bright, I have the wish I wished to-night."

<eob>

The Rover Boys On Land And Sea

Or

The Crusoes Of The Seven Islands

By

Arthur M Winfield



Chapter I

The Rover Boys In San Francisco


"Well, Dick, here we are in San Francisco at last."

"Yes, Tom, and what a fine large city it is."

"We'll have to take care, or we'll get lost," came from a third boy, the youngest of the party.

"Just listen to Sam!" cried Tom Rover. "Get lost! As if we weren't in the habit of taking care of ourselves."

"Sam is joking," came from Dick Rover. "Still we might get lost here as well as in New York or any other large city."

"Boston is the place to get lost in," said Tom Rover. "Got streets that curve in all directions. But let us go on. Where is the hotel?"

"I'm sure I don't know," came from Sam Rover.

"Cab! carriage! coupe!" bawled a cabman standing near. "Take you anywhere you want to go, gents."

"How much to take the three of us to the Oakland House?"

"Take you there for a dollar, trunks and all."

"I'll go you," answered Dick Rover. "Come on, I'll see that you get the right trunks."

"I think we are going to have some good times while we are on the Pacific coast," observed Tom Rover, while he and Sam were waiting for Dick and the cabman to return.

"I shan't object to a good time," replied Sam. "That is what we came for."

"Before we go back I am going to have a sail up and down the coast."

"To be sure, Tom. Perhaps we can sail down to Santa Barbara. That is a sort of Asbury Park and Coney Island combined, so I have been told."

Dick Rover and the cabman soon returned. The trunks were piled on the carriage and the boys got in, and away they bowled from the station in the direction of the Oakland House.

It was about ten o'clock of a clear day in early spring. The boys had reached San Francisco a few minutes before, taking in the sights on the way. Now they sat up in the carriage taking in more sights, as the turnout moved along first one street and then another.

As old readers of this series know, the Rover boys were three in number, Dick being the oldest, fun-loving Tom next, and sturdy-hearted Sam the youngest. They were the only offspring of Anderson Rover, a former traveler and mine-owner, who, at present, was living with his brother Randolph and his sister-in-law Martha, on their beautiful farm at Valley Brook, in the heart of New York State.

During the past few years the Rover boys had had numerous adventures, so many, in fact, that they can scarcely be hinted at here. While their father was in the heart of Africa, their Uncle Randolph had sent them off to Putnam Hall Academy. Here they had made many friends among the boys and also among some folks living in the vicinity, including Mrs. Stanhope and her daughter Dora, a girl who, according to Dick Rover's idea, was the sweetest creature in the whole world. They had also made some enemies, the worst of the number being Dan Baxter, a fellow who had been the bully of the school, but who was now a homeless wanderer on the face of the earth. Baxter came from a disreputable family, his father having at one time tried to swindle Mr. Rover out of a rich gold mine in the West. The elder Baxter was now in prison suffering the penalty for various crimes.

A term at school had been followed by an exciting chase on the ocean, and then by a trip through the jungle of Africa, whence the Rover boys had gone to find their long-lost father. After this the boys made a trip West to establish their parent's claim to the gold mine just mentioned, and this was followed by a grand trip on the Great Lakes in which the boys suffered not a little at the hands of the Baxters. On an island on one of the lakes the Rover boys found a curious casket and this, on being opened, proved to contain some directions for locating a treasure secreted in the heart of the Adirondack Mountains.

"We must locate that treasure," said Tom Rover, and off they started for the mountains, and did locate it at last, but not before Dan Baxter had done everything in his power to locate it ahead of them. When they finally outwitted their enemy, Dan Baxter had disappeared, and that was the last they had seen of him for some time.

The Rover boys had expected to return to Putnam Hall and their studies immediately after the winter outing in the Adirondacks, but an unexpected happening at the institution of learning made them change their plans. Three pupils were taken down with scarlet fever, and rather than run the risk of having more taken sick, Captain Victor Putnam had closed up the Academy for the time being, and sent the pupils to their homes.

"The boys will have to go to some other school," their Aunt Martha had said, but one and another had murmured at this, for they loved Captain Putnam too well to desert him so quickly.

"Let us wait a few months," had been Dick's suggestion.

"Let us study at home," had come from Sam.

"Let us travel," Tom had put in. "Travel broadens the mind." He loved to be "on the go" all the time.

The matter was talked over for several days, and Tom begged that they might take a trip across the continent and back, using some of the money derived from the old treasure. At last Anderson Rover consented; and two days later the three boys were off, going by way of New York City, on the Chicago Limited. They had spent two days in the great city by the lakes, and then come direct to the Golden Gate city.

"I wonder if we will meet anybody we know while we are out here," said Tom, as the carriage continued on its way.

"If we get down to Santa Barbara I think we'll meet somebody," answered Dick, and he blushed just a trifle. "I got a letter in Chicago, as you know. It was from Dora Stanhope, and she said that she and her mother were traveling again and expected to go either to Santa Barbara or Los Angeles. Her mother is not well again, and the doctor thought the air on the Pacific coast might benefit her."

"Oh, my, but won't Dick have an elegant time, if he falls in with Dora!" cried Sam. "Tom, we won't be in it."

"Now don't you start to tease me," returned Dick, his face redder than ever. "I guess Dora always gave you a good time, too."

"That's right, she did," said Tom. And then he added: "Did she say anything about the Lanings?" For the Laning girls, Nellie and Grace, were cousins to Dora Stanhope, and Tom and Sam thought almost as much of them as Dick did of Dora.

"To be sure she did," replied Dick. "But I guess it's -- well, it's a secret."

"A secret!" shouted Sam. "Not much, Dick! Let us in on it at once!"

"Yes, do!" put in Tom.

"But it may prove a disappointment."

"We'll chance it," returned Tom.

"Well then, Dora wrote that if she and her mother could find a nice cottage at Los Angeles or Santa Barbara they were going to invite Nellie and Grace to come out and keep house with them for six months or so."

"Hurrah!" cried Sam enthusiastically. "I hope they come. If they do, won't the six of us just have boss times!" And his face glowed with anticipation.

"We can certainly have good times if Mrs. Stanhope's health will permit," said Dick. "Here we are at the hotel."

He uttered the last words as the carriage came to a stop at the curb. He leaped out and so did the others; and a few minutes later found them safe and sound in the hotel. They were assigned to a large room on the third floor, and hither they made their way, followed by their trunks, and then began to wash and dress up, preparatory to going down to the dining room, for the journeying around since breakfast had made them hungry.

"I think I am going to like San Francisco," said Tom, as he was adjusting a fresh collar and gazing out of the window at the same time. "Everything looks so bright and clean."

"They have some pretty tall buildings here, the same as in Chicago and New York," came from Dick, as he, too, gazed out of the window.

"Oh, all the big cities are a good deal alike," put in Sam, who was drying his face on a towel.

"San Francisco is a mighty rich place," continued Tom. "They are too rich even to use pennies. It's five cents here, or a bit there, or two bits for this and two bits for that. I never heard a quarter called two bits in New York."

"I've been told that is a Southern expression, and one used in the West Indies," said Dick. "The early Californians -- My gracious!"

Dick broke off short and leaned far out of the window, which they had opened to let in the fresh spring air.

"What's up?" queried Tom. "Don't fall out." And he caught his elder brother by the arm.

"I must have been mistaken. But it did look like him," said Dick slowly.

"Look like whom?" asked Sam, joining the pair.

"Dan Baxter."

"Dan Baxter! Here?" shouted the others.

"I am pretty sure it was Dan Baxter."

"Where is he?" asked Tom.

"He is gone now -- he just disappeared around the hotel corner."

"Well, if it really was Dan Baxter, we want to keep our eyes open," was Sam's comment.



Chapter II

The Turning Up Of Dan Baxter


The boys were very curious concerning their old enemy, and on going below took a walk around several squares in the vicinity, in the hope of meeting the individual who had attracted Dick's attention.

But the search proved unsuccessful, and they returned to the hotel and went to dinner, with a larger appetite than ever.

"It would be queer if we met Dan Baxter out here," said Tom, while they were eating. "He seems to get on our heels, no matter where we go.

"If he came to San Francisco first, he'll think we have been following him up," said Sam.

"He must have come here before we did," said Dick. "Our arrival dates back but three hours," and he grinned.

The meal over the boys took it easy for a couple of hours, and then prepared to go out and visit half a dozen points of interest and also purchase tickets for a performance at one of the leading theaters in the evening.

As they crossed the lobby of the hotel they almost ran into a big, burly young fellow who was coming in the opposite direction.

"Dan Baxter!" ejaculated Dick. "Then I was right after all."

The burly young fellow stared first at Dick and then the others in blank amazement. He carried a dress-suit case, and this dropped from his hand to the floor.

"Whe -- where did yo -- you come from?" he stammered at last.

"I guess we can ask the same question," said Tom coldly.

"Been following me, have you?" sneered Dan Baxter, making an effort to recover his self-possession.

"No, we haven't been following you," said Sam.

"Supposing you tell us how it happens that you are here?"

"Suppose you tell us how it happens that you are here," came from Dick.

"That is my business."

"Our business is our own, too, Dan Baxter."

"You followed me," growled the big bully, his face darkening. "I know you and don't you forget it."

"Why should we follow you?" said Tom. "We got the best of you over that treasure in the Adirondacks."

"Oh, you needn't blow. Remember the old saying, 'He laughs best who laughs last.' I aint done with you yet -- not by a long shot."

"Well, let me warn you to keep your distance," said Dick sternly. "If you don't, you'll regret it. We have been very easy with you in the past, but if you go too far, I, for one, will be for putting you where your father is, in prison."

"And I say the same," said Tom.

"Ditto here," came from Sam.

At these words a look of bitter hatred crossed Dan Baxter's face. He clenched his fists and breathed hard.

"You can brag when you are three to one," he cried fiercely. "But wait, that's all. My father would be a free man if it wasn't for you. Wait, and see what I do!"

And so speaking he caught up his dress-suit case, swung around on his heel, and left the hotel before anybody could stop him.

"He's the same old Baxter," said Tom, with a long sigh. "Always going to square up."

"I think he is more vindictive than he used to be," observed Sam. "When Dick spoke about his father being in prison he looked as if he would like to strangle the lot of us."

"Well, I admit it would be rough on any ordinary boy to mention the fact that his father was in prison," said Dick. "But we all know, and Dan Baxter himself knows, that one is about as wicked as the other. The only thing that makes Arnold Baxter's case worse is that he is old enough to know better."

"So is Dan old enough to know better," was Tom's comment.

"I believe he was coming here to get accommodations," said Dick.

"If he was, that would tend to prove that he had just arrived in San Francisco, Dick."

"True. But he may have been in this vicinity, perhaps in Oakland, Alameda, or some other nearby town."

"What do you suppose could have brought him here?"

"That's a conundrum. Maybe he thought the East was getting too hot to hold him."

"I wish we knew where he was going."

"Let us see if we can follow him up."

But to follow Dan Baxter up was out of the question, as they speedily discovered when they stepped out on the sidewalk. People were hurrying in all directions, and the bully had been completely swallowed up in the crowd.

"We must watch out," said Dick. "Now he knows we are here he will try to do us harm, mark my words."

The walk that afternoon proved full of interest, and in the evening they went to see a performance of a light opera at the Columbia Theater. The performance gave them a good deal of pleasure.

"Quarter past eleven!" exclaimed Dick, when they were coming away. "That's the time we got our money's worth."

"I thought it must be late," said Tom. "I was getting hungry. Let us get a bite of something before we go back to the hotel."

The others were willing, and they entered a nearby restaurant and seated themselves at one of the tables. As they did this, a person who had been following them stopped at the door to peer in after them. The person was Dan Baxter.

"They are going to dine before retiring," he muttered to himself. "The Old Nick take the luck! They have all the good times, while I have only the bad!"

Dan Baxter had followed the boys from the hotel to the theater and had also waited around for them to come out. He wanted to "square up" with them, but had no definite plan of action, and was trusting to luck for something to turn up in his favor.

He had drifted to the West for a double reason. The one was, as the boys had surmised, because the East seemed to be getting too hot to hold him. His second reason was that he hoped to get passage on some vessel bound for Sydney, Australia. He had a distant relative in Australia, and thought that if he could only see that relative personally he might be able to get some money. He was nearly out of funds, and so far the relative, although rich, had refused to send any money by mail or express.

"They have everything they want, while I have nothing," he went on savagely. "And they don't deserve it, either. Oh, how I wish I could wring their necks for 'em!"

Suddenly an idea struck him and without waiting for the boys to come out of the restaurant he hopped on board of a street car running in the direction of the Oakland House. Entering the hotel office he asked to look at the register.

"Room 324," he said to himself. "That is on the third floor, I suppose, since they generally start a new hundred for every floor. Wonder if I can get up without being noticed?"

He watched his chance, and slipping past the bell boys, made his way up the stairs, which, on account of the elevators, were but little used. In a few minutes he was in front of the door to Room 324. He tried it cautiously, to find it locked.

"Now if only the keys will work," he muttered, breathing hard, and taking a bunch of keys from his pocket he tried them, one after another.

He had tried four keys without success, when he saw a waiter approaching with a trayful of good things for a late supper in a nearby apartment. At once he moved away down the hallway and did not return until the servant had disappeared from view.

He had five other keys and the third fitted the lock, although rather crudely; so crudely in fact that once the lock bolt was turned the key could not be withdrawn.

"That's bad," he thought. "But as it cannot be helped I'll have to make the best of it. I mustn't stay here too long," and going into the room he closed the door after him.

There was a faint light burning at one of the gas jets and this he turned up, and pulled down the shades of the windows. Then he gazed swiftly around the large room, noting the boys' trunks and traveling bags and several articles of wearing apparel scattered about.

"Oh, if only I can find what I am after," he muttered. "But more than likely they carry their money with them, or else they left it at the hotel office."

All of the trunks and traveling bags were locked, and to force the trunks open seemed at first impossible. One of the traveling bags was slit open with a sharp pocket-knife the bully carried and the contents emptied on one of the beds.

"Not much that I want," muttered Dan Baxter, as he gazed at the collection. Then a jewel case caught his eye and he opened it. "A diamond stud and a diamond scarf pin! Not so bad, after all!" And he transferred the jewelry to his pocket.

A second later he came upon a bunch of keys. They proved to belong to the trunks and bags, and soon he had the trunks open and the contents scattered in all directions. Then he went down on his knees, examining everything brought to light.

It must be confessed that he was in a fever of excitement. The Rover boys might return at any moment, and he knew full well that to be caught would mean a term in prison. He kept his ears on the alert while his heart thumped loudly within his bosom.

"A pocketbook at last!" he cried softly, and snatched it up. One look showed him a, small pile of five and ten-dollar bills, exactly two hundred and seventy-five dollars in all. Then he found another jewel case, and from it extracted a second diamond stud and a pair of very fine cuff buttons.

"That is all I guess I can get," he muttered, as he stood up. "But I might as well take a new outfit while I am at it," he added, and picked up several articles of wearing apparel. These he stuffed in one of the bags which had not been cut, and around it put a small strap.

Tiptoeing his way to the door, he opened it and listened. Nobody was within hearing or sight. But as he stepped out, the waiter he had before seen came once more into view, this time carrying a tray with some bottles and a box of cigars. The waiter eyed him curiously again, but said nothing.

"Too bad he saw me, but it can't be helped," thought Dan Baxter, and made his way downstairs with all possible speed. Once in the lower hall he lost no time in gaining the street. In another moment he was swallowed up in the darkness of the night.



Chapter III

A Discovery And What Followed


"Hullo, what does this mean? Here is a key in the door."

It was Dick Rover who spoke. He stood in the hallway of the hotel, and beside him were Tom and Sam. They had eaten rather heartily at the restaurant and taken more time than they had anticipated.

"I didn't leave the key there," came from Tom. "Here it is," and he brought it out of his pocket. "I meant to leave it at the desk, but it slipped my mind."

Dick found the door open and walked into the room, followed by his brothers. Baxter had extinguished the gas and they stood in the dark until Sam found a match and lit up. Then a cry went up from all three:

"We have been robbed!"

"This is some sneak thief's work," came from Dick. "Run down and tell the hotel clerk at once."

Tom bolted from the room and went down the stairs three steps at a time. The clerk sat dozing in his chair and was roused up with difficulty. But as soon as he realized that something was wrong he was wide-awake.

"A robbery, eh?" he queried. "What have you lost?"

"We've got to find that out," answered Tom.

In less than a quarter of an hour they knew the extent of their loss -- three diamonds and a pair of cuff buttons, in all worth over two hundred dollars, and two hundred and seventy-five dollars in cash -- not to mention a ruined valise and one missing, and the loss of a light overcoat, some silk handkerchiefs and some underwear.

"A total loss of over five hundred dollars," said Tom.

At this the hotel clerk gave a long whistle. "As much as that?"

"Yes," said Dick.

"We must get on the track of the thief, and without delay."

"I reckon I know the thief," said Sam.

"You think it was Dan Baxter?" questioned his elder brother.

"I do."

"Perhaps you are right. But there is no proof that he did it."

The hotel clerk found the windows closed and locked.

"The thief came in and went out by the door," he said. "The hall boys or somebody else must have seen him. This key is stuck in the lock, which proves that it is not a regular hotel key."

Without delay the story of the robbery was telephoned to the nearest police station, and soon two detectives appeared. By this time some of the servants noticed that something was wrong, and the waiter who had seen Dan Baxter come in and go out told his story, to which the boys, the hotel clerk, and the detectives listened with interest.

"Tell us just how that fellow looked," said Dick, and the waiter gave a very good description of the person he had seen.

"I imagine Sam is right," said Dick. "If it wasn't Dan Baxter it was his double."

Upon hearing this the hotel clerk and the detectives insisted upon knowing who Dan Baxter was, and the boys told as much of the bully as they deemed necessary.

"Of course, if he is guilty the chances are that he will leave San Francisco as soon as possible," said one of the detectives. "The best we can do is to try to head him off."

"And we'll do our best to find him, too," added Tom.

"I think the hotel ought to be responsible for this robbery," said Dick.

"You didn't leave your key at the desk when you went out," cried the hotel clerk, struck by a sudden idea.

"What of that?" asked Tom.

"That makes the guest responsible."

"What!" cried Tom, aghast.

"We are responsible only when the key is left at the desk. And jewels must be left for keeping in one of our safes," went on the clerk. "There are our rules," and he pointed to the printed form tacked on the inside of the door.

"Don't let us talk about that just now," said one of the detectives. "I think we can get hold of this thief, and if we are quick about it we'll get everything he took, too."

The matter was talked over for a quarter of an hour longer and then the detectives went off to make their report and to follow on the trail of Dan Baxter, if such a thing was possible.

It must be confessed that the three Rover boys slept but little that night. The loss of the cash was something of a serious matter to them, even though they still possessed a hundred odd dollars in cash between them, and could easily telegraph home for more. More than this, the diamonds and cuff buttons had been gifts of which they were very proud.

"And to think that Dan Baxter should get them," said Tom. "I wouldn't feel half so bitter if it had been just some ordinary sneak thief." And the others said the same.

Two days went by and nothing was learned concerning Dan Baxter further than that he had put up at the Montgomery Hotel for one night and had left early in the morning.

"He is hundreds of miles away from here by this time," said Dick sadly.

"He said he would get square, and I guess he has done it," returned Tom.

But Dan Baxter had not gotten as far as they supposed. He was in hiding in Oakland, across the bay, having pawned the diamonds at a pawn-broker's of shady reputation for seventy-five dollars. This gave him three hundred and fifty dollars in cash, which made him, for the time being, feel quite rich.

But he was afraid to take a train to some other town, and so remained in the boarding house for nearly a week, under the assumed name of Robert Brown.

At the end of the fifth day Dan Baxter became acquainted with a seafaring man named Jack Lesher. Lesher was a rough fellow, who had sailed to many ports on the Pacific Ocean. He had now obtained the position of first mate on a large schooner which was to sail in a few days from San Francisco to several ports in Australia.

"I'd like to go on that trip to Australia," said Baxter, thinking of his distant relative. "Do you want a passenger?"

"I'll see about it, my hearty," replied Jack Lesher, and on the following day said that Captain Blossom would take him for an even hundred dollars. A bargain was struck at once, and Dan Baxter went on board of the schooner Golden Wave that afternoon.

"I'm glad I am out of it," he told himself, when snug on board of the craft. "I'll get to Australia after all, and I'm considerably richer than I thought I would be. More than that, I've got in on those Rover boys in a way they won't forget in a hurry."

While the detectives looked for the thief, the boys had small heart to go sight-seeing. Every time they, went out they looked for Dan Baxter.

"If only I could meet him!" cried Tom. "Oh, but wouldn't I just punch him good before I passed him over to a policeman."

During those days the lads received several letters from home, and also three communications from the Stanhopes and the Lanings.

"The Stanhopes have gone to Santa Barbara," announced Dick, after perusing an epistle from Dora. "And she says her mother is slightly better."

"Nellie Laning is coming out, and so is Grace," said Tom.

"When?" questioned Dick.

"They have already started, according to the letter I have," put in Sam. "Boys, I think we can have just the jolliest time ever was when the girls are all together."

"Right you are," came from Tom. "What a pity we had to have that robbery to darken our fun."

"I am not going to let it darken my fun," said Dick. "Don't worry but what some day we'll get the best of Dan Baxter. That stolen stuff will never do him much good."

The very next morning came word from the detectives. One of them called at the hotel.

"I am afraid the case is queered," said he. "We tracked the rascal to Oakland, and now it looks as if he had given us the slip for good."

"Can't you find any trace of him?" questioned Sam.

"Oh, yes! but he has shipped on a vessel which is bound for Australia, and as she is already two days out of port he is out of our reach."

"You are certain he went on that vessel?" cried Tom.

"Yes. He went as a passenger, under the name of Robert Brown."

"And did he take the jewels and money with him?"

"More than likely. At any rate, we can find no trace of the jewels."

"Then that chase is done for," said Dick, "and we shall have to pocket our loss."

The detective was chagrined to think that he had tracked Dan Baxter only to lose him, and promised to see if anything more could be done in the matter.

But nothing could be done, as there was no telling when the Golden Wave would arrive at Australia, and what port the craft would first make.

"We have seen the last of Dan Baxter," said Sam.

But the youngest Rover was mistaken. They were to meet the bully again, and under circumstances as astonishing as they were perilous.



Chapter IV

Good Times At Santa Barbara


"What a land of plenty!"

It was Tom who made the remark.

The Rover boys were on their way to Santa Barbara, after having spent three weeks at San Francisco and vicinity. They had received word that Dora Stanhope and her mother and the two Laning girls were at the fashionable watering place, and they were anxious to meet their old friends.

On sped the luxurious train, over hills and through the valleys, past heavy woodlands and by rich fruit farms. It was a scene which interested them greatly, and they never tired of sitting at the windows, gazing out.

Presently the car door opened and a tall young fellow, carrying a valise, stepped inside and walked down the aisle. As he came closer Dick Rover leaped up.

"Bob Sutter!" he cried, with a smile of pleasure. "Who would ever dream of meeting you out here?"

"Is it really Dick Rover?" questioned the newcomer, as he shook hands. "And Tom and Sam, too! I must be dreaming. Is Putnam Hall on its travels?"

"We are on our travels," replied Tom, also shaking hands, followed by Sam. "But what are you doing here?"

Bob Sutter, a former scholar at Putnam Hall, smiled broadly.

"I live in California now. My father is interested in real estate in Los Angeles, Ventura, and Santa Barbara. Our home is in Santa Barbara."

"That is where we are going," came from Sam.

"What are you doing just traveling around?"

"Yes; we thought we'd put in time until the Hall opens again."

"I heard it had been closed. Too bad! If you are going to Santa Barbara, you must call and see me by all means," went on Bob Sutter.

"To be sure we will," said Tom, and his brothers nodded.

"We were going down there now to call on the Stanhopes," said Dick. "They have come here for the benefit of Mrs. Stanhope's health, and Nellie and Grace Laning are with them. I guess you know them all."

"I know the Laning girls, and I think I did meet Miss Stanhope once -- at a football game. I'll be glad to meet them again. But tell me about yourselves."

Bob Sutter sat down, and soon all were talking at a lively rate. The newcomer was astonished to hear of the doings of Dan Baxter.

"The Baxters always were a hard crowd," he said. "I hope you'll get back your stuff some time."

It was late at night when Santa Barbara was reached, yet many of the hotels were a blaze of light from top to bottom. At the depot the Rover boys parted with Bob Sutter, but promised to call upon him in a day or two.

"I've got a fine yacht," said Bob Sutter. "Some time I want to take you for a trip."

"Just what we were wishing for!" cried Tom. "Just name your time, that's all."

"How will next Monday suit?"

"Will your yacht hold us?" asked Sam.

"The Old Glory will hold ten passengers on a pinch," answered Bob Sutter.

"Then you don't sail the craft alone."

"I can sail her in fair weather. But father makes me take an old sailor named Jerry Tolman along with me. Jerry is a character -- a regular old salt, and I love to have his company. And that makes me think! Why can't we make up a party and go out? You can bring the three girls you are going to visit, and I can bring my cousin, Mary Parloe."

"Now you are talking!" shouted Sam. "What a jolly trip it will be!"

The proposal met with immediate approval, and it was decided that the boys should meet not later than Saturday afternoon to complete arrangements.

The Rover boys had received word that Mrs. Stanhope had rented a furnished cottage not far from one of the leading hotels. The lady was very nervous, and did not like too much noise and confusion about her. Meals were brought in from the hotel, which made it very pleasant.

When the three boys drove up in a carriage from the depot, three girls came rushing out to greet them. The three were Dora Stanhope and her two cousins, Nellie and Grace Laning.

"So here you are at last!" cried Dora Stanhope, as she gave Dick's hand a tight squeeze.

"We almost made up our mind you had missed the train," said Nellie Laning to Tom, giving him a bright smile as she spoke.

"How fine you are looking," said Grace to Sam. "Traveling must agree with you."

"Traveling does agree with us," said Sam.

"We would have been here sooner, only we stopped to talk to an old schoolmate," said Dick, and then he told about Bob Sutter.

"Oh, I remember Bob Sutter," said Nellie. "We went on a straw-ride together once -- before you came to Putnam Hall," she added, to Tom.

"I know him, too," put in Grace. "He's a nice boy."

"Of course he is," said Sam pointedly.

"But he isn't as nice as some boys," went on Grace in a lower tone, and giving Sam an arch smile that made him feel very happy.

They were soon in the cottage and greeting Mrs. Stanhope, who had been lying on a couch. The lady greeted them in a motherly way that made them feel more at home than ever. She thought a great deal of the Rover boys, and especially of Dick, and did not object in the least to the marked attention Dick bestowed upon her only child. As my old readers know, the Rover boys had, in the past, done mother and daughter more than one valuable service.

The boys were fortunate in obtaining rooms in the hotel close to the cottage, which would make it possible for them to run in and out as they pleased.

"It's like old times to be together again," said Tom, when he and his brothers were retiring that night. "And, as Mrs. Stanhope is feeling so well, I guess we can have lots of fun."

And fun they did have. There were bathing in the surf, and lawn tennis, and dancing at the hotel in the evening, and also lovely walks and drives, and once they went out on horseback to a large fruit farm some miles away, and were royally entertained by some of Bob Sutter's friends. Bob Sutter and his cousin, Mary Parloe, went along, and proved first-class company.

The idea of a trip on Bob's yacht suited everybody, and it was decided that the whole party should go out early Monday morning, taking old Jerry Tolman with them. They were to load down well with provisions and visit not only several points along the coast, but also one or two of the islands lying twenty-five to thirty miles south of Santa Barbara.

The Rover boys had already inspected the Old Glory and found her to be a first-class yacht in every respect. The craft was about sixty feet in length and correspondingly broad of beam. She carried a tall mast, but the lead in her keel was amply sufficient to keep her from going over unless under full sail in a very heavy wind. The cabin was fairly large and richly furnished, for the Sutters were a family of means, and desired everything of the best.

If the boys liked the yacht they also liked the man who had charge of her, bluff and hearty Jerry Tolman -- Captain Jerry, as Bob Sutter called him. He was truly an old salt, having sailed the ocean since his tenth year, on both whalers and merchantmen. Captain Jerry lacked a book education, but he was naturally shrewd, and far from being a fool.

"Downright glad to meet ye, my hearties," he said, when the boys were brought on board. And he gave each hand a grip like that of iron. "Want to look over my lady, eh? Well, she's a putty one to inspect, take my word on't." And he showed them over the craft with pleasure. They found the yacht clean "as a whistle," and each particular bit of brasswork polished like a mirror.

By Saturday evening all was ready for the trip. On Sunday morning the Rover boys went to church with the Stanhopes and the Lanings, and rested in the afternoon.

They were just about to go to supper, when a note came for Dick. It was from Bob Sutter, and ran as follows:



"MY DEAR DICK: My cousin and I have been in an accident. We went driving to church this morning and the horse ran away and threw us both out on the rocks. Miss Parloe had her collar bone broken, and I broke my left ankle. Kindly come and see me if you can."



"An accident!" cried Tom. "That is too bad."

"Let us all go and see him," suggested Sam, and this plan was carried out.

They found that Bob Sutter was resting easily on his bed. The doctor had set the broken ankle, and put it in plaster, and he had told Bob that he must keep quiet for several weeks.

"This ends that yacht trip, so far as I am concerned," said Bob ruefully.

"Never mind, we can wait until you get well," said Dick cheerfully, although he did not expect' to remain at Santa Barbara more than ten days longer.

"No, I don't want you to wait," answered Bob Sutter. "My cousin won't be well, so they tell me, for several months, and I won't want to go without her. I've been thinking that you had better take the trip without us. Captain Jerry can easily run the yacht with your aid."

"That's very kind of you," said Tom. "But we'd rather have you along."

The matter was talked over for an hour. The Rover boys knew that Dora, Nellie, and Grace would be sorely disappointed if the yacht trip was given up. At last they decided to accept Bob Sutter's kind suggestion and make the trip without the company of the young owner and his cousin; and then they withdrew, wishing Bob a speedy recovery.



Chapter V

On Board Of The Yacht


"What a glorious day for the trip!"

"We are going to turn real sailors, aren't we?"

"Can't I help pull up a sail or something, Tom?"

Such were the remarks of Dora, Nellie, and Grace as they boarded the Old Glory early on Monday morning.

The boys and Captain Jerry were there to receive them, having arrived an hour before, to see that all the provisions were stowed away, and that the craft was in prime condition for sailing. By a curious combination of circumstances Bob Sutter had ordered far more provisions than were necessary for such a short trip, but Captain Jerry had found a place for everything, remarking that they might come in useful after all, but never dreaming how useful, as later events were to prove.

Mrs. Stanhope had come down in a carriage to see them off. She kissed all of the girls an affectionate good-by.

"Have a good time," she said. "And be sure and come back safe and sound."

"Don't ye worry but what I'll bring 'em back safe enough, ma'am," said Captain Jerry, as he tipped his cap respectfully.

When the girls were safe on board, the boys waved an adieu to Mrs. Stanhope. Then they ranged up in a row in front of old Jerry and each touched his forelock and gave a hitch to his trowser leg.

"Ready for orders, cap'n," they said, in unison, having practiced this little by-play in secret.

"Wh -- what?" stammered Captain Jerry, gazing at them in bewilderment.

"Ready for orders, sir," they said.

"Shall we shake out the mainsail?" asked Dick.

"Shall I hoist the jib?" came from Tom.

"Can I set the topsail, captain?" put in Sam.

"Well, by the son o' Neptune!" gasped Captain Jerry. "Got a real, generwine crew, aint I? All right, my hearties, I'll set ye to work fast enough." And then followed a string of orders in true nautical style, and the Rover boys flew in one direction and another to execute them. Up went the mainsail and the jib, and the top-sail followed, and soon the Old Glory was standing off into Santa Barbara Channel, with Mrs. Stanhope in the carriage waving them an adieu, and the girls and the boys waving their handkerchiefs in return.

It certainly was a glorious day, as Dora had said, and after the sails were set, there was nothing to do but to take it easy on the cushions of the rail seats. Captain Jerry was at the wheel, but he promised to let each of them "take a trick" in his place before the trip should come to an end.

"I jest wish we had another yacht to race with," said the old sailor. "Then I could show ye what sort o' a clean pair o' heels the Old Glory could show the other craft."

"It is easy to see the yacht is speedy," replied Dick. "She cuts the water like a thing of life. And you know just how to get her best speed out of her," he went on, a remark that pleased old Jerry very much.

"Will we have more breeze, do you think?" asked Tom, later on, as he observed some in clouds to the westward.

"Can't say as to that, lad. Those clouds may come this way and they may blow north'ard. If they come down here, we'll catch it putty lively."

"I like a good, stiff breeze," came from Sam.

"Oh, don't run us into a storm," cried Grace in alarm. "We might all get seasick."

"Don't be alarmed," said Dick. "We are a very long way from a storm, to my way of thinking."

The morning passed quickly enough, and at noon they ran into a small harbor on one of the islands and had dinner in true picnic style. At one o'clock they packed up once more, went on board of the Old Glory, and stood off to the westward, for all wanted a run "right on the ocean," as Tom expressed it.

Captain Jerry was just a bit doubtful of the trip, for the clouds in the western sky had grown considerably larger than when first noticed. Not that he did not think the yacht could weather a blow, but he was afraid the young ladies would get seasick. However, as he did not wish to put a damper on their fun, he said nothing, resolved to turn back at the first sign of any "inward upsettin'," as he expressed it.

The breeze had increased, and as it was directly from off shore the Old Glory bowled along merrily over the waves. Nobody showed the least sign of seasickness, and they talked, laughed, and sang as if they had not a care in the world. Tom also did some fishing, and caught a string of the finny tribe, of which he was justly proud.

"You can bake them for us when we get back," he said to Nellie. "And then we can all have a fish party."

"I could go on sailing like this for a week," said Dick to Dora, as they moved forward. "I mean if you were along with me," he added, in a lower tone, and she gave him a look that meant a good deal.

When three o'clock came Captain Jerry announced that they must turn back. They were far out of sight of land, with nothing but the blue ocean around them. Overhead the sky was still clear, but the clouds on the horizon were rapidly increasing.

"Oh, let us keep on a while longer," pleaded Tom. "This is just glorious!" And the others said the same.

So they kept on, although somewhat against Captain Jerry's better judgment. The old sailor was watching the clouds. Presently there came an extra heavy puff of wind, and then the clouds seemed to rush up with lightning-like rapidity.

"Got to go back, now," said the sailor. "Going to have a big blow afore night." And he threw over the tiller and gave the necessary commands to change the sails.

"By Jove, but those clouds are coming up fast!" exclaimed Dick, after a careful survey. "I ever saw them come up like that on the Atlantic, or on the Great Lakes."

"It's unusual," replied Captain Jerry, with a shake of his head. "Never seen it afore myself. The wind is coming around, too. It's goin' to be a different storm from what we generally git around these waters."

The black clouds soon obscured the sun, and the wind began to blow stronger than ever, sending the whitecaps rolling over the ocean, and causing the spray to fly over the deck of the yacht. Nellie clutched Tom by the arm.

"Oh, Tom, what does this mean?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"It means that we are going to have a storm, that's all," he answered as lightly as he could.

"But -- but will it hurt us?" came from Grace.

"I don't think so," put in Sam. "But we may get wet, unless we go into the cabin."

"I vote the girls all go into the cabin," said Dick. "Sam can go with them if he wants to. Tom, you and I can stay on deck to look after the sails."

"I'm going to do my duty on deck, too," came from Sam promptly.

Another rush of wind now sent the spray flying in all directions, and to keep from being drenched the girls retired to the tiny cabin, or, rather, cuddy, of which the Old Glory boasted.

"I am sure it is going to be an awful storm," said Dora. "I wish we were safe on land once more."

"Oh, dear! do you think we'll go to the bottom?" asked Nellie.

"The boys won't let the yacht go down," answered Dora. "They are all good sailors, and Captain Jerry must know all about handling this craft. But we may have a very bad time of it before we get back to Santa Barbara."

It was dark in the cabin, but the yacht pitched and plunged so violently that they were afraid to light the lantern. So they huddled together, each holding another's hand.

On deck Captain Jerry gave orders to lower the topsail and haul in the jib. Several reefs were also taken in the mainsail, and the boys stood ready to bring down the rest of the sheet with a rush at the first word from the old sailor.

"It's a re-markable storm -- re-markable," said Captain Jerry, chewing vigorously on the quid of tobacco in his cheek. "Aint never seen no sech storm here afore. Puts me in mind o' a blow I stood out in onct off the coast o' Alaska when I was in a whaler. Thet storm caught us same time as this an' ripped our mast out in a jiffy and drowned two o' the sailors."

"I hope nothing like that happens to us," said Dick, with a shudder. He was not thinking of himself, but of the three girls in the cabin.

"Well, lad, it aint goin' to be no easy blow, I kin tell ye that," responded Captain Jerry.

Soon the wind began to whistle shrilly through the air, and the sky became so black they could scarcely see a hundred yards in any direction, Then came some distant flashes of lightning and rolling thunder, and soon the patter of rain.

"Now we are going to catch it," said Tom, and he was right. Ten minutes later it was pouring in torrents, and the rain continued to keep coming down as if there was to be no end of it.

"Boys, aren't you most drowned?" asked Nellie, peeping out of the cabin door.

"No, but you'll be if you come out here," called back Tom.

"We can't stand up and we can't sit still," came from Grace.

"Sorry, but you'll have to make the best of it," answered Sam.

"Oh, we won't mind, if only we reach shore in safety," put in Dora, and then the door was closed again.

On and on swept the Old Glory, through the wind, the rain, and the darkness. As there was no land near, Captain Jerry paid his whole attention to making the yacht ride easily, an almost impossible task in such a sea as was now raging.

Suddenly from somewhere out of the air came a humming sound. It grew louder and louder, and the boys felt a strange suction of wind which made them hold tightly to the rail for fear of being pulled overboard by some uncanny force. There followed a loud snap and a crash, and the mast began to come down.

"Look out for the mast!" screamed Captain Jerry, and all jumped just in the nick of time. Down came the stick, to strike the rail and shatter it like a pipe stem, and then lay over the deck and over the waves beyond.



Chapter VI

Adrift On The Pacific Ocean


"The mast has gone by the board!" screamed Dick, on rising to his feet.

"That stick will turn the yacht over!" gasped Tom.

Poor Sam could not speak, for a wave had struck him full in the mouth, and he had all he could do to keep from being washed overboard.

The girls in the cabin heard the crash above the roaring of the elements, and let up a scream of alarm.

"Are we going down?"

"Shall we come out on deck?"

"Stay where ye are!" shouted back Captain Jerry, clinging to the wheel with a grip of steel. Then he turned to Dick: "Can ye git an ax and clear away the wreck?"

"I'll try it," replied the eldest Rover, and he moved cautiously to where an ax rested in a holder. Soon he had the article in hand, and was chopping away as fast as he could, while Tom, holding to the bottom of the mast with one hand, held Dick with the other. Sam, in the meantime, cut away some.. cordage with a hatchet which was handy.

It was truly a perilous moment, and it looked as if the mighty waves would swamp the Old Glory before the wreckage could be cleared away. The girls stood at a cabin window watching the work and ready to leap out if the yacht should start to go down.

"There it goes!" cried Dick, at last, and gave another stroke with the ax. There followed a snap and a crack, and overboard slid the broken mast, carrying a mass of cordage with it.

At once the Old Glory righted herself, sending a small sheet of water flowing from one side of the deck to the other. Some of the water swept into the cabin, and the girls were alarmed more than ever.

"A good job done that it's overboard," said Captain Jerry. "Another plunge or two and we would have gone over, sure pop!"

With the wreckage cleared away the boys breathed more freely. But the peril was still extreme, for it was no easy matter to keep the craft from taking the mighty waves broadside. But the force of the wind drove them on, and Captain Jerry handled the wheel as only a veteran tar could.

"I guess it's a hurricane," was Tom's comment.

"Looks more like a cyclone to me," spluttered Sam. "I'd give a good deal to be out of it."

To keep from, being swamped they had to run out to sea. This was no pleasant prospect to the boys, but it could not be helped.

"We needn't tell the girls," said Dick. "It will only worry them more, without doing any good."

Two hours went by, and the storm kept on as madly as ever. Night was now coming on, and soon it was impossible to see a hundred feet in any direction. The yacht's lanterns were lit, and one was hoisted on a stick which Dick nailed to the stump of the mast.

"We've got to, have some sort o' light," said Captain Jerry. "If not, we may run afoul o' some other craft."

The time went by slowly, each hour seeming an age. Nobody felt like eating, and nothing was said about supper until nearly nine o'clock, when Dora opened the cabin door and called Dick:

"We thought we would get to shore before eating," she said. "How much longer will we be out, do you think?"

"There is no telling, Dora," he replied evasively.

"No telling? Doesn't Captain Jerry know where we are?"

"Hardly. You see it is so dark, and we can't make any headway with the mast gone."

"How stupid of me! I should have known that. Shall we try to fix up some supper?"

"You might pass some sandwiches. But, no, we had better come down, one at a time," returned Dick.

This suggestion was carried out, Captain Jerry being the last to go down, leaving the wheel in the hands of Dick and Tom.

"Don't ye let it git away from ye," was his caution. "If ye do it will be good-by, 'Liza Jane, an' all of us goin' slam bang to Davy Jones' locker!"

From old Jerry the girls learned that they would probably have to remain on the yacht all night.

"Don't ye git alarmed," he said. "The storm's goin' down, an' we'll come out all right when the sun rises."

The prospect of remaining on the ocean all night was dismaying, and all of the girls wondered what Mrs. Stanhope would say when they did not return.

"I know mother will be very much worried," said Dora soberly.

It was decided by the boys that they should take turns at lying down, each being given two hours in which to rest. Sam was the first to turn in, but it is doubtful if he slept to any extent. Tom followed, and then came Dick. Captain Jerry declined, stating he could sleep when he had the party safe on shore once more.

By morning the storm had taken another turn. It no longer rained, but the sky was murky, and there was a dense fog, which the wind blew first in one direction, and then another. They were still running to sea, with small prospect of being able to turn back.

"This is certainly more than I bargained for," observed Dick to Tom, in a low voice. "To me it looks mighty serious."

"Oh, the storm is bound to go down."

"Yes, Tom, but how long do you suppose the provisions and water will last?"

At this question Tom's face fell.

"I hadn't thought of that, Dick. I don't suppose we have more than enough for to-day, have we?"

"Well, we might make it last two days on a pinch -- we brought quite a lot along. But after that -- "

"Do you think we'll have to stay out here more than two days?" demanded Sam.

"I don't know what to think, Sam."

"Can't we rig up some sort of a jury-mast?"

"Captain Jerry mentioned that. We'll try."

There was no stick on board of the Old Glory outside of the bowsprit, and at last they decided to saw this off and put it up as a small mast.

The task was no easy one, and just as the temporary mast was being fitted into place there came an extra heavy puff of wind which sent the yacht far over on her side.

"Hold fast, all of ye!" roared Captain Jerry, and they obeyed, and the stick went rolling over the side and out of sight in the billows.

"Gone!" gasped Tom. "That ends putting up another mast."

Slowly the day wore along. The girls were silent, and if the truth be told more than one tear was shed between them, although before the boys they tried to put on a brave face. There were no regular meals, and by the advice of Captain Jerry and Dick they were sparing of the provisions and the water.

"Our only hope now is for the storm to go down, or else to sight some passing ship," said Dick. "Getting back to Santa Barbara at present is out of the question. For all we know, we may be a hundred or two hundred miles from the coast."

About two o'clock in the afternoon the sky cleared a little. But as the fog lifted, the wind blew with greater force, sending them reeling and plunging into the mighty waves.

"It looks as if we should be swamped after all," said Tom dolefully.

"Never say die, Tom," came from Sam resolutely.

"I suppose Mrs. Stanhope will be worried half to death."

"No doubt of it."

Nobody had any heart to talk, and each watched eagerly for some sign of a sail. Tom had a spyglass, and just before sunset he let out a shout:

"A ship! A ship!"

"Where?" came from the others.

"Off in that direction," and Tom pointed with his hand.

All took a look through the glass, and saw that he was right. There was a steamer approaching.

"If only they see us." said Dick, and his brothers nodded.

The girls had heard the cry, and now came on deck to learn what it meant.

"Oh, I hope they take us on board and back home," said Nellie. "I must say I am heartily tired of this yacht."

The wind was increasing, and the girls had to go back to the cabin to keep from getting wet. The boys put up a flag, upside down, on a piece of planking, and waited eagerly for the steamer to come nearer.

"The yacht is settling," cried Dick, a little while later. "Don't you notice it?"

"The Old Glory has sprung some leaks," responded Captain Jerry sadly. "Take the wheel while I go and look them over."

Tom and Sam, took the wheel, while old Jerry and Dick inspected the leaks. They soon reported that two seams had opened at the bow, and that there was a bad break at the stern, which was bound soon to interfere with the rudder.

"I believe that steamer is going to leave us!" cried Sam, a little while later.

"Oh, don't say that," said Dick. "We must signal her somehow."

"We'll fire some rockets," said Captain Jerry.

This was done, and a little later they saw that the steamer was heading in their direction. By this time the Old Glory showed unmistakable signs of being on the point of foundering, and the girls were told to come on deck. Everybody was given a life preserver, which had been kept close at hand since the beginning of the trouble.

"We are seen!" cried Sam joyously, as a signal came from the steamer.

Gradually the strange vessel drew closer, and they saw that she was a rather clumsy affair of the "tramp" pattern, used to carry all sorts of cargoes from one port to another.

"They are lowering a small boat," said Sam, a little later.

"I wish they would hurry," returned Tom, in a low voice. "I believe this yacht is going to go down very soon."

At last the small boat was close enough to be hailed, and preparations were made for transferring the girls first.

It was no easy matter to make the change, and it took a good quarter of an hour to land the girls on the steamer's deck.

By this time the Old Glory was completely water-logged.

"We have got to jump for it, lads!" cried Captain Jerry, "unless you want to go down with her!"

And jump they did, into the mighty waves, and none too soon, for a minute later the yacht went down, out of their sight forever.

The small boat was not far away, and soon Sam and Tom were picked up. To get Dick and Captain Jerry was not so easy, but the task was finally accomplished, and soon all of our friends stood on the deck of the tramp steamer, safe and sound once more.



Chapter VII

Dismaying News


"Thank fortune we got away from the yacht just in time!" exclaimed Tom, as he shook the water from his clothes.

"I'm sorry to see the Old Glory go," said Captain Jerry sadly. "I thought a heap o' that craft, I did. It will be sorry news to take back to Master Bob."

"Never mind, we'll help pay for the loss," put in Dick.

"Where are you folks from?" questioned the captain of the steamer, as he came up to, the crowd.

"We came from Santa Barbara. The storm took our mast, and blew us out to sea," answered Dick. "We owe you something for, picking us up."

"You're welcome for what I've done," answered Captain, Fairleigh. "Come with me, and I'll try to get you some dry clothing. I can trick out the men folks, and the young ladies will have to see my wife, who happens to be with me on this trip."

"What steamer is this?" asked Tom.

"The Tacoma, lad."

"Are you bound for San Francisco?" questioned Sam.

"No, we are bound for Honolulu, on the Hawaiian Islands."

"Honolulu!" burst out the others.

"Do you mean to say that the first port you will make will be Honolulu?" demanded Dick.

"That's my orders, lad. I must get there just as quick as I can, too, for a cargo of sugar."

"But we don't want to go to the Hawaiian Islands!" put in Dora. "Mercy! It's two thousand miles away!"

At this Captain Fairleigh shrugged his broad shoulders.

"I am sorry for you, but I can't put back, miss. Perhaps we'll meet some vessel bound for some port in the United States. If so, I can ask the captain to take you back."

"And if you don't meet any vessel?" came from Grace.

"Oh, I think we'll pass some vessel," returned the captain.

He took the girls and introduced them to, his wife, and then turned the boys and old Jerry over to the first mate, who obtained for them some dry clothing. After this all were provided with a hot supper, which did much toward making them comfortable, at least physically speaking.

But not one of them was comfortable mentally. To be carried to the Hawaiian Islands, two thousand miles away, was no pleasant thought. Besides, what would their folks think of their prolonged absence?

"Mother will think that we have all been drowned," said Dora.

"And that is what our folks will think, too," said Nellie. "Oh, it is terrible, simply terrible!" And she wrung her little hands.

By making inquiries Dick learned that the steamer was expected to reach Honolulu inside of two weeks, if the weather was not too, bad. From Honolulu they could get passage to San Francisco on the mail steamer, the trip lasting exactly seven days.

"We'll have to get some money first," said Tom. "And we can't cable for it, either," he went on, for the cable to the Hawaiian Islands from the United States had not yet been laid.

"Let us hope that we will see some ship that will take us back," said Sam.

Day after day they watched eagerly for a passing sail. But though they sighted four vessels and hailed them, not one was bound for the United States, outside of a whaler, and that craft intended to stay out at least three months longer before making for port.

"We are booked for this trip, and no mistake," sighed Tom. "Well, since that is so, let us make the best of it."

The Tacoma was heavily laden, and though the storm cleared away and the Pacific Ocean became moderately calm, she made but slow progress.

"Our boilers are not in the best of condition," said Captain Fairleigh.

"I trust there is no danger of their blowing up," returned Dick.

"Not if we don't force them too much."

It had been arranged that the boys and girls should pay a fair price for the trip to Honolulu, the money to, be sent to the captain of the Tacoma later on. As for old Jerry, he signed articles to work his passage to the Hawaiian Islands and back again. As Captain Fairleigh was rather short of hands he was glad to have the old sailor join his crew.

The days slipped by, and, having recovered from the effects of the storm, the Rover boys became as light hearted as ever. Tom was particularly full of pranks.

"No use of crying over spilt milk," he declared. "Let us be thankful the pitcher wasn't broken, or, in other words, that we are not at this moment at the bottom of the Pacific."

"Right you are," replied Sam.

There was an old piano on board, and the boys and girls often amused themselves at this, singing and playing. As there were no other passengers, they had the freedom of the ship.

"This would be real jolly," said Tom, "if it wasn't that the folks at home must be worried," and then he began to sing, for he really could not be sad:

"A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, A house in a watery cave --  Where I might rest in sleep!"

"Did you ever hear such a song?" cried Nellie, and Tom went on:

"The boy stood on the burning deck, Munching apples by the peck; The captain yelled, he stood stock-still, For of those apples he wanted his fill!"

"Tom Rover!" burst out Dora. "I believe you would sing at your own funeral!" And Tom continued gayly:

"Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main, For many a stormy wind shall blow, Ere the Rovers get home again!"

"Tom lives on songs," said Sam slyly. "He'd rather sing than eat a pie."

"Pie!" thundered Tom tragically. "Who said pie? I haven't seen a home-made pie since -- since -- "

"The time you went down in the pantry at midnight and ate two," finished Dick, and then there was a burst of laughter.

"Never mind, Tom, I'll make you half a dozen pies -- when we get home," came from Nellie.

"Will you really?" said Tom, and then he began once more, as gayly as ever:

"You can give me pudding And give me cake, And anything else You care to bake; But if you wish To charm my eye, Just hand me over Some home-made pie!"

"That's all right," said Dick. "But in place of eye you should have said stomach."

"Stomach doesn't rhyme with pie," snorted 'Tom. "I'm a true poet and I know what I am doing."

"Talking about pie makes me think of pie-plates," said Sam. "Let us play spinning the plate on deck. It will be lots of fun trying to catch the plate while it is spinning and the steamer is rolling."

"Good!" cried Grace, and ran to get a plate from the cook's galley. Soon they were playing merrily, and the game served to make an hour pass pleasantly. When the forfeits had to be redeemed, the girls made the boys do several ridiculous things. Tom had to hop from one end of the deck to the other on one foot, Sam had to stand on his head, and recite "Mary had a Little Lamb," and Dick had to go to three of the sailors and ask each if they would tie the ship to a post during the night.

"I'll wager you are a merry crowd on land," said Captain Fairleigh, as he paused to watch the fun. "Takes me back to the time when I was a boy," and he laughed heartily. Even the captain's wife was amused. She was particularly fond of music, and loved to listen to the playing and singing.

The days slipped by one after the other, until Captain Fairleigh announced that forty-eight hours more ought to bring them in sight of Diamond Head, a high hill at the entrance to Honolulu harbor.

But another storm was at hand, and that night the wind blew more fiercely than ever. The Tacoma tossed and pitched to such a degree that standing on the deck was next to impossible, and all of the boys and the girls gathered in the cabin and held fast to the posts and the stationary seats.

"It feels as if the steamer would roll clear over," said Sam. "Here we go again!"

There was thunder and lightning, and soon a deluge of rain, fully as heavy as that experienced while on board of the ill-fated Old Glory. This continued all of the night, and in the morning the storm seemed to grow worse instead of better.

"We are in a run of bad luck," said Dick. "I really believe we will have all sorts of trouble before we get back to the United States."

Toward noon a mist came up, and it grew dark. Lanterns were lit, and the Tacoma felt her way along carefully, for Captain Fairleigh knew that they were now in the track of considerable shipping.

By nightfall the steamer lay almost at a stand-still, for the mist was thicker than ever. For safety the whistle was sounded at short intervals.

The girls were the first to retire, and the boys followed half an hour later. The staterooms of all were close together.

Dick Rover was the last to go to sleep. How long he slept he did not know.

He awoke with a start. A shock had thrown him to the floor of the stateroom, and down came Sam on top of him. There were hoarse cries from the deck, a shrill steam whistle, and the sound of a fog horn, and then a grinding thud and a bump that told the Tacoma had either run into some other ship or into the rocks.



Chapter VIII

From One Ship To Another


"We struck something!"

"What is the matter?"

"Are we going down?"

These and a score of other cries rang out on board the steamer. The thumping and bumping continued, followed by a crashing that could mean but one thing -- that the ship was being splintered, and that her seams were being laid wide open.

As soon as possible the Rover boys slipped into some clothing and went on deck. They were quickly followed by the three girls, who clung tight to them in terror.

"Oh, Dick, this is the worst yet!" came from Dora. "What will be the end?"

"The Tacoma is sinking!" was the cry from out of the darkness.

"Are we really sinking?" gasped Nellie as she clutched Tom.

"Yes, we are," came from Sam. "Can't you feel the deck settling?"

They could, only too plainly, and in a minute more the water seemed to be running all around them. The cries continued, but it was so black they could see next to nothing.

What happened in the next few minutes the Rover boys could scarcely tell, afterward. An effort was made to get out a life-boat, and it disappeared almost as soon as it left the side, carrying some sailors with it. Then some red-fire blazed up, lighting up the tragic scene, and revealing a schooner standing close by the steamer. The sailing vessel had her bowsprit broken and part of her forward rail torn away.

"If we must die, let us die together!" said Dick, and they kept together as well as they could. Old Jerry was with them, and said he would do all he could for them. He had already passed around life-preservers, and these they put on with all possible speed.

Then followed a sudden plunge of the steamer and all found themselves in the waves of the ocean. They went down together, each holding the hand of somebody else. When they came up, Tom was close to a life-line thrown from the sailing vessel and this he clutched madly.

"Haul us in!" he yelled. "Haul us in!" And the line was pulled in with care, and after ten minutes of extreme peril the boys and the girls and Captain Jerry found themselves on board of the sailing vessel, which proved to be a large three-masted schooner.

All of our friends were so exhausted that they had to be carried to the cabin and here Dora and Grace fainted away completely, while Nellie was little better off. Tom had had his left arm bruised and Dick was suffering from an ugly scratch on the forehead. It was fully an hour before any of them felt like moving around.

In the meantime the two vessels had separated, and though red fire was burned twice, after that, and rockets sent up, nothing more was seen or heard of the Tacoma or those left on board.

"But I don't think she went down," said Captain Jerry. "She was too well built for that." And he was right, as events proved. Much crippled the steamer two days later entered Honolulu harbor, where she was laid up for repairs.

Worn out completely by what they had passed through, the boys slept heavily for the rest of the night, not caring what ship they were on or where they were going. Everybody was busy with the wreckage, so they were left almost entirely to themselves.

Tom was the first to get up, and going on deck found that the storm had cleared away and that the sun was shining brightly. Without delay he halted a sailor who happened to be passing.

"What ship is this?" he questioned.

"Dis ship da Golden Wave," replied the sailor, who was a Norwegian.

"And where are you bound?"

"Da ship sail for Australia."

"Great Scott! Australia!" gasped Tom. "This is the worst yet."

"What's up, Tom?" asked Sam, who had followed his brother.

"This sailor tells me this ship is bound for Australia."

"Why, that is thousands of miles away!"

"I know it."

"If we go to Australia, we'll never get back."

"Not quite as bad as that, Sam. But we certainly don't want to go to Australia."

"Who is the captain?"

"Captain Blossom," replied the sailor. "Where is he?"

The sailor said he would take them to the captain and did so. He proved to be a burly fellow with rather a sober-looking face.

"Got around at last, eh?" he said, eying Tom and Sam shrewdly.

"We have, and we must thank you for rescuing us," replied Tom.

"That's all right."

"One of your sailors tells me you are bound for Australia," put in Sam.

"He told you the truth."

"Won't you stop at some port in the Hawaiian Islands?"

"No."

"But you might put us off."

"Can't spare the time. As it is, this storm blew me away out of my course," answered Captain Blossom.

He had a twofold reason for not putting them ashore at or near Honolulu. It would not only take time, but it might also lead to questioning concerning the fate of the steamer, and he was afraid he would be hauled into some marine court for running into the Tacoma, for that was what he had done.

"Do you know anything about the steamer?" asked Sam.

"No, she got away from us in the darkness, after we hauled seven of you aboard."

"The steamer lost some of her crew," said Tom, shuddering. "Did you lose any men?"

"One sailor, and one of my passengers got hurt in the leg by the collision."

By this time Dick joined the party, followed by old Jerry and the three girls.

"Will the captain carry us away to Australia?" asked Dora, when the situation was explained.

"I suppose so," said Dick soberly. "If I had some money I might buy him off, but I haven't a dollar. What little I did have I left on board of the Tacoma."

The others were equally destitute, and when Captain Blossom heard of this his face grew dark. He was a close man, and his first mate, Jack Lesher, was no better.

"If you haven't any money, you'll have to work your passage," he growled. "I can't afford to carry you to Australia for nothing."

"Then let us off at some port in the Hawaiian Islands," said Tom.

"Can't do it, I told you," retorted Captain Blossom angrily. "And you'll either work while you are on board or starve."

"My, what a Tarter!" whispered Sam.

"Well, we'll work," said Dick. "But you must not force the young ladies to do anything."

"I'm a sailor and will do my full share," said old Jerry. But he did not like the situation any better than did the Rovers.

The matter was talked over, and seeing that they were willing to work, Captain Blossom became a little milder in his manner. He said he would give the three girls one of the staterooms, but the boys and old Jerry would have to join the crew in the forecastle.

Fortunately the sailors on board the Golden Wave were a fairly clean lot, so the forecastle was not so dirty a place as it might otherwise have been. The boys did not like to be separated from the girls, however, and Dick called the girls aside to talk the matter over.

"I want to know if anything goes wrong," said he. "If there is the least thing out of the way, let us know at once," and the girls promised to keep their eyes open.

Once in the forecastle the boys were given three rough suits of clothes to wear while working. Then they were called out to work without delay, for the storm had left much to do on board the Golden Wave.

"We have only one passenger," said one of the sailors, in reply to a question from Tom.. "He is a young fellow named Robert Brown. He was hurt during the storm, but I reckon he's all right now."

Tom was set to coiling some rope and Sam and Dick had to scrub down the deck. This was by no means an agreeable task, but nobody complained.

"We must take what comes," said Dick cheerfully. "So long as we get enough to eat and are not abused I shan't say a word."

The boys had been to work about an hour when Sam saw a young fellow limping around the other end of the deck. There was something strangely familiar about the party, and the youngest Rover drew closer to get a better look at him.

"Dan Baxter!" he cried in astonishment. "Dan Baxter!"

At this cry the person turned and his lower jaw dropped in equal astonishment.

"Who -- er -- where did you come from?" he stammered.

"So this is the vessel you shipped on?" went on Sam. And then he called out: "Dick! Tom! Come here."

For a brief instant Dan Baxter's face was a study. Then a crafty look came into his eyes and he drew himself up.

"Excuse me, but you have made a mistake in your man," he said coldly.

"What's that?" came from Sam in bewilderment.

"I am not the party you just named. My name is Robert Brown."

"It is?" came from the youngest Rover. "If that is so, you look exactly like somebody I know well."

By this time Dick and Tom came hurrying to the spot, followed by Dora, who happened to be on deck.

"Dan Baxter!" came from Tom and Dick simultaneously.

"He says he isn't Dan Baxter," said Sam.

"Isn't Dan Baxter? Why, Baxter, you fraud, what new wrinkle is this?" said Dick, catching him by the arm.

"Let go of me!" came fiercely from Baxter. "Let go, I say, or it will be the worse for you. You have made a mistake."

"No mistake about it," put in Tom. "He is Dan Baxter beyond a doubt."



Chapter IX

In Which The Enemy Is Cornered


The loud talking had attracted the attention of Captain Blossom, and now the master of the Golden Wave strode up to the crowd.

"What's going on here?" he demanded of the Rover boys. "Why are you not at work, as I ordered?"

"I have made an important discovery," answered Dick. "Is this your passenger, Captain Blossom?"

"He is. What of him?"

"He is a thief and ran away from San Francisco to escape the police."

"It's a falsehood!" roared Dan Baxter. "They have made a mistake. I am a respectable man just out of college, and my father, Doctor L. Z. Brown, is a well-known physician of Los Angeles. I am traveling to Australia for my health."

"His real name is Daniel Baxter and his father is now in prison," said Tom. "He robbed us of our money and some diamonds while we were stopping at a hotel in San Francisco. The detectives followed him up, but he slipped them by taking passage on your ship."

"I tell you my name is Brown -- Robert Brown!" stormed Baxter. "This is some plot hatched up against me. Who are these fellows, anyway?" he went on, turning to the captain.

"They came from the steamer we ran into," answered Captain Blossom.

"I never saw them before."

At this moment Dora touched the captain on the shoulder.

"Please, captain," she said, "I knew Dan Baxter quite well and I am sure this young man is the same person."

"It aint so. I tell you, captain, it is a plot."

"What kind of a plot could it be?" asked Captain Blossom. He scarcely knew what to say.

"I don't know. Perhaps they want to get hold of my money," went on Baxter, struck by a sudden idea.

"That's right, we do want to get hold of the money!" cried Sam. "For it belongs to us -- at least two hundred and seventy-five dollars of it -- not counting what he may have got on the diamonds and the cuff buttons."

"You shan't touch my money!" screamed Baxter.

"Captain, he ought to be placed under arrest," said Dick.

Dora had gone back to the cabin and now she returned in great haste with Nellie and Grace.

"To be sure, that is Dan Baxter," said Nellie.

"There can be no mistake," put in Grace, "We all know him only too well."

"You see, Captain Blossom, that we are six to one," said Tom. "And you will surely believe the ladies."

"How is you all happen to know him so well?" demanded the captain curiously.

"We know him because we all went to school together," answered Dick. "These young ladies lived in the vicinity of the school. We had trouble with Baxter at school and later on out West, and ever since that time he has been trying to injure us. We met him in San Francisco in the hotel lobby and at night he went to our room, cut open a traveling bag and unlocked our trunks and robbed us of two hundred and seventy-five dollars in cash, some diamond studs, a pair of cuff buttons, and some clothing."

"I've got an idea!" almost shouted Sam. "Maybe he has some of the stolen stuff in his stateroom."

"Yes, yes, let us search the stateroom: by all means!" exclaimed Tom.

"You shall not touch my room!" howled Baxter, turning pale. "I have nothing there but my own private property."

"If that is so, you shouldn't object to having the stateroom searched," observed Captain Blossom.

"If we get back our money we may be able to pay you something, captain, for our passage," said Dick.

This was a forceful argument and set Captain Blossom to thinking. He was a man who loved money dearly.

"I will go along and we will look around the stateroom," he said, after a pause.

"This is an outrage!" cried Dan Baxter. "I will have the law on you for it."

"Shut up! I am master on my own ship," retorted Captain Blossom, and led the way to the stateroom Dan Baxter occupied. The door was locked and Baxter refused to give up the key. But the captain had a duplicate, and soon he and the Rover boys were inside the room. Baxter followed them, still expostulating, but in vain.

"Here is a pocketbook full of bills!" cried Tom, bringing the article to light.

"Here is my light overcoat!" came from Dick. "See, it has my initials embroidered in the hanger. Aunt Martha did that for me."

"Here are my gold cuff buttons!" exclaimed Sam. "They were a present from my father and they have my monogram engraved on each." And he showed the articles to the captain.

"I reckon it's a pretty clear case against you," said Captain Blossom, turning to Dan Baxter.

"Here are half a dozen letters," said Tom, holding them up. "You can see they are all addressed to Daniel Baxter. That's his name, and he'd be a fool to deny it any longer."

"Well, I won't deny it," cried the big bully. "What would be the use -- you are all against me -- even the captain."

"I am not against you," retorted Captain Blossom. "But if you are a thief I want to know it. Why did you give me your name as Robert Brown?"

"That's my business." Baxter paused for a moment. "Now you have found me out, what are you going to do about it?" he went on brazenly. "You can't arrest me on shipboard."

"No, but we can have you arrested when we land," said Dick. "And in the meantime we will take charge of what is our own."

"Here are some pawn tickets for the diamonds," said Sam, who was continuing the search. "They show he got seventy-five dollars on them."

"We will keep the tickets -- and the seventy-five dollars, too -- if we can find the money," said Tom.

But the money could not be found, for the greater part had been turned over to Captain Blossom for Baxter's passage to Australia and the rest spent before leaving shore. The pocketbook contained only two hundred and thirty dollars.

"What did he pay you for the passage?" questioned Dick of the captain.

"One hundred dollars."

"Then you ought to turn that amount over to our credit."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"I mean that Dan Baxter has no right to a free passage on your ship, since he bought that passage with our money. Let him work his way and place that passage money to our credit."

"That's the way to talk," put in Tom. "Make him work by all means."

"He deserves good, hard labor," came from Sam.

"I don't think you can make me work!" burst out Dan Baxter. "I am a passenger and I demand that I be treated as such."

"You are an impostor!" returned Captain Blossom bluntly. "The fact that you used an assumed name proves it. If I wanted to do so, I could clap you in the ship's brig until we reach port and chain you into the bargain. I want no thieves on board my ship."

"Here is more of our clothing," came from Tom.

"Pick out all the things that are yours," said the captain. "And take the other things that are yours, too."

This was done, nobody paying any attention to Baxter's protests. When the Rovers had what there was of their things the captain turned to the bully.

"I've made up my mind about you," he said, speaking with great deliberation. "I am master here, and a judge and jury into the bargain. You can take your choice: Either sign articles as a foremast hand for the balance of the trip, or be locked up as a prisoner, on prison rations."

"Do you mean th -- that?" gasped Baxter, turning pale.

"I do."

"But the passage money Goes to the credit of these young fellows."

"It's an outrage!"

"No, it's simply justice, to my way of thinking. I'll give you until to-morrow to make up your mind what you will do."

This ended the talk with Dan Baxter. The captain said he wanted to see the Rover boys in the cabin, and they followed him to that place.

"Captain, I feel I must thank you for your fair way of managing this affair," said Dick, feeling that a few good words at this point would not go amiss. "I hope you treat Baxter as he deserves."

"I will try to do right," was Captain Blossom's answer. "But what I want to know now is, What do you intend to do with that money? It seems to me I should be paid something for keeping you on board."

"I have a proposition to make, captain. We will give you two hundred dollars if you will allow us to consider ourselves passengers. And by 'us' I mean the young ladies as well as ourselves."

"It's not very much."

"If we pay you that amount it will leave us but thirty dollars, hardly enough with which to cable home for more. Of course, when we get our money in Australia we will pay you whatever balance is due you, -- and something besides for saving us."

This pleased Captain Blossom and he said he would accept the offer. The matter was discussed for half an hour, and it was decided that the boys should have two staterooms, the one occupied by Baxter and another next to that given over to the girls.

When Dora, Nellie, and Grace heard of the new arrangement that had been made they were highly pleased.

"I didn't want to see you do the work of a common sailor," said Dora to Dick.

"Oh, it wouldn't kill me," he returned lightly. "Even as it is, I'll give a hand if it is necessary."

"It's a wonder Captain Blossom took to your offer so quickly."

"He loves money, that's why, Dora. He would rather have that two hundred dollars than our services," and with this remark Dick hit the nail squarely on the head.



Chapter X

A Blow In The Darkness


It would be hard to describe Dan Baxter's feelings after Captain Blossom and the Rover boys left him alone in his stateroom. At one instant he was fairly shaking with rage, and at the next quaking with fear over what the future might hold in store for him.

"They have got the best of me again!" he muttered, clenching his fists. "And after I felt sure I had escaped them. It must have been Fate that made Captain Blossom pick them up. Now I've either got to work as a common sailor or submit to being locked up in some dark, foul-smelling hole on the ship. And when we get to Australia, unless I watch my chance to skip out, they'll turn me over to the police."

He could not sleep that night for thinking over the situation and was up and dressed before daylight. Strolling on deck, he came face to face with Sam, who had come up to get the morning air.

"I suppose you think you have got the best of me," growled Baxter.

"It looks like it, doesn't it?" returned Sam briefly.

"The game isn't ended yet."

"No, but it will be when you land in prison, Baxter."

"I'll get square."

"You have promised to get square times without number -- and you have failed every time."

"I won't fail the next time."

"Yes, you will. Wrong never yet triumphed over right."

"Oh, don't preach, Sam Rover."

"I am not preaching, I am simply trying to show you how foolish it is to do wrong. Why don't you turn over a new leaf?"

"Oh, such talk makes me sick!" growled the bully, and turned away.

A little while later Captain Blossom appeared and hunted up Dan Baxter, who sat in his state-room, packing up his few belongings.

"Well, have you decided on your course, young man?" demanded the master of the Golden Wave.

"Do you mean to lock me up if I refuse to become a sailor?" asked Dan Baxter,

"I do, and I won't argue with you, either. Is it yes or no?"

"I don't want to be locked up in some dark hole on your ship."

"Then you are willing to become a sailor?"

"I -- er -- I suppose so."

"Very well, you can remove your things to the forecastle. Jack Lesher, the first mate, will give you your bunk."

This was "adding insult to injury," as it is termed, so far as Baxter was concerned, for it will be remembered that it was Jack Lesher who had obtained the passage on the Golden Wave for the bully.

But Dan Baxter was given no chance to demur. Taking his traps he went on deck, where Jack Lesher met him, grinning in sickly fashion.

"So you are going to make a change, eh?" said the mate.

"You needn't laugh at me, if I am," growled Baxter.

"I shan't laugh, my boy. It's hard luck," said Lesher. "Come along."

He led the way to the forecastle and gave Baxter a bunk next to that occupied by old Jerry. Then he brought out an old suit of sailor's clothing and tossed it over.

"You've run in hard luck, boy," he said in a low voice, after he had made certain that nobody else was within hearing. "I am sorry for you."

"Really?" queried Dan Baxter, giving the mate a sharp look.

"Yes, I am, and if I can do anything to make it easy for you, count on me," went on Jack Lesher.

"Thank you."

"I suppose taking that money and the other things was more of boy's sport than anything, eh?"

"That's the truth. I wanted to get square with those Rover boys. They are my bitter enemies. I didn't want the money."

Just then old Jerry came in and the conversation came to an end. But Baxter felt that he had a friend on board and this eased him a little. He did not know that the reason Jack Lesher liked him was because the first mate was a criminal himself and had once served a term in a Michigan jail for knocking down a passenger on a boat and robbing him of his pocketbook. As the old saying goes, "Birds of a feather flock together."

When the girls came on deck they found Baxter doing some of the work which Dick and Tom had been doing the morning before. At first they were inclined to laugh, but Dora stopped herself and her cousins.

"Don't let us laugh at him," she whispered. "It is hard enough for the poor fellow as it is."

"I am not going to notice him after this," said Nellie. "To me he shall be an entire stranger." And the others agreed to treat Dan Baxter in the same manner.

But the boys were not so considerate, and Tom laughed outright when he caught sight of Baxter swabbing up some dirt on the rear deck. This made the bully's passion arise on the instant and he caught up his bucket as if to throw it at Tom's head.

"Don't you dare, Baxter!" cried Tom. "If you do we'll have a red-hot war."

"I can lick you, Tom Rover!"

"Perhaps you can and perhaps you can't."

Baxter put up his fists, but on the approach of Dick and Sam he promptly retreated. But before he went he hissed in Tom's ear:

"You wait, and see what I do!"

"He had better keep his distance," said Dick. "If he doesn't, somebody will get hurt."

"I suppose it galls him to work," said Sam. "He always was rather lazy."

The day proved a nice one, and the Rover boys spent most of the time with the three girls, who were glad of their company once more.

All speculated on the question of what had become of the Tacoma, and of what the folks at home would think concerning their prolonged absence.

"I'd give a good deal to send a message home," said Dick.

"We must cable as soon as we reach shore," added Dora.

They saw but little of Dan Baxter during the day and nothing whatever of him the day following.

"He is trying to avoid us," said Sam. "Well, I am just as well satisfied."

Through old Jerry they learned that Baxter hated the work given to him and that he was being favored a little by the first mate.

"Tell ye what, I hate that mate," said Jerry. "He's got a wicked eye, and he drinks like a fish."

"I know he drinks," answered Tom. "I smelt the liquor in his breath."

They were now getting down into warmer latitudes and the next night proved unusually hot. It was dark with no stars shining, and the air was close, as if another storm was at hand.

"I can't sleep," said Tom, after rolling around in his berth for half an hour. "I'm going on deck." And he dressed himself and went up for some air. He walked forward and leaned over the rail, watching the waves as they slipped behind the noble ship.

Tom's coming on deck had been noticed by Dan Baxter, who sat on the side of the fore-castle, meditating on his troubles. As the bully saw the youth leaning over the rail, his face took on a look of bitter hatred.

"I'll teach him to laugh at me!" he muttered.

Gazing around he saw that nobody was within sight and then he arose to his feet. With a cat-like tread he came up behind Tom, who still looked at the waves, totally unconscious of danger.

Baxter's heart beat so loudly that he was afraid Tom would hear it. Again he looked around. Not a soul was near, and the gloom of the night was growing thicker.

"He'll laugh another way soon!" he muttered, and stepped closer.

His fist was raised to deliver a blow when Tom happened to straighten up and look around. He saw the form behind him and the upraised arm and leaped aside.

The blow missed its mark and Tom caught Baxter by the shoulder.

"What do you mean, Dan Baxter, by this attack?" he began, when the bully aimed another blow at him. This struck Tom full in the temple and partly dazed him. Then the two clenched awl fell heavily against the rail.

"I'll fix you!" panted Baxter, striking another blow as best he could, and then, as Tom struck him in return, he forced Tom's head against the rail with a thump. The blow made Tom see stars and he was more dazed than ever.

"Le -- let up!" he gasped, but Baxter continued to crowd him against the rail, which at this point was very weak because of the collision with the steamer. Suddenly there was a snap and a crack and the rail gave way. Baxter leaped back in time to save himself from falling, but Tom could not help himself, and, with a wild cry, he went overboard!



Chapter XI

A Call From The Stern


For the instant after Tom slipped over the side of the Golden Wave, Dan Baxter was too dazed to do more than stare at the spot where he had last seen the boy with whom he had been struggling.

"Gone!" he muttered presently. "Gone!" he repeated and crouched back in the darkness.

The great beads of perspiration came to his brow as he heard rapid footsteps approaching. Would he be accused of sending Tom Rover to his death?

"What's the trouble?" came in the voice of Captain Blossom.

Instead of answering, Dan Baxter crept still further back. Then, watching his chance, he darted into the forecastle.

"Hullo, the rail is broken!" he heard the captain exclaim. "Bring a lantern here, quick!"

A sailor came running with a lantern, which lit up the narrow circle of the deck near the rail and part of the sea beyond.

"Somebody gave a cry," said the captain, to those who began to gather. "Looks to me as if the rail gave way and let somebody overboard."

"Tom Rover was on deck," came from old Jerry. "Do you reckon as how it was him?"

"I don't know. It was somebody, that's certain. Call all hands at once."

This was done, and Dan Baxter had to come out with the rest. He was pale and trembled so he could scarcely stand.

"All here," said Captain Blossom. "Must have been one of the Rover boys or one of the young ladies."

Word was passed along and soon Sam and Dick came rushing on deck.

"Tom is missing!" cried Sam.

"If that is so, I'm afraid, boys, you have seen the last of your brother," said Captain Blossom. He turned to his crew. "Do any of you know anything of this affair?"

There was a dead silence. Then he questioned the man at the wheel.

"Don't know a thing, cap'n," was the answer.

"It's queer. He must have pressed on the rail very hard.. Here are half a dozen nails torn from the wood."

While this talk was going on Dick and Sam had passed along the rail from the place of the accident to the stern.

"Perhaps he caught hold somewhere," said Sam, who was unwilling to believe that his brother had really perished.

They had just gained the stern and were looking over when a call came from out of the darkness.

"He -- help! Help!"

"It's Tom!" screamed Dick in delight. "Tom, is that you?"

"Yes! Help!"

"Where are you?"

"Holding on to a rope. Help me quick. I -- I can't hold on mu -- much longer!"

"We'll help you," answered Dick.

Captain Blossom was called and more lanterns were lit, and then a Bengal light, and Tom was seen to be holding fast to a rope which had in some manner fallen overboard and become entangled in the rudder chain.

By the aid of the boat-hook the rope was hauled up and to the side of the Golden Wave. At the same time the sails were lowered, and then a rope ladder was thrown down. Dick descended to the edge of the waves, and, watching his chance, caught Tom by the collar of his coat. Then the brothers came slowly to the deck.

A cheer went up when it was found that Tom was safe once more, and Nellie Laning could not resist rushing forward and catching the wet youth in her arms. Tom was so exhausted he dropped on the nearest seat, and it was several minutes before he had recovered strength enough to speak.

"I would have been drowned had it not been for that rope," he said when questioned. "As I slid along the side of the ship the rope hit me in the face. I clutched it and clung fast for dear life. Then when I came up and swept astern I called as loudly as I could, but it seemed an age before anybody heard me."

"It was a narrow escape," said Dick. "You can thank a kind Providence that your life was spared."

"You must have leaned on the rail awfully hard," put in Nellie.

"Leaned on the rail?" repeated Tom. "It wasn't my fault that I went overboard. It was Dan Baxter's."

"Dan Baxter!" came from several.

"Exactly. He tackled me in the dark, and we had it hot and heavy for a minute. Then he crowded me on the rail, and it gave way. He jumped back and let me go overboard."

"The rascal! I'll settle with him!" cried Dick. "I'll teach him to keep his distance after this!"

He knew Baxter was still forward, and ran in that direction. The bully saw him coming and tried to hide in the forecastle, but Dick was too quick for him and hauled him back on the deck.

"Take that for shoving my brother overboard, you scoundrel!" he exclaimed, and hit Baxter a staggering blow straight between the eyes.

"Stop!" roared the bully, and struck out in return. But Dick dodged the blow, and then hit Baxter in the chin and on the nose. The elder Rover boy was excited, and hit with all of his force, and the bully measured his length on the deck.

"Good fer you!" cried old Jerry, who stood looking on. "That's the way to serve him, the sarpint!"

Slowly Baxter arose to his knees, and then his feet, where he stood glaring at Dick.

"Don't you hit me again!" he muttered.

"But I will," retorted Dick, and struck out once more. This time his fist landed on the bully's left eye, and once again Baxter went down, this time with a thud.

The sailors were collecting, and soon Jack Lesher rushed up. He stepped between Dick and the bully.

"Stop it!" he ordered harshly. "We don't allow fighting on board of this craft."

"I wasn't fighting," answered Dick coolly. "I was just teaching a rascal a lesson."

"It amounts to the same thing. If you have any fault to find tell the captain, or tell me."

"Well, I'll go to the captain, not you," retorted Dick.

"All right," growled the first mate. "But just remember you can't boss things when I'm around."

When Captain Blossom understood the situation he was thoroughly angry.

"Baxter certainly ought to be in prison," he said. "I'll clap him in the brig and feed him on bread and water for three days and see how he likes that."

"He ought not to be left at large," said Dora, with a shudder. "He may try to murder somebody next."

"We'll watch him after this," said the captain.

He kept his word about putting Baxter in the ship's jail. But through Lesher the bully, got much better fare than bread and water. Strange as it may seem, a warm friendship sprang up between the bully and the first mate.

"I aint got nothing against you, Baxter," said Jack Lesher. "When we get to Australia perhaps we can work together, eh?" and he closed one eye suggestively. Baxter had told him of his rich relative, and the mate thought there might be a chance to get money from Baxter. "He'd rather give me money than have me tell his relation what sort of a duck he is," said Lesher to himself.

After this incident the time passed pleasantly enough for over a week. When Baxter came from the brig he went to work without a word. Whenever he passed the Rovers or the girls he acted as if he did not know they were there, and they ignored him just as thoroughly. But the boys watched every move the bully made.

As mentioned before, Jack Lesher was a drinking man, and as the weather grew warmer the mate increased his potions until there was scarcely a day when he was thoroughly sober. Captain Blossom remonstrated with him, but this did little good.

"I'm attending to my duties," said Lesher. "And if I do that you can't expect more from me."

"I thought I hired a man that was sober," said Captain Blossom. "I won't place my vessel in charge of a man who gets drunk."

Yet he was not willing to do the mate's work, or put that work onto others, so Jack Lesher had to take his turn on deck, no matter in what condition.

"I must say I don't like that first mate at all," said Tom to Sam. "He is very friendly with Baxter."

"I have noticed that," replied the youngest Rover. "Such a friendship doesn't count in the mate's favor."

"Last night he was thoroughly drunk, and wasn't fit to command."

"Well, that is Captain Blossom's lookout. The captain can't be on deck all of the time."

Two nights after this talk Jack Lesher was again in command of the ship, Captain Blossom having retired after an unusually hard day.

It was hot and dark, and the air betokened a storm. The man at the wheel was following a course set by the captain, and the sailors whose watch was on deck lay around taking it as easy as they could.

The mate had been drinking but little in the afternoon, but before coming on deck he took several draughts of rum. He was in a partiallarly bad humor and ready to find fault with anybody or anything.

Some of the sails had been reefed, and these he ordered shaken out, although there was a stiff breeze blowing. Then he approached the man at the wheel and asked for the course.

"Southwest by south," was the answer.

"That aint right," growled the mate. "It should be south by west."

"The captain gave it to me southwest by south," answered the man.

"Don't talk back to me!" roared Jack Lesher. "I know the course as well as the captain. Make it south by west, or I'll flog you for disobeying orders."

"Aye, aye, sir," answered the man at the wheel, and the course was changed, for the sailor stood greatly in fear of the mate. Then the mate sent below for another drink of rum.



Chapter XII

Another Accident At Sea


It was four hours later, and Captain Blossom was just preparing to come on deck, when there, came a fearful shock which threw the Golden Wave back and over on her side.

"We have struck! We are on the rocks!" came a shrill cry from the deck, and immediately there was an uproar.

The Rover boys were thrown to the floor from their berths, and it was several seconds before they could realize what had happened.

"We have struck something, that is sure!" gasped Sam.

As quickly as they could they donned their clothing and made their way to the large state-room occupied by the girls.

"Oh, what a shock!" came from Nellie.

"Are you safe?" asked Tom.

"I am, but poor Grace struck her head on the wall, and is unconscious."

Without ceremony Tom picked up the unconscious girl, wrapped her in a blanket, and, aided by Sam, carried her to the deck, the others following. A minute later Grace revived.

On deck they found all in confusion. The bowsprit of the Golden Wave was gone, and also the main topmast, while a mass of the rigging littered the forecastle. It was also announced that the rudder was broken and the vessel was pounding helplessly on the rocks, with a big hole in the bow directly below the waterline.

"Who changed the course?" demanded Captain Blossom. "We should be fifty miles away from these rocks."

"The first mate made me change the course," said the man who had been at the wheel. "I told him you had said southwest by south, and he made it south by west."

"He don't know what he's talking about!" howled Jack Lesher. The shock had partly sobered him. "He was steering due south, and I told him to make it southwest by south."

But little more could be said on the point, for it was feared that the schooner would go down at any moment.

"We must man the boats," said the captain. "Bring up the provisions and the kegs of water, and be quick about it."

"Are we near land?" asked Dick.

"There should be some islands four or five miles south of this spot," answered Captain Blossom.

Now that there was danger of going down some of the sailors seemed to grow crazy. Half a dozen tumbled into one of the boats and began to lower it of their own accord.

"Stand back there!" shouted the captain. "The girls must go first."

"Not much!" shouted one of the sailors. "It's everybody for himself now!" And in a moment more the small boat had left the ship's side and disappeared in the darkness.

There were three other boats and the remaining sailors, along with the first mate and Dan Baxter, wanted to crowd into these. But Captain Blossom said he would shoot the first man who tried to row away without his orders. Then some provisions were put into the boats, and the captain divided the whole company among the three boats.

"Let us stay together, captain," pleaded Dick. "We can row."

"And what of the girls, Rover?"

"Let us go with the Rover boys," pleaded Dora, and Nellie and Grace said the same. Old Jerry also stood by his friends.

While this talk was going on there was a rush for two of the boats, and before Captain Blossom could do anything his men were off, taking Jack Lesher and Dan Baxter with them.

"You can go down with the ship!" cried Dan Baxter mockingly. An instant later the darkness hid the speaker from view.

"They have left us," cried Captain Blossom. "But, thank fortune, the best and largest boat is also left."

Some provisions had been tumbled into this boat, and a cask of water followed. Then the girls were placed on board, the Rover boys followed, and the captain and old Jerry came behind, to cut away. Down went the small boat into the mighty waves, and each of the boys caught up an oar.

"Pull!" roared Captain Blossom. "Pull for your lives!" And they did pull, two boys on one side, and Sam and old Jerry on the other. The girls huddled in the stern, expecting every moment to see the little craft turn bottom side up. They scraped along the side of the doomed ship, and then along some rocks. Captain Blossom was in the bow, peering ahead.

"To the left!" he yelled. "Quick!" And then came a shock, and the captain disappeared beneath the waves.

"The captain is gone!" screamed Dora, but she was hardly heard, for the ship was pounding on the rocks, and the spray was flying in all directions. The boys and old Jerry continued to pull, knowing not what else to do, and at last the spot was left behind and they found themselves on the bosom of the mighty Pacific, in the black darkness, out of sight of everything, with only the sounds of the wind and the waves filling their ears.

"Do you think we will ever get out of this alive?" asked Grace of Dora.

"Let us pray that we may all be spared," answered Dora, and they did pray, more earnestly than they had ever before prayed in their whole lives. It was a moment that put their faith to a supreme test.

The boys did not dare to stop rowing, and they kept on until their backs ached and their arms seemed ready to drop from their sockets.

"We had better take turns," said Dick, at last. "We can't keep this up all night.." And his suggestion was followed out, two, rowing at a time, for a space of fifteen or twenty minutes.

They thought they might see something of the other boats, but nothing came to view, and when they set up a shout at the top of their lungs, no answer came back.

"They have either gone down or else got out of this neighborhood," said Tom.

"It was too bad to lose Captain Blossom," said Sam. "He was not such a bad sort, after all."

It was not long after this that a mass of wreckage drifted past them. There was a bit of broken spar and some other woodwork, but no human being, and they let the wreckage go.

By looking at his watch Dick saw that it was three o'clock in the morning.

"It will be light in another couple of hours," he said. "If we can keep on top of the waves until then perhaps we can sight the islands the captain mentioned."

"I wish it was daylight now," sighed Nellie.

Fortunately a bundle of clothing had been brought along, and as the water was warm, nobody suffered much from the wetting received. Care was taken to keep the provisions as dry as possible, for there was no telling how long it would be before they would be able to get more.

Slowly the night dragged by, and, with the coming of morning, the wind went down, the storm passing to the northward.

"It is growing lighter," announced Dora. "The sunlight is beginning to, show over the rim of the sea."

Half an hour later the sun came up, like a great ball of fire from a bath in the ocean, capping the high waves with gold. As the light spread around them, Dick stood up on a seat and gazed eagerly in all directions.

"What do you see?" demanded the others.

"Nothing," he answered, with a sinking heart; "nothing but water on all sides of us."

"The islands -- they must be somewhere!" cried Tom, and he, too, took a look, followed by the others. The last to look was old Jerry.

"Can't see much," said the old sailor slowly. "But I kind of reckon there's a dark spot directly southward."

"It must be one of the islands the captain mentioned!" exclaimed Dora.

"We might as well row in that direction," said Dick. "There is nothing else to do."

"It's queer what became of the other boats," said Sam.

Some of the provisions were brought forth and they ate sparingly, and drank a little of the water. Then the boys and old Jerry took up the oars once more and began to pull as nearly southward as they could make it, steering by the sun.

When the sun grew higher it became very warm, so that the rowers were glad enough to lay aside their jackets. By noon they reckoned that they had covered six or eight miles. One after another stood up on the seats to take a look around.

"Nothing in sight yet," said Dick, with a sorry shake of his head. "We must have been mistaken in that dark spot."

"What will you do now?" asked Grace. "The hot sun is beginning to make my head ache."

Sam's head also ached, but he said nothing. Nobody knew what to suggest.

"One thing is certain; we can't remain out on the bosom of the ocean," said Dick.

"Better continue to pull southward," came from old Jerry. "There are lots of islands down that way. The map is full of 'em."

"Yes, the map is full of them," answered Dick. "But a quarter of an inch on the map means a hundred miles or two in reality."

Yet it was decided to row on, trusting to luck to strike some island, either large or small. It was now fiercely hot, and all hands perspired freely.

By the end of the afternoon the boys were worn out, and had to give up rowing. The girls were dozing in the stern, having covered their heads with a thin shawl, stretched from one gunwale to another. Tom and Sam were dizzy from the glare of the sun on the water.

"Another day like this will set me crazy," said the youngest Rover. "I'd give ten dollars for a pair of blue goggles."

Old Jerry had been looking intently to the westward. Now he pointed in that direction.

"See that trail of smoke," he said. "Unless I am mistaken a steamship is sailing toward us!"

"A steamship!" cried Tom, and the words awoke the girls. "We must hail the vessel by all means."

"If she comes close enough," said Captain Jerry pointedly. "Don't be too hopeful, my lads. She may pass us by."



Chapter XIII

The Crusoes Of Seven Islands


All on board of the rowboat watched the thin trail of smoke with interest.

"I believe it is going away from us," said Dora.

"No, it is coming closer," said Nellie.

"It is certainly moving to the northward," put in Sam.

A quarter of an hour went by and the smoke came only a little nearer.

"She is a big steamer," said Captain Jerry. "But she aint comin' jest this way."

"You are sure?" cried Tom.

"Yes, lad. It's too bad, but it can't be helped."

The old sailor was right; half an hour later the smoke had shifted, and after that it faded gradually from sight.

It was a heavy blow, after their expectations had been raised so high, and tears stood in the eyes of all of the girls, while the boys looked unusually sober.

What was to do next? All asked that question, yet it was only Captain Jerry who answered it.

"Let us pull southward," said he.

And they did so, although with hearts that were as heavy as lead in their bosoms.

Slowly the night came on. Shortly after the sun set the moon showed itself and the sky became studded with stars, the Southern Cross standing out boldly among them. The pale light made the bosom of the ocean glisten like silver.

"A beautiful night," said Dora. "But who can enjoy it when we do not know what to-morrow will bring forth," and she sighed deeply.

The boys and old Jerry continued to take turns at rowing, while the girls sank into fitful slumber.

Presently the old sailor raised his head.

"Listen!" he said, and they did so, and far away heard a strange booming.

"What's that?" questioned Sam.

"It's breakers!" cried Tom. "We must be near some coast!"

"The lad is right," came from Captain Jerry. "We are near an island, after all!"

Dick stood on a seat, and, as the boat rode to the top of a wave, took a look around.

"An island!" he cried. "Dead ahead!"

"Hurrah! We are saved!" ejaculated Sam. "What is the matter?" questioned Dora, rousing up, followed by the other girls.

"There is an island ahead."

"We must be careful how we approach the shore, lads," cautioned Jerry. "If we strike the rocks, it may cost us our lives. Perhaps we had better hold off until daylight."

"I see a stretch of sand!" came from Tom, who was standing up. "If we can reach that, we'll be all right."

Old Jerry took a careful look. The sand was there, true enough, but there were dangerous breakers between the boat and that shore.

"If you say so, we can run our chances," he said. "The young ladies must hold tight, and not mind a good ducking."

The force of the waves was now carrying them closer and closer to the breakers. Under old Jerry's directions the boys took a short, sharp stroke, keeping the rowboat straight up to the waves. The noise was like thunder, and soon the spray was flying all over them.

"Now pull!" cried Captain Jerry. "One, two, three! Hold tight, girls!" And away they went into the breakers. One wave dashed over the craft, but it was not swamped, and before another could hit them they darted up a swell and onto a long, sandy beach.

In a twinkle the old sailor was out, along with Dick, and, aided by another wave, they ran the boat well up the beach, out of the harm of the waves. It was a hard struggle, and when it was over Dick sank down almost exhausted.

"Saved!" murmured Dora, as she leaped out on shore. "Thank Heaven!" And all of the others echoed the sentiment.

The empty boat was pulled up out of harm's way and chained fast to a palm tree growing near, and then the party of seven sat down to rest and to talk over the new condition of affairs. They were on a wild, tropical coast, with a long, sandy beach running to the ocean, and back of this a dense mass of tropical vegetation, including palms, plantains, cocoanuts, and date trees. Back of the heavy growth was a distant hill, standing out dimly in the moonlight.

"This looks like a regular Crusoe-like island," said Dora, as she gazed around. "There is not a sign of a habitation anywhere."

"A good many of the South Sea islands are not inhabited," said Dick. "The natives won't live on them because they are subject to volcano eruptions, earthquakes, and tidal waves."

"Well, I hope we don't have any of those things while we stay here," came from Nellie. "An earthquake would scare me almost to death."

"I do not see that we can do better than to stay right here for the rest of the night," said Tom. "I am too tired out to walk very, far."

It was decided to follow Tom's advice, and all made themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted. They had some matches in a waterproof safe, and soon a camp-fire was started, at which they dried some of their garments. Then, after eating some of the provisions that were left, they laid down to rest. Strange as it may seem all slept soundly until sunrise, and nothing came to disturb them.

When the girls arose they found the boys and Captain Jerry already preparing breakfast. On the shore Tom, had found some oysters and shell-fish, and these were baking. Among the provisions were a little tea and coffee, and old Jerry had made a pot of coffee, which did one good to smell. Sam had brought down some cocoanuts from a nearby tree, and also found some ripe bananas.

"We won't starve' to death here, that's certain," said Dick, when they all sat down to eat. "The island is full of good things. If I had a gun I could bring down lots of birds, and monkeys, too."

"I don't think I'd care to eat a monkey," said Grace. "But I wouldn't mind eating birds."

"There must be plenty of fish here, too," said Tom. "In fact I saw some sporting in the waters of a little bay up the coast."

"Shall we go up and down the coast after breakfast?" asked Sam.

"My advice is to climb yonder hill and take a squint around," came from Captain Jerry.

"That's a splendid idea, providing we can get to the tap," said Dick.

"There is no use of all of us going, lad. You can go with me while the rest stay here."

"What shall we do in the meantime?" asked Sam.

"Better try your hand at fishin', lad, and see if you can knock some birds over with sticks and stones. If ye get anything, let the girls cook us somethin', for we'll be powerful hungry by the time we get back."

Half an hour later Captain Jerry and Dick set out. Each carried a few ship's biscuits and also a heavy stick which had been cut in the thickets. Each wished he had a gun or a pistol, but those articles were not to be had.

The climb up the hill was by no means an easy one. The rocks were rough and in many spots the jungle of brush and vines was so thick that to get through was next to impossible. It was very warm, and they had to stop often to cool off and catch their breath.

"I don't wonder that people in hot countries move slowly," said Dick. "I feel more like resting than doing anything else."

It was almost noon when they came in sight of the top of the hill. There were still some rough rocks to climb, and these they had to ascend by means of some vines that grew handy.

"What a magnificent view!" cried Dick.

It certainly was magnificent. Looking back in the direction they had come they could see the Pacific Ocean, glittering in the bright sun-light and stretching miles and miles out of sight.

The island they were on looked to be about half a mile in diameter. Northward, eastward, and westward was the ocean, but to the southward was a circlet of six islands, having a stretch of calm water between them. Between some of the islands the water was very shallow, while elsewhere it looked deep.

"Seven islands in all," said old Jerry. "And not a sign of a house or hut anywhere."

"We are the Crusoes of Seven Islands," said Dick. "But do you really believe they are uninhabited?"

"Do ye see any signs of life, lad?"

"I must say I do not. It's queer, too, for I rather imagined one at least of the other boats had reached this place."

"I thought the same. But it looks now as if they all went to Davy Jones's locker, eh?"

"It certainly does look that way."

From the top of the hill they took a careful survey of the situation. The elevation was in the very center of the island. Down toward the other islands the slope was more abrupt than it was in the direction from which they had come.

"We can take a look at those other islands later on," said old Jerry. "Reckon as how we have done enough for one day. If we don't git back soon, they'll become anxious about us."

"I wish we had a flag," said Dick. "Here is a tall tree. We could chop away the top branches and hang up a signal of distress. If we did that, perhaps some ship would come this way and rescue us."

"Right ye are, lad, but it aint many ships come this way. They are afraid o' the rocks we run on."

Having looked around once more, to "git the lay o' the land," as Captain Jerry expressed it, they started to descend the hill. This proved as difficult as climbing up had been.

Dick went in advance, and was half-way down when he stepped on a loose stick and went rolling into a perfect network of vines and brushwood.

"Are ye hurt?" sang out old Jerry.

"No -- not much!" answered the eldest Rover. "But my wind -- Oh, goodness gracious!"

Dick broke off short, and small wonder. As 'he arose from the hole into which he had tumbled, a hissing sound caught his ears. Then up came the head of a snake at least eight feet long, and in a twinkle the reptile had wound itself around the boy's lower limbs!



Chapter XIV

Settling Down On The Island


"What's wrong, lad?"

"A snake! It has wound itself around my legs!"

"Ye don't say!" gasped Captain Jerry, and then leaped down to the hollow. "Well, by gosh! Take that, ye beast!"

"That" was a blow aimed at the reptile's head with the sailor's stick. Old Jerry's aim was both swift and true and the head of the reptile received a blow which knocked out one eye and bruised its fang. But the body wound itself around Dick tighter than ever.

Fortunately the youth had not lost his wits completely, and as the neck of the reptile came up, he grasped it in his hand with the strongest grip he could command.

"Cut it -- cut its head off!" he panted. "Get your pocket-knife!"

At once Captain Jerry dropped his stick and pulled out his jack-knife, a big affair, such as many old sailors carry. One pull opened the main blade, and then old Jerry started in to do as Dick had suggested. It was no easy job and the body of the snake squirmed and whipped in every direction, lashing each on the neck and the cheek. But the head came off at last and then they left the body where it fell, and leaped out of the way of further danger.

"A close shave, lad," said the old sailor, as he peered around for more snakes.

"I -- I should sa -- say it wa -- was," panted Dick. He was deadly pale. "I -- I thought it would strangle me sure!"

"If it had got around your neck, that is what would have happened. Reckon as how we had better git out o' this neighborhood, eh?"

"Yes, yes, let us go at once," and Dick started off once more.

After that both were very careful where they stepped and kept their eyes wide open for any new danger which might arise. So they went on until they came in sight of the seashore.

"We had better say nothing about the snake," said the eldest Rover. "It will only scare the girls to death."

"No, lad, you are wrong. We must warn them of danger. Otherwise they may run into it headlong."

All of the others were glad to have them back and plied them with questions.

"So there are seven islands," said Tom. "Well, as there are seven of us, that is one island apiece. I don't think we need complain," and his jolly manner made all laugh.

When Jerry told the story about the snake Dora set up a scream.

"Oh, Dick, if it had really strangled you!" she gasped. "You must be very, very careful in the future!"

"Yes, and you must be careful, too, Dora," he answered.

"There is a nice beach right around the edge of the island," said old Jerry. "So, when we want to visit the other islands, we can walk around on the sand. That is better than climbing the hill."

"But the beach doesn't run to the other islands, does it?" asked Sam.

"No, but we can carry our rowboat around with us, to that bay between the islands. There the water is smooth enough for anybody to row in."

"The six islands are shaped exactly like a ring," said Dick. "And this island is the big stone on top."

"As the island is uninhabited I suppose we'll have to settle down and build ourselves huts or something," came from Nellie.

"To be sure. We'll be regular Robinson Crusoes," answered Tom. "Why, I can tell you it will be jolly, when we get used to it."

"Where will we build our huts?" asked Sam.

"We can build them here, if we wish," replied Dick. "But I rather favor the side fronting the other islands."

"Yes, that's the best side," said Captain Jerry. "If we build here, a strong storm may knock our huts flat. That side is more sheltered and, consequently, safer. Besides, there is more fruit there, and I'm sure better fishing in the bay, and that's what counts, too."

"Of course it counts -- since we must live on fruits, fish, and what birds and animals we manage to knock over," said Tom.

The boys had been fairly successful in hunting and fishing, having knocked over half a dozen birds and caught four fair-sized fish. Everything had been done to a turn over the camp-fire, and Dick and old Jerry did full justice to what was set before them -- on some dried palm leaves Nellie had found. Their coffee they drank out of some cocoanut shells. They had no forks, but used sharp sticks instead, and the knives the boys carried in their pockets.

The weather continued fine and that night the moon shone as brightly as ever. The boys took a stroll on the beach to talk over their plans.

"I am sorry to say there is no telling how long we may have to stay here," said Dick. "It may be a day, a week, or for years."

"Oh, some ship is bound to pick us up some day," returned Tom. "And if we can find enough to live on in the meantime, what is the use of complaining? I am glad my life was spared."

"So am I, Tom."

"I would like to know what became of Dan Baxter," put in Sam. "Can it be possible that all of the rest perished?"

"Certainly it is possible, Sam. You know what a time we had of it."

"It is an awful death to die -- in the midst of the ocean," and the youngest Rover shuddered.

"I agree with you," said Tom. "But I am more sorry for Captain Blossom than for Baxter."

"The wrecking of the ship was the fault of the mate. He was drunk," said Dick. "The man at the wheel was doing what was right until Jack Lesher came along."

"Well, I guess the mate went down with the rest."

"Look!" cried Sam, pointing to sea. "I see something dark on the water."

All gazed in the direction he pointed out and made out a mass of wreckage. They watched it steadily until the breakers cast it almost at their feet.

"Some wreckage from the ship!" cried Dick, on examination. "See, here is the name on some of the woodwork. I reckon the vessel went to pieces on the rocks."

The wreckage consisted mainly of broken spars and cordage. But there were also some boxes, which, on being opened, proved to contain provisions.

"It's not such a bad find, after all," said Tom. "I hope some more comes ashore." But though they waited the best part of the night, nothing more came to view.

In the morning the boys felt tired and they did not rouse up until nearly noon. They found old Jerry at the beach, inspecting the wreckage.

"The ropes may come in handy," he said. "But the wood is of small account, since' we have all we want already to hand."

It was decided to remain at the beach for the next day, to look for more wreckage. But none came in, and then they started in a body to skirt the shore around to the South Bay, as old Jerry called it. At first they thought to carry the boat around, but concluded to come back for that later.

It was a journey full of interest, for the sandy beach was dotted with many strange and beautiful seashells, and just back of the sand was the rich tropical growth already mentioned. The woods were full of monkeys and birds, and once Tom thought he caught sight of some goats or deer.

They reached an ideal spot fronting the little bay a little before noon, and then the girls were glad enough to sit down in the shade and rest. The bay was full of fish, and before long they had caught three of the finny tribe. Fruit was also to be had in plenty, and a spring of fresh water gushed from the rocks of the hill behind them.

"This is certainly a beautiful place," murmured Dora, as she gazed around. "Were it not for the folks at home worrying about us, I could spend quite some time here and enjoy it."

"Well, as our situation cannot be helped, let us make the best of it," said Dick cheerfully. "There is no use in being downhearted when we ought to be glad that we were saved."

Close to the rocks they found several trees growing in something of two circles, and they decided that these trees should form the corner posts of a double house or cabin.

"If we had an ax we might cut down some wood, but as it is we will have to use strong vines and cover the huts with palm leaves," said Captain Jerry.

The boys were soon at work, cutting the vines and gathering the palm leaves, and the girls assisted as well as they were able in fastening up the vine-ropes and binding in the leaves. It was slow work, yet by nightfall one half the house was complete and the other had the roof covered.

"Now, if rain comes, we can keep fairly dry," said Tom.

It rained the very next day and they were glad enough to crowd into the completed part, while the rain came down in torrents. When the worst of the downpour was over the wind arose and it kept blowing fiercely all of the afternoon and the night.

"We can be thankful we are sheltered by the hill," said Sam. "Were we on the other side of the island, the wind would knock the hut flat and drench us in no time."

The storm kept all awake until early morning and when it went down they were glad to sink to rest. All slept soundly and it was not until ten o'clock, when the sun was struggling through the clouds, that Tom arose, to find the others still slumbering.

"I'll let them sleep," he said to himself "They need it and there is no need for them get to up."

Stretching himself, he walked quietly from the hut and down to the beach. His first thought was to try to collect some wood, more or less dry, and start a fire.

Gazing across the bay to one of the other islands, he saw a sight which filled him with astonishment. There, on the beach of the island, lay the wreck of the Golden Wave.



Chapter XV

Another Castaway Brought To Light


"The Golden Wave! Hurrah!"

Tom could not resist setting up a shout when he saw the familiar hull of the schooner, resting quietly on the beach of an island on the other side of the bay.

The cry awoke Sam, Dick, and old Jerry, and they came running out to learn what it meant.

"The schooner!" came from Sam. "How did that get there?"

"The storm must have driven her off the rocks and into this bay," answered Dick. "She didn't go down, after all."

"It's a fine thing for us," put in Captain Jerry, his broad face beaming with pleasure. "Now we can have all the provisions we want, and clothing and guns, and if we can anchor the wreck in some way, we can live on her just as comfortably as in a house at home."

The excited talking brought the girls out one after another, and they were equally pleased over the stroke of good fortune.

"She seems to be cast up pretty high on the sand," said old Jerry. "But even so, the sooner we get to her the better, or the sea may carry her off."

"I am ready to go now," said Tom. "But how are we to get to that island? It's a pity we didn't bring our boat around."

"There are two islands of the circle in between," came from Sam. "Why can't we swim from one to the next and get around that way?"

"We can try it, lad. But we want to be careful. There may be sharks around in these parts."

"Oh, don't let the sharks eat you up!" cried Grace.

"We'll keep our eyes open, never fear," said Dick.

A vote was taken, and it was decided that Sam should remain with the girls, to protect them in case of unexpected danger, while Tom, Dick, and old Jerry should make their way as best they could to the wreck.

The old sailor and the two boys were soon off. They tramped down the beach a short distance and then reached a coral reef leading to the next island. Here the water was not over a foot and a half deep, and as clear as crystal, so the passage to Island No. 2, as Tom named it, was comparatively easy.

The second island crossed they followed the shore around until they came opposite to the island upon which the wreck rested. Here there was a channel sixty or eighty feet wide and of unknown depth, the channel through which the wreck had most likely entered the bay. The water here was by no means smooth and Captain Jerry shook his head doubtfully.

"It won't be no easy swim," he said. "Reckon as how I'll try it first."

"I can get over easily enough," said Dick, and threw off part of his clothing and his shoes. He was soon in the water and striking out boldly, and the others followed.

Short as was the distance, the swim was as hard as any of them looked for, and when they reached the other side of the channel all were out of breath and had to rest for a moment.

"It's a good thing no shark happened to be near," said Tom. "The monster would certainly have had us at his mercy."

When they reached the wreck they found the stern well out of the water. The Golden Wave lay partly on her left side and it was a comparatively easy matter to, gain the deck.

The masts were gone and there was a big hole in the bow, but otherwise the craft had suffered little damage. Why she had not sunk was a mystery until, later on, old Jerry discovered that some of the cargo, consisting of flat cases, had got wedged into the break, thus cutting off a large portion of the leak.

"We can anchor her without trouble," said the old sailor. "And perhaps straighten her up too, so the deck won't be so slanty. Then she'll be a reg'lar hotel for all hands."

"Let us go below and see how things are down there," said Dick, and he at once led the way.

At that instant a loud sneeze reached their ears, causing Dick to pause on the companion way. Looking into the cabin he saw a man standing there, partly dressed.

"Captain Blossom!" he ejaculated. "Is it really you or your ghost?"

"Dick Rover!" cried the master of the schooner. "Then you weren't drowned, after all?"

"No, captain. But -- but how did you escape?"

"Is it really Captain Blossom?" came from Tom, and he rushed down into the cabin, followed by old Jerry. All shook hands, and the face of the captain showed his pleasure over the meeting.

"So you all escaped and are here," he said. "I am downright glad to know it. What of the others?"

"We don't know what became of the other boats," answered Dick.

"Saw nothing at all?"

"Not a thing."

The captain shook his head sorrowfully.

"But how did you escape?" asked Dick again.

"That is a short story, lad. When I went overboard from the rowboat, I caught hold of some of the wreckage from the schooner. This was still fast to the deck, and by hauling myself in I soon got on board again. As I had no boat, I remained on board, for I soon saw that the schooner would not go down immediately. At daylight the ship left the rocks and drifted around on the ocean until the wind came up last night, when we struck this island and got beached, as you see. I was worn out with watching, and as soon as I found the boat was safe from sinking I went to bed, and slept soundly until I heard you three tramping around the deck."

"We are stopping over on yonder island," said Tom, when all went on deck, and he pointed in the direction. "See, Sam and the girls are waving to us. Let us wave in return, and stand apart, so they can see that there are four of us."

They did as the youngest Rover advised and soon saw that they were seen. Then Captain Blossom held up his spyglass.

"I reckon they will know who I am by that," he said, and he was right, for Sam told the girls that the fourth man was Captain Blossom beyond a doubt.

"How is your stock of provisions?" asked old Jerry. "We are getting just a bit tired of living on birds and fish. And we want a gun or a pistol with which to protect ourselves."

"The Golden Wave has enough provisions to last this party a year," answered the captain. "We haven't anything very fine, but we have plenty of flour, dried beans, salt and smoked meats, and a good many cases of canned vegetables, as well as sugar, tea, coffee, salt, and pepper. With fresh fish and some game we'll be able to live as well here as if we were on shore, -- that is, if we can find fresh water."

"We have all the fresh water we want, -- on the large island," said Tom. "And lots of tropical fruit -- cocoanuts, bananas, and the like."

"If we are going to live on the ship, we'll have to bring fresh water over from the other island in a cask," said Dick. "That will not be very handy."

"Can't we move the wreck over?" came from Tom.

"No, lad," answered Captain Blossom. "She is here to stay until her timbers rot. But if we wish, we can move some of the provisions ashore. There are the parts of a rowboat below, and I reckon I am carpenter enough to put the parts together in a day or two."

"We have a boat on the north beach," said old Jerry; "we can bring it around."

"To do that, we'll have to swim the channel again," came from Dick. "And I must say I don't like that."

"Let us make a raft," cried Tom. "There must be plenty of material on board of the schooner for that."

"There certainly is," answered Captain Blossom. "Come, we can make a raft in less than an hour."

All set to work, and in a short space of time they had the material together. Ropes and spikes were there a-plenty, and as Captain Blossom laid out one stick and another, the boys and old Jerry either nailed or tied them together. A board flooring was placed on top of the spars and then the whole affair was dumped into the bay with a loud splash. It floated very well, with the flooring a good ten inches above the surface of the water, and as the raft was nearly twenty feet long by ten wide, it was capable of carrying considerable weight.

"That's better than a boat," said Dick. "We can pile a good deal more stuff on it."

"Let us get on and paddle to where we left the others," said Tom. "They will be anxious to learn the news."

Captain Blossom was willing, and they took with them a variety of provisions and also some extra clothing and some firearms. Then the raft was moved to where the boys had left part of their own clothing when they had started to swim the channel.

The coming of the big raft and its passengers to the shore where the cabin was located was greeted with shouts of joy from Sam and the three girls.

"Hurrah for the captain of the Golden Wave!" cried Sam, swinging his cap in the air. "We are very glad to see you safe and sound."

"And I am glad to see you," answered Captain Blossom, as he leaped ashore and grasped one and another by the hand. "Last night I was thinking I would be a lonely castaway; now I find I shall have plenty of company."

"We have brought along some provisions," put in Tom. "And in honor of this reunion, and also in honor of the fact that the Golden 'Wave has not been sunk, I move we invite the girls to get us up a regular feast. I think all bands deserve it."

"Second the motion!" cried Sam.

"All right, we'll cook you anything you want," said Nellie. "That is, if you will supply the things."

"I will," answered Tom. Then he scratched his head. "Well, by gracious!"

"What's the trouble, Tom?" asked Grace. "Did you forget to bring along some sugar?"

"Worse than that. I brought along all sorts of good things to eat, and not a single knife, fork, spoon, or dish outside of some cooking utensils."

"Oh, dear!" burst out Dora. "It will be a sorry feast if we haven't anything to eat from!"

"I'll go back for the dishes," replied Tom promptly. "Sam, do you want to visit the wreck? We can go and come by the time the things are cooked."

"To be sure I'll go," said Sam; and in a few minutes more the two boys were off on the clumsy raft.



Chapter XVI

Sam And The Shark

"The Golden Wave looks like an old friend," said Sam as they paddled across the smooth waters of the bay.

"Her coming here is the finest thing that could have happened," answered his brother. "I didn't want to say anything before, but if she hadn't come what would we have done for clothing and for eating? We couldn't live on fish all the time, and one can do mighty little hunting without a gun."

"We would have had to set traps, Tom, and dig pitfalls for larger game. But I admit it would have been hard work, and I fancy a suit of goatskins, like Robinson Crusoe wore, wouldn't be half as comfortable as a suit of clothes such as I am wearing."

"If we could only float the schooner and sail away to some nearby port."

"There is no port' within three hundred miles of us, so the captain says."

Soon the boys were halfway across the bay. But moving the big raft was a laborious task, and they were glad enough to sit down and rest for a few minutes.

"There is no use of our hurrying," said Tom. "Our time is our own in this out-of-the-way place, and as we have next to nothing to do we want to make what little work there is last us."

"Like a lazy man working by the day," laughed Sam. "I'm afraid I can't work that way. When I have something to do I'm not content until it is done."

"Are you hot, Sam? Here is something to cool you off."

As Tom spoke he playfully scooped up a handful of water and threw it at his brother.

Soon the two boys were having lots of sport, throwing handfuls of the salty water at each other. Then Sam made a motion as if he was going to push Tom overboard with his paddle.

"Hi! none of that!" cried Tom. "I don't mind a wetting by retail, but I don't want it by wholesale."

He continued to throw water at Sam and the youngest Rover tried to dodge. The raft began to rock, and of a sudden Sam lost his balance and went into the bay with a splash.

Tom set up a laugh, for it was a comical sight, and it had been Sam's own fault that he went overboard. But then Tom's laughter came to an end as he saw the form of a shark moving swiftly toward the spot.

"A shark! a shark!" he screamed. "Sam, get on board, quick! A shark is after you!"

Sam had gone far down beneath the surface and he did not reappear at once. Then he came up spluttering.

"Gosh! I didn't want a bath! Tom, you -- "

"Hurry and get aboard, Sam! A shark is after you!"

Sam was about ten feet from the raft, and running to the spot nearest to him, Tom held out the end of his paddle.

"A shark?" gasped the youngest Rover.

"Yes! yes! Catch the end of the paddle!"

Sam made a frantic effort to do so. In the meantime the shark came closer and Tom could see his enormous mouth and sharp teeth clearly. His blood turned to ice in his veins.

Sam made a clutch at the paddle, missed it, and disappeared once more from sight. The shark rushed to the spot and turned in dismay, and driven to desperation, Tom hit the monster over the head with the paddle. Then the shark disappeared also.

The next few seconds were full of agony for poor Tom. He gazed in all directions for Sam, and for the shark, but neither one nor the other was to be seen.

"He must have caught Sam under the water!" he muttered. "Oh, Sam, what an awful death to die!"

A slight noise at the upper end of the raft disturbed him. He turned swiftly, to see a wet hand glide over the woodwork. He made a leap and clutched the hand, and then Sam's head appeared. He gave a frantic yank, and both lay on the flooring of the raft. Sam was saved.

"The shark!" gasped Tom, when he could speak. "Did it -- it -- bite you?"

"No, but it grazed my shoulder," answered Sam. "If I had not dived down, I would have lost an arm at the very least."

When they felt able they looked around, but the shark had disappeared.

"That settles it," said Tom. "We must be careful and keep out of this water in the future. If we want to bathe, we will have to build a pool."

During the remainder of the trip to the wreck both were careful not to run the slightest chance of falling overboard.

"Not such a very lovely place to live in, after all," said Tom. "Snakes on land and sharks in the water, ugh!" And Sam agreed with him.

Once on the wreck it was an easy thing to obtain the dishes and the knives, forks and spoons, and also some other things they thought they might require. They also brought away another gun, loading it up before leaving the ship.

"Now, if Mr. Shark comes around again, we can give him a dose of buckshot," said' Tom.

But the shark did not appear, excepting at a great distance.

When Sam. told his story all congratulated him on his narrow escape.

"Tom is right," said old Jerry. "Ye mustn't do no bathin' in the bay. We can fix two pools, one for the ladies and one for ourselves, and make another pool for fish, and another for turtles, if we can find any."

The girls had cooked a splendid meal, and soon the table was set on a big flat rock lying near the beach. All sat down and Captain Blossom asked a blessing, and then they all fell to with vigor, for all were hungry.

"The salt air gives one an appetite," said Dick.

The meal lasted the best part of an hour, for, as Tom said, there was no use of hurrying. As they ate, and for some time afterward, they discussed their situation and tried to arrange plans for the future.

It was decided that first of all Dick and old Jerry should climb to the top of the hill, taking with them an ax and a flag and some halyards, and fasten the flag to the top of the tree, stars down, as a signal of distress. Then the whole party was to assist in bringing from the wreck as much building material as was necessary to construct a comfortable dwelling of three large rooms, one for the girls, one for the boys and men, and one as a general living room. A store-house was also to be built, in which could be stored such provisions as were brought away from the wreck from time to time. Then they could live on shore or on the ship, as they pleased.

The following day was Sunday and all rested. The girls thought there should be some sort of religious exercises and all went to the wreck, where Captain Blossom read some chapters from the Bible and the others sang hymns.

The week to follow was a busy one and the time slipped by rapidly. A visit was paid to the hilltop and the flag raised, and Tom and old Jerry also went to the north shore and brought around the rowboat beached there. In the meantime Captain Blossom put together the rowboat parts stored on the Golden Wave, so they now had two boats and the raft for service across the bay and to other points on the water.

Building the house was by no means an easy task, but the Rover boys thought it more fun than work, especially with the girls to look on, and by the end of the second week the building looked quite presentable. When the two bedrooms were finished, some berths were brought over from the wreck, along with bed-clothing, and also some furniture for the living apartment. Outside the latter room a large porch was built, where they might eat and rest when the weather was fine. Not to run the risk of burning down the building in a high wind, it was decided that the cooking should be done in a shed some distance away, in the shelter of the rocks and handy to the spring.

"Who is going to be the cook?" asked Dick. "It won't be fair to put it off on one person."

"We have decided to take turns," said Dora. "Each one will be the main cook for a day at a time, with the others to help, and to wash the dishes. We are going to do all the housework, too, so you men folks can hunt and fish, and make garden if you will, to your hearts' content."

"What a lazy time we will have of it," laughed Dick.

"Captain Blossom says that as soon as we are settled we can explore all of the seven islands. Who knows we may find out something of importance," came from Tom, who stood near.

"Cannibals, for instance," put in Sam.

"Oh, do you really think there are any cannibals here?" asked Grace.

"I believe he is fooling," said Nellie. "He only wants to scare us!" And she tossed her pretty head.

"Perhaps we'll stir up some lions or tigers," said Tom.

"Or an elephant," added Dick. "But I don't think we will. My opinion is that these islands have nothing on them but birds, monkeys, small game, and snakes."

"You've forgotten one thing," said Dora, with an odd smile.

"What, Dora?"

"Castaways."



Chapter XVII

Exploring The Seven Islands


Another rainy spell, lasting three days, followed, but after that the sky cleared in a fashion which Captain Blossom thought betokened good weather for some time to come.

"We can now explore the seven islands and learn just what they contain," he said.

The question now arose as to who should go along and who should stay at home with the girls. Lots were cast, and by this it was decided that the exploring party should consist of Captain Blossom, Sam, and Tom, leaving Dick and old Jerry with Dora, Nellie, and Grace.

It was decided that the exploring party should take the lightest of the rowboats and enough provisions to last for a week. Each was also provided with a pistol, and Captain Blossom carried a rifle in addition.

"If all goes well we will be back inside of four days," said the captain, when he and Tom and Sam were ready to depart. "But if we are not back at that time do not worry until at least a week has gone by." And so it was arranged. It was also arranged that three shots fired in succession should be a signal that one party or the other was in trouble.

Tom and Sam were pleased over the prospect of going with the captain and they willingly took up the oars to row to the nearest island, which, as we already know, was close at hand. The boat was left on the beach and without delay the captain and the two boys plunged into the interior.

The island was small, with but a slight rise of ground in the center. It was of small importance and they soon came out on the ocean side, where there was a beach strewn with shells and with oysters scarcely fit to eat. The growth on this island was mostly of young palms and the captain was of the opinion that the ground was not many years old.

"This has been thrown up by an earthquake or a volcano," he said. "There is nothing here to interest us," and he turned back.

They already knew something of the island on which the wreck was located, but, nevertheless, made a trip across it and up the outward coast. Here they found a number of orange and lemon trees, and also a great quantity of tropical nuts and some spices. The lemons proved to be very refreshing, and Tom said he meant to come back some day and get a bagful for general use.

The next island was visited the next day, the party spending the night on the wreck. The passage to this island was rather a rough one, and they had all they could do to keep from having their provisions spilt overboard.

"It is a blessing that the sea is comparatively calm," said Captain Blossom. "Otherwise we could never make such a trip in a small boat."

This island was the largest of the group outside of the one on which the castaways had settled. It was almost square in shape and had a double hill with a tiny valley running between. In this valley the tropical growth was very dense, and the monkeys and birds were thicker than they had before seen them. There were also large quantities of blue and green parrots, filling the air with their cawing and screaming.

"This is a very nice island," said Tom, while they were resting under some calabash trees. "The wood is very valuable -- indigo, rosewood, mahogany, and lots of others. And what a sweet smell!" And he drew in a long breath of satisfaction.

"It is certainly a lazy man's paradise," re-turned Sam. "A fellow need do next to nothing to feed and clothe himself here, and a house isn't absolutely necessary excepting when it storms real hard."

On this island they found numerous land crabs, some as large as their two hands, and many fierce-looking spiders, with long, hairy legs and bulging eyes. Ants were also numerous, and in one spot they located fifteen anthills, each as large as a big beehive. Insects of all sorts were numerous, and they had to continually slap at a specimen of red fly that annoyed them greatly.

"How those ants would like to get at our provisions," said Tom. "We can be thankful that we didn't locate here. Once they got at the stuff, they would eat us out of house and home."

After resting, and partaking of some of the food brought along, they continued their journey across the island.

The way was up one of the hills, and Tom was slightly in advance, when a noise ahead attracted his attention.

"Something is there," he called out, as he came to a halt.

"What is it?" asked Sam.

"I don't know. Perhaps some wild animal, or else a snake."

"Go slow there," cautioned Captain Blossom, coming up. "We don't want to run into unnecessary danger."

"What did it sound like, Tom?"

"I can't describe it. Something like a snarl, I guess."

"Perhaps it was only a monkey."

All stopped to listen, but no, sound reached their ears but the hum of insects and the chirping of some distant birds.

"I reckon I had best go first," said Captain Blossom, but he did not seem to relish the task.

Gun in hand, the captain advanced very cautiously. The boys came close behind him, each with his pistol ready for use.

Of a sudden there was a snarl with a strange "yow-yawing," and a great beast leaped up on all-fours directly in their path and darted through the bushes. The captain raised his gun and the boys their pistols, but before they could fire the beast had disappeared.

"What was it?" asked Sam, trembling with excitement.

"I give it up, unless it was a bear," said Tom.

"I think I know what it was," said the captain. "A big baboon or a gorilla."

"I guess you are right, captain," answered Tom. "I saw a gorilla in a menagerie, and it was exactly like that beast. But what a big fellow he was!"

"Gorillas are highly dangerous, especially when cornered," said Captain Blossom. He himself was more frightened than he cared to admit. "They have been known to carry a man off in their arms and bite him to death."

"Thanks, but I want no gorillas around me," declared Sam.

They waited several minutes before advancing again. But the gorilla had disappeared, nor did it show itself again during that trip on the island.

Half an hour brought them in sight of the seashore once more. They were gazing at the sea when Tom happened to glance back, and on the hill behind them saw four goats standing in a bunch, looking at them in astonishment.

"Quick! out of sight!" he cried, and dragged the others behind some trees.

"What did you see?"

"Several goats. Perhaps, if we are careful, we can get a shot at them. Fresh goat meat won't go bad."

"What's the matter with capturing some of the goats and getting the milk?" came from Sam.

"You'll have a job catching wild goats," answered Captain Blossom. "They are as fleet of foot as deer."

It was decided to try two shots at the goats, providing they could get close enough. With care they plunged into the undergrowth and made their way back up the hillside until they thought they must be within fifty yards of the game.

"There they are!" cried Tom softly.

Bang! went the captain's gun, and crack! Tom fired immediately after. Two of the goats were hit, and one fell dead. The other staggered away with a broken foreleg.

"We must get that second fellow!" cried Sam, and rushed after the game. The goat tried to turn on him, but Sam hit the beast over the head with a club he carried. Two other blows finished the animal.

"That isn't bad," said the captain. "They both look to be young. They ought to make good eating."

"We are going to have no easy work of it, getting these animals down to the shore," said Tom.

"After we get them to the shore, what then?" questioned his brother. "We can't keep them in the boat all the time that we are exploring the other islands."

"We had best make a trip back to the house," answered Captain Blossom. "If the others heard the shots they'll be wondering what has happened; besides, a storm is coming up."

The captain said he would carry the smaller of the goats alone, leaving the two Rovers to carry the larger game between them. After a rest and another look around the vicinity, they started for the boat and reached it after a walk which almost exhausted every one of the party.

"I'll be glad enough to lay around our camp and rest for a day," announced Sam. "This task of exploring is not as easy as it looks."

A little later they were in the boat and rowing back to where they had left the others, little dreaming of the strange events that had happened in their absence.



Chapter XVIII

Unexpected Visitors


It had been decided by the castaways to enlarge one of the rooms of the house, and as soon as the captain, Tom, and Sam had departed on their exploring tour, Dick and old Jerry set to work to cut down the posts necessary for the building.

While this was going on the three girls were by no means idle. There were meals to get, dishes to wash, and it had been found that outdoor life was very rough on clothing, so there was a good bit of sewing and darning to be done. Fortunately all of the girls were handy with a needle, so that a rent in a coat or a dress received immediate attention.

"Now you must make the alteration in the house very nice," said Dora to Dick. "Remember, we want a regular Queen Anne building, with round bay windows, and -- "

"And inlaid floors," finished Dick, "not to mention steam heat, and -- "

"Mercy on us!" burst in Grace. "Don't mention steam heat in this climate."

"Of course we want hot and cold water in the kitchen," put in Nellie. "What sort of a mansion would it be without hot and cold water, -- and a dumb waiter from the cellar, too," and then all began to laugh.

"I know what I should like," said Dora, after a pause. "That would be a refrigerator."

"If we had the ice," finished Nellie. "Dick, isn't there any ice on board of the Golden Wave?"

"By Jove! I think there is," cried the oldest Rover boy. "I never once thought of it before."

"If there is, I wish you'd bring some the next time you go over. We have lemons, and we could make delicious lemonade."

"And we could make orange ice, too," put in Grace. "I know there was an ice-cream freezer on board of the ship. It was in the cook's galley."

Old Jerry was coming to the house with a small tree he had cut down, and Dick sounded him about the ice.

"To be sure there was ice, several tons of it," said Jerry. "It was stowed away near the bow. I don't believe it's all melted, either."

"I'm going over to see," cried Dick. "We've got plenty of lemons and sugar; and lemonade, not to mention orange ice, would just strike the spot in this awfully hot weather."

But as it was now noon, with the sun directly overhead, Dick decided to remain in the shade until four or five o'clock. Dinner was had, and then the work of enlarging the house went on as before.

At half-past four Dick got out the rowboat and started for the wreck. He had first thought to go alone, but old Jerry wanted to pick out certain tools needed for the house-building, as well as hunt for a keg of nails, and the two decided to go together, going and coming as quickly as possible.

"You won't be afraid to be alone, will you?" asked Dick, of the girls.

"Not if you hurry," answered Nellie. "But don't stay away after dark."

Left to themselves, the three girls swept up the chips the builders had left and started up the camp-fire. Then they tidied up the house generally, and soon set about preparing the supper.

Dora was at the spring getting a pail of water when a sound on the rocks nearby caused her to look around in wonder. To her amazement Dan Baxter stood there, staring at her in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Dan Baxter!" she gasped. "Where in the world did you come from?"

For a moment the bully did not answer, so great was his amazement. Dora noted that he was dirty and unkempt, and that his clothing was almost in rags.

"Is it you, Dora Stanhope?" came slowly from the fellow's lips. "Is it really you?"

"Yes," she answered.

"How did you get here? Are you alone?" went on Baxter, coming closer. And then before she could answer, he added: "Got anything to eat?"

At the last question she looked at him more closely, and saw that he appeared half starved. She pitied him despite his character.

"Yes, we have plenty to eat," she said.

"Then give me something at once," he cried. "Give me something at once!"

"Come with me."

There was now a crashing in the bushes back of Dan Baxter, and in a second more Jack Lesher appeared on the scene. He too was haggard and dirty, and his eyes were much blood-shot, the result of living almost entirely on liquor for several days after being wrecked on the islands.

"Well, is it possible!" cried the mate of the Golden Wave.

"They've got lots to eat," muttered Dan Baxter. "I'm going to have something to fill me up before I start to talk."

"How many more of you are here?" asked Dora, in something of dismay.

"We came along alone," said Baxter. "Show us that grub."

Dora led the way to the camp-fire, where Nellie and Grace were also surprised at the unexpected visitors. Some food was brought forth, and both Baxter and Lesher ate like two famished wolves.

"Got any liquor?" questioned the mate, casting his eyes toward the house.

"We have a little," answered Nellie, for Captain Blossom had brought over several bottles from the wreck.

"Bring it out."

When the liquor was brought Jack Lesher took a long draught and then handed the bottle to Dan Baxter.

"That's the stuff!" cried the mate, with a sly wink at Dora. "Better than eatin,' twice over," and he took another drink.

The manner of the two newcomers was not at all pleasing to the girls, and they were sorry that none of the men folks were at hand. They asked the pair to tell their story, and Baxter spoke up, while Lesher applied himself to the bottle.

"We floated around the ocean for several days," said the bully. "One sailor went crazy from the sunshine and leaped overboard, and was drowned. Then a heavy wind came up and drove the boat, in the night, onto an island close to this one. We were cast ashore with hardly any provisions, and two of the sailors were sick. We had to live on fish, birds, and fruit, and we've had a hard lot of it, I can tell you that. Yesterday Lesher and I resolved to explore this island, thinking that perhaps some of the wreckage from the schooner had washed ashore here. We came over in the afternoon and tramped along the north shore until it grew dark, but without finding anything. We slept at the shore last night, and this morning started to go over the hill back there. But the snakes chased us off, and then we came around over some rough rocks, where both of us got our clothing torn. We thought we saw a flag up there somewhere, but we weren't sure."

"Yes, we have a signal of distress up there," answered Dora. She hardly knew how best to reply.

"Who is here?"

"Captain Blossom, old Jerry Tolman, and the three Rover boys. Old Jerry and Dick have just gone over to the wreck en an errand. The others have gone on an exploring tour among the islands, which are seven in number."

"Got the wreck, have yer!" came in almost a grunt from Jack Lesher. "Sure enough!" He staggered down to the beach. "Don't see why you stay here when you might be aboard of her."

"It is cooler here," answered Nellie.

"How many sailors were saved?" asked Grace.

"Nine were saved, besides Lesher and myself," answered Dan Baxter. "You see, we picked up some of the men from one of the other boats."

"Then your party numbers eleven in all," said Dora.

"Yes," came from Jack Lesher. "An' I am the cap'n of the lot," and he bobbed his head in satisfaction. He had partaken of just enough liquor to make him foolish.

"I wish Dick and old Jerry would come back," whispered Grace to Dora. "I do not like Mr. Lesher at all."

"I never liked him," replied Dora. "When he gets intoxicated he is a bad fellow to deal with."

"Reckon we'll make ourselves comfortable here," said Lesher, staggering to a hammock Dick had put up for the girls to rest in. He pitched into the hammock, carrying a bottle of liquor with him. Another drink was taken, and soon he was fast asleep, snoring loudly.



Chapter XIX

Hot Words And Blows


"What a shame!" said Nellie, pointing to the slumbering mate.

"That shows what liquor will do," came from Dora.

"Oh, you mustn't blame him too much," returned Dan Baxter, who also liked the taste of the liquor. "Remember that we have been living a dog's life since we came on shore, while you have been living on the best the ship affords."

"I wouldn't touch liquor if I was starving!" cried Grace.

"And neither would the Rover boys," added Dora.

"Oh, you think the Rover boys are regular saints!" grumbled the bully. "You don't know what they would do behind your back."

"If they said they wouldn't drink they wouldn't," cried Nellie, her eyes flashing. "We can trust them every time."

"I suppose the Rover boys run this place to suit themselves," went on Baxter, eying the house and the general appearance of the camp sharply.

"We all run it together," came from Grace.

"Isn't Captain Blossom, in command?"

"After a fashion, yes. We haven't tried to decide that point yet. Have you a leader in your camp?"

"Not much of a one. Lesher is leader when he is sober. Of course we'll all come over here, now we've found you and the wreck," went on Dan Baxter.

"But why should you come here?" asked Dora, not at all pleased by the prospect. "We can let you have your share of what's on board of the schooner."

"Don't want me here, eh?"

"I don't care for all of those rough sailors."

"Well, they are Captain Blossom's men, you mustn't forget that."

"I suppose that is true," and Dora sighed. With the coming of the sailors she was certain the camp would not be as pleasant as formerly.

"I don't think you ought to be down on me, Dora," continued Dan Baxter, after a pause. "I always liked you, and you know it."

"Thank you for nothing," she replied coldly.

"I'm just as good a fellow as Dick Rover," went on the bully, and laid his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Don't touch me, Dan Baxter!" she cried.

"I won't hurt you. Come, let us be friends. Surely you don't want any enemies here, where there are only a handful of us, all told."

"I want you to leave me alone."

She tried to move away from him, but he caught her by the arm and tried to hold her hands. Grace and Nellie were out of sight, the one having gone into the house for some dishes, and the other to the spring for some water.

"Say that you'll be friends, and I'll let you go," he said, drawing her closer.

"I won't be friends with you, Dan Baxter, so there!" she cried. "Now let me go!" And she tried to push him away.

"You -- you little cat!" he cried, and then, as she let out a loud cry, he let go of her. "What a little fool you are!" And he walked away to the trees, and threw himself down to rest.

Red in the face and ready to cry, Dora ran into the house. Grace looked at her in wonder.

"What is the trouble, Dora?"

"Nothing."

"Did Dan Baxter try to -- to -- "

"He wants to be -- be friends!" sobbed Dora. "He held my hand so I couldn't get away. Oh, how I despise him!"

"Just wait till Dick comes back; he'll make Baxter mind his own business."

"Oh, don't tell him, Grace."

"But I shall, Dora. Baxter has got to keep his distance. I hate him myself, and so does Nellie."

"I wish he and Mr. Lesher had kept their distance."

"Do you think they will really come here -- I mean all of the sailors?"

"More than likely."

The girls continued their work, and for the time being Dan Baxter kept his distance. Jack Lesher continued to snore away in the hammock, nor did he rouse up when Dick and old Jerry returned.

"Dan Baxter!" cried Dick, as he leaped from the rowboat. "Where did you come from?" And then the story of the newcomers had to be told over again.

Dick eyed Jack Lesher with open disgust. "A man who will act like that has no welcome in our camp," he said to Baxter.

"You don't mean you are going to turn him out," said the bully, in alarm.

"If he stays here he must behave himself."

"You forget that he was the first mate of the schooner, Dick Rover."

"We are not on the schooner now."

"No, but you are getting your living -- or the largest part of it -- from the schooner."

"What do you mean, Baxter?"

"I mean that it's the same as if you were on the schooner. And that being so, Mr. Lesher is the second in command here."

At this statement the girls looked alarmed, and even old Jerry's face showed his uneasiness. But Dick's face was full of contempt.

"Do you mean to say that thing " -- pointing to the drunken mate -- " that thing can command any of us? If you do, let me say right now that you are mistaken."

"We'll see about that later."

"This is our camp, and it is not for you, the mate, or anybody else to come here and dictate to us. If you try that, we'll send you off in double-quick order."

There was a pause, and Dick and old Jerry began to unload the things they had brought from the wreck. They had found a large cake of ice. But the coming of Baxter and Jack Lesher had taken away the pleasure of making lemonade and orange ice, and the lump was placed in some water to cool it for drinking purposes.

As soon as Grace could get the chance she told Dick of the way Dan Baxter had treated Dora. At once Dick's face took on a stern look that boded the bully no good.

"I'll have a talk with him and come to an understanding," said the eldest Rover, and strode out of the house and to where Baxter was walking up the beach, picking up fancy-colored sea-shells.

"Look here, Baxter, I want to have an understanding with you," he said, catching the bully by the arm.

"What do you want now?"

"I want you to promise to leave Dora Stanhope alone in the future."

"How I treat her is none of your business," blustered the bully.

"But it is my business, Baxter."

"See here, Dick Rover, I won't be bossed by you!" howled the tall youth. "You mind your own business."

"If you touch her again, there will be trouble."

"What will you do?"

"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life."

"Two can play at that game."

"There will be only one in this game."

"Do you want to fight me?"

"I am perfectly willing," responded Dick recklessly. His anger was deep at that moment.

"All right then, come on!" howled Baxter savagely, and, squaring off, he aimed a blow at Dick's face.

The attack was so sudden that Dick could scarcely prepare for it, and though he dodged, Baxter's fist landed glancingly on his cheek.

"There you are, and here's another!" cried the bully, and his other fist shot out, catching Dick on the shoulder.

But now the oldest Rover was on his guard, and in a twinkle he let drive, taking Dan Baxter in the eye. It was a staggering blow, and made the bully gasp with pain. Then Dick followed it up by a crashing blow on the chin, which sent the bully reeling into the low water on the beach.

"Don't -- don't run me into the ocean!" he spluttered, and, watching his chance, ran out of the water and up the beach.

But Dick was now thoroughly aroused, and he made after Baxter. When he got close enough, he put out his foot and sent the bully sprawling. Baxter came down on some rough sea-shells, cutting his face and hands in several places.

"Oh! oh!" he howled. "Stop it!"

"I will not stop it, Dan Baxter, until you promise to let Dora Stanhope and the other girls alone in the future. They want nothing to do with you, and you must keep your distance."

"I -- I didn't hurt anybody."

"Do you promise to let them alone?"

Without replying, the bully staggered to his feet. The blood was running from his nose and from a cut on his chin, and both of his hands were also bleeding.

"Do you want to kill me, Dick Rover?"

"I want you to behave yourself. Come, now, are you going to promise?"

"What if I don't?"

"Then I'll give you the thrashing I promised."

"All right, I'm cornered, and can't help myself."

"Will you let the girls alone in the future?"

"Yes. If they don't want to be friends, I'm sure I can get along without them," answered Baxter sulkily.

"Very well; now see that you keep your promise. If you don't, I'll run you out of camp and never let you come near us again."

With these words Dick turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Baxter to wash his cuts and bruises in the ocean and otherwise care for them as best he could.



Chapter XX

The Mate Tries To Take Command


The fight had taken place around a bend of the shore, so that it was not observed by old Jerry and the girls. But when Dick got back to camp Dora at once noticed that something unusual had happened.

"What is wrong, Dick?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing much, Dora. I merely made Dan Baxter promise to keep his distance in the future."

"Did you have a fight?"

"It didn't amount to much. He had to give in pretty quickly."

"Oh, Dick!" She caught his arm.

"I won't have him annoying you, or the others, Dora."

"You are so good!" she whispered.

Supper was ready, and they sat down, leaving Jack Lesher still in the hammock. They had nearly finished when Dan Baxter came shuffling along.

"Do you want some supper?" asked Dick. "If you do, come on."

"I don't want anything more to-night," growled the bully, and sat down beside Jack Lesher.

It was rather an uncomfortable evening. The thoughts of each of the party were busy. At the first opportunity Dick called old Jerry to one side.

"Jerry, we must watch those two fellows closely," he said.

"Right ye are, Dick."

"I am afraid Lesher will be ugly when he wakes up."

"More'n likely, lad -- he always was on board ship. The drink gives him an awful temper."

"I am, going to put the liquor where he can't get it."

"He'll make ye give it to him."

"Will he? Just you wait and see," replied Dick firmly.

It was decided to let Lesher rest in the hammock all night. Baxter was given a cot in the living room of the house. Soon all had retired, and the camp was quiet for the night.

Dan Baxter was the first to stir in the morning. His cuts smarted so he could not sleep, and he walked out to bathe them and put on some salve Nellie had generously turned over to him. He found Jack Lesher stirring.

"Hullo!" grumbled the mate, sitting up and yawning. "Where am I?"

"Don't you know we struck camp?" answered Baxter.

"Oh, yes, I remember now. Got some good liquor, too. Where is that bottle?"

"You emptied it, Lesher."

"Did I? Too bad! I'll have to find another. Where are the girls?"

"Asleep in the house, and so are Dick Rover and old Jerry Tolman."

"What of Cap'n Blossom and them other Rover boys?"

"They are not expected back for several days."

"Humph! Say, I feel bad, I do. I must have something to brace me up."

"You'd better not disturb them, Lesher. They are mighty stiff-necked since they landed here."

"What do you mean?"

"They gave me to understand yesterday that they were going to run things to suit themselves. They are not going to let us interfere in anything."

"I like that!" The mate yawned again, rose, and stretched himself. "Baxter, do you know where they keep the liquor?"

"No."

"I'm bound to have what I want. Didn't it all come from the Golden Wave, and aint I the first mate of that craft?"

"To be sure you are, Lesher."

"They can't make me take a back seat," went on the mate. His head was still far from clear.

"I told them that you were second in command -- Captain Blossom being first -- but they wouldn't listen. They said they were on land, and you didn't count."

"Don't I count!" cried Jack Lesher, his blood-shot eyes taking on an ugly look. "I'll show 'em!"

Just then old Jerry came from the house. Jack Lesher staggered toward him.

"Ahoy there!" he called out.

"What do you want, Mr. Lesher?" questioned old Jerry, and touched his forelock.

"Bring me some liquor, and be quick about it."

"I haven't any liquor."

"What's that?"

"I said I haven't any liquor."

"Aint there any more liquor ashore?"

"If there is, I don't know where it is."

"Then find out, and be quick about it, or I'll give you the rope's-end!" roared the unreasonable mate.

The loud talking aroused Dick, and he soon came out.

"What's the matter here?" he asked. "Oh, so you have woke up," he went on to Jack Lesher.

"Yes, I'm awake, Rover. And I want to know where the liquor has been placed."

"It's been placed where you won't get hold of it, Mr. Lesher."

"What! This to me!" yelled the mate, in fury. "To me, the first mate!"

"A first mate doesn't count for anything here. This is a private camp, and if you don't behave yourself we'll pitch you out of it."

"You -- you -- " Jack Lesher could not go on, and shook his fist in Dick's face.

"I told you what they intended to do," whispered Dan Baxter in Lesher's ear. "They have the upper hand and mean to keep it. But don't forget that we have nine sailors in our camp to back us up," he went on suggestively.

"Don't grow abusive, Mr. Lesher," said Dick as calmly as he could. "Just think the matter over. It may save a good deal of trouble."

"I don't have to think it over!" bellowed the mate. "During Cap'n Blossom's absence I am in command, just as much as if we were on the deck of the wreck over there. You were only passengers, but Jerry Tolman was a sailor, and he's under my command. I told him to bring me some liquor, and he has got to do it. If he won't obey, it's mutiny, just you remember that!" And he shook his finger warningly in old Jerry's face.

"I told ye I don't know where the liquor is," answered old Jerry doggedly.

"And he tells the truth," said Dick. "I put it away myself."

"Then I command you to bring it to me."

"I told you before your commands don't hold water here. Even old Jerry hasn't got to obey you. When the Golden Wave was abandoned that ended your authority. We have simply made Captain Blossom our leader because he acted fair and square. But we don't have to obey him if we don't want to."

"What of the nine sailors who are with me?"

"We'll be pleased to give them their full share of what is on the wreck, and if they behave themselves they can build a camp right next to this one. But you must remember that we discovered the wreck first, and that Captain Blossom was the only man left on board."

"We'll see what the men have to say about this," growled Lesher. "Then you aint going to give me no liquor?"

"You can have one glass with your breakfast, and that is all. After this you can have the regulation ship's grog, with the other sailors. But getting drunk has got to be stopped, even if we have to dump all the liquor into the ocean."

By this time the girls had appeared on the scene, and the talk came to an end, Dick turning in to help get breakfast. Jack Lesher walked down to the beach, followed by Dan Baxter.

"You see, it is just as I told you," said Baxter. "They are going to ride right over us."

"They wouldn't ride over us if I had those other sailors here," growled the mate.

"Or if we were armed," went on the bully. "I tried to get hold of a pistol, but Dick Rover watches me like a cat watches a mouse."

"If we could get to the wreck we might arm ourselves," said Lesher. "Here is a boat; let us row over."

"I'm willing," answered the bully.

They walked to the boat, shoved it into the water, and leaped in. Just as Lesher picked up the oars Dick saw what they were doing.

"Stop!" he cried.

"What do you want?" growled the mate.

"Where are you going?"

"Over to the wreck."

"What for?"

"That is our business," put in Dan Baxter.

"You shan't go over there until Captain Blossom comes back."

"We'll go when we please," said Lesher, and started to row away.

"Come back, I say!" cried Dick, and, rushing into the house, he appeared with a shot-gun.

"What are you going to do, Dick Rover?" questioned Baxter in alarm.

"I am going to make you come back," was the oldest Rover's very quiet, but determined, answer.



Chapter XXI

The Attack On The Wreck


The appearance of Dick with the shot-gun disturbed Jack Lesher quite as much as it did Dan Baxter, and the mate stopped rowing instantly.

"Hi! don't you fire at us!" he cried.

"Then come back here," said Dick.

"Haven't I a right to visit the wreck?"

"I am not sure that you have. Anyway, you must wait until Captain Blossom returns."

"It seems to me that you are carrying matters with a high hand, young fellow."

"Oh, Dick, be careful!" whispered Dora. "They may become desperate."

"Don't worry, Dora," he whispered in return. Unless I miss my guess, one is as big a coward as the other."

"I hope ye aint goin' too far, Dick," said old Jerry, in a low tone.

"Don't you intend to stand by me, Jerry?"

"To be sure I do; but the mate is the mate, ye know."

There was an uncertain pause all around.

"There is no harm in my visiting the wreck," growled Jack Lesher presently.

"Perhaps not, but you had better wait until Captain Blossom gets back."

"I only want to get some things that belong to me."

"And I want to get my extra clothes," said Baxter. "These are in rags, as you can see."

"Then wait until after breakfast and we'll all go over," said Dick, but he had scarcely spoken when he felt sorry for the words.

"Oh, Dick, don't trust yourself with them!" cautioned Dora.

"We want to hurry, for I want to go back to where I left the sailors before night," answered Lesher.

"Then we'll have breakfast at once."

Rather reluctantly the mate turned back to the shore and he and Baxter left the boat. Then the girls prepared breakfast with all haste. Lesher ate but little, but eagerly tossed off the glass of liquor Dick allowed him.

"Give me one more," he pleaded, but Dick was firm, and the mate stalked away muttering under his breath.

Before Dick entered the rowboat he called Jerry aside, and handed the old sailor a pistol.

"We had better go armed," he said. "Keep your eyes open, for they may try to play us a foul trick. And don't let Lesher talk you into obeying him. He has no authority whatever over you."

"All right, Dick, I'll stand by ye always from this minit on," said Jerry, and the compact was sealed by a handshake.

The girls came down to see them off, and Dora warned Dick again to be on guard. It was decided that Lesher and old Jerry should do the rowing. Baxter sat in the bow of the boat, and Dick in the stern.

The trip to the wreck was accomplished in almost utter silence. Everybody was busy with his thoughts. As they drew near Dick showed the mate where a ladder hung from the side, and as they drew close to this Baxter was the first to mount to the deck.

As Dick had surmised, Lesher's first hunt was for liquor, and he drank several glasses at a gulp. Then he began to roam around the wreck, noting the damage that had been done and the amount of stores still on board.

"Might float her, if the tide got extra high," he said. "Eleven men in our crowd and five in your own ought to be able to do something, surely."

"The captain says the ship is too deep in the sand," answered Dick briefly.

"Blossom don't know everything," growled the mate.

Both he and Baxter soon found some comfortable clothing, and put it on. Then they made up a bundle of things they said the other sailors needed.

When arming themselves, the Rovers and Captain Blossom had placed all of the remaining firearms in a stateroom and locked the door.

"What did you do with all of the guns and pistols?" asked Lesher presently, after looking in vain for them.

"They are packed away in a stateroom. Captain Blossom thought it wouldn't do to leave them lying loose. Some savages might come to the islands and steal them, and then we'd be in a bad hole."

"We've got to have some guns and pistols, Rover."

"Well, you can see the captain about that."

"I shan't wait. Which stateroom are they in?"

Dick would not tell the mate, and Lesher went around trying the various doors. Coming to one that was locked he burst it open with his shoulder.

Dick scarcely knew what to do, and while he was trying to make up his mind Jack Lesher secured a pistol and a rifle, and also a pistol for Dan Baxter. He would have taken more fire-arms, but Dick stopped him.

"That is enough," he said.

"I want some for the men," said the first mate.

"They can get pistols from Captain Blossom when they get here."

"Humph! You think you are in sole command, don't you?"

"I am not going to allow you to take away all the firearms that are here, Mr. Lesher."

"We'll see:"

The mate went into the pantry and secured another glass of liquor. Then he ordered old Jerry to take the bundle of clothing and put it in the rowboat.

"I've got some money on this schooner," he said. "I want to see if that's safe, or if you have stolen it."

"We haven't touched any money," answered Dick, his face flushing. "It would be of no use to us on these islands."

"You come with me while I take a look," said Lesher.

Behind his back he waved his hand for Baxter to follow. All three went below again, and into a stateroom the mate had occupied.

"The money was in that chest," said the mate. He threw open the lid. "It's gone!" he cried.

Interested for the moment, Dick bent forward to look in the chest. As he did so, Lesher suddenly hit him a savage blow over the head with the butt of a pistol. The blow was a heavy one, and Dick fell like a log to the floor.

"Oh!" came from Baxter. "Have you killed him?"

"No; only knocked the senses out of him," answered Lesher, bending over his victim.

"What did you do it for?"

"To teach him a lesson. He shan't boss me, Baxter. Come, help me put him in the brig, and be quick, before Jerry comes back."

They lifted up the insensible form and made their way to where the ship's brig was located, a dirty closet once used for oil and lanterns. Dick was thrown on the floor, and the mate shut the door on him and locked it.

"Now he can stay there for a day or two," he snarled. "Reckon it will teach him a lesson."

"What will you do with the sailor?"

Before Lesher could answer old Jerry appeared.

"Where is Dick Rover?" he asked.

"None of your business," growled Jack Lesher. "See here, Tolman, are you going to obey me after this?"

"I want to know where Dick is?" said old Jerry stubbornly.

"I put him in the brig to cool off. He's too hot-headed for his own good."

"You had no right to lock him up, Mr. Lesher. You must let him out at once."

"Git out of here, quick!" roared Lesher. "On deck, or I'll flog you well!"

"Ye won't tech me!" cried Jerry, his temper rising. "I aint under orders no more, mind that. Now you let him out, or I'll do it. You was a fool to lock him up in the first place."

He moved toward the brig, but Lesher caught him by the arm.

"Let's teach this chap a lesson, too!" came from Baxter, and, like a flash, he struck old Jerry in the back of the head. The first blow was followed by a second, and down went the tar, the blood oozing from one of his wounds.

"Don't hit him again!" cried Lesher hastily. "He's out already."

Baxter grew pale, thinking he had gone too far. But he soon discovered that Jerry still breathed, and then he felt relieved.

It was decided by the pair that they should place old Jerry beside Dick in the brig, and this was quickly done. Then they put into the prison a bucket of drinking water and a can of ship's biscuits, and another of baked beans.

"They won't starve on that," said Lesher. "And when they get out they'll understand that I am as much of a master here as anybody."

"It serves Dick Rover right," said Baxter. "He's the kind that ought to be kept under foot all the time."



Chapter XXII

A Heavy Tropical Storm


"Those girls will ask some awkward questions, I reckon," said Jack Lesher, as the two prepared to leave the wreck.

"We had better not say too much," answered Baxter.

They were soon over the side and in the rowboat, which contained the bundle of clothing and a number of other articles. Then an idea struck the mate.

"Wait; I am going back," he said, and disappeared on the deck one more.

Dan Baxter imagined that Lesher had gone for more liquor. But he was mistaken. When the mate reappeared, he carried a box containing half a dozen pistols, two guns, and a quantity of ammunition.

"I am going to hide this in the woods on the other side of this island," he said. "The firearms may come in handy before long."

"A good idea," replied Baxter, and helped him place the case in a desirable spot, under some rocks, where the rain could not touch it.

"We are going to have a storm before long," said the mate, as they started to row back to the camp. "And if it is a heavy one we'll have to wait till it clears off before we rejoin the rest of our crowd."

The sky was growing dark, and by the time the beach in front of the house was gained the rain was falling.

"Where are Dick and, old Jerry?" asked Dora in quick alarm. She had noted long before that only Baxter and the mate were in the rowboat.

"They stayed behind on the wreck," answered Lesher. "Come, help get the bundles out of the wet," he added to his companion.

"Why did they stay?" asked Nellie.

"Don't ask me," growled Lesher.

He and Baxter took the bundle to the house and dumped it on the floor of the living room. Then they brought in the other things from the boat. By this time it was raining in torrents, and from a distance came the rumble of thunder and occasionally the faint flash of lightning.

Not wishing to remain out in the storm, the three girls came into the house. -- "Dora was very much disturbed, and Nellie and Grace were also anxious.

"It is queer that Dick and old Jerry remained behind," whispered Dora to her cousins. "They were so anxious to protect us before."

"I cannot understand it, Dora," returned Nellie.

"There has been foul play somewhere," came from Grace.

"Oh, do you think -- " Dora could not finish.

"See here!" burst in the voice of Jack Lesher. "We want some dinner. Don't be all day getting it for us."

The liquor he had imbibed was beginning to tell upon him.. He looked ugly, and the girls trembled before him.

"Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour," said Grace, who had been doing the cooking.

"All right." Lesher turned to the bully: "Baxter, join me in a glass of rum for luck."

"Thanks, I will," answered Dan Baxter, who did not particularly want the liquor, but did not dream of offending the mate.

Lesher produced a bottle he had brought away from the wreck, prepared two glasses of rum, and drank with great relish. Then he threw himself into a chair at the rude dining-table.

"I am the master here, and I want everybody to know it!" he exclaimed, banging his fist savagely.

"There is dinner," said Grace, and brought it in. "You can help yourself." And she went into the next room to join Nellie and Dora.

"Aint going to wait on us, eh?" grumbled Lesher, with a hiccough. "All right, my fine ladies. But I am master, don't you forget that!"

He began to eat leisurely, while Dan Baxter began to bolt his food. In the meantime the sky grew darker and the flashes of lightning more vivid. The girls were greatly frightened, and huddled together, while tears stood on Grace's cheeks.

"Oh, if only somebody was with us," sighed Nellie.

By the time Lesher and Baxter had finished eating the storm was on them in all of its violence. The wind shrieked and tore through the jungle behind them, and often they could hear some tall tree go down with a crash.

"This will tear our flag of distress to shreds," said Nellie. "And just when we need it so much, too!"

"I am thinking of the future as well as the present," said Dora. "What a rough time there will be if Lesher brings those other sailors here. Some of them were heavy drinkers like himself, and only two or three were Americans."

The storm had whipped the waters of the bay into a fury, and the rain was so thick that to see even the island on which the wreck rested was impossible.

"Dick can't come now," said Dora. "A boat on the bay would surely go down."

Having finished the meal, Lesher and Baxter sat down in the living room to smoke and to talk over the situation. The mate continued to drink, and half an hour later he fell asleep, sitting on the bench, and with his head on the table.

"The beast!" said Dora, as she peeped out at him. "Well, there is one satisfaction," she continued: "he cannot harm us while he is asleep."

"You girls better have your own dinner," called out Baxter. "I aint going to eat you up."

"We will get our dinner when we please," said Nellie, as she came out. "We are not afraid of you, Dan Baxter."

No more was said for a long time. The girls ate what little they wished and washed up the dishes. The rain still continued to fall in torrents, but the thunder and' lightning drifted away to the eastward.

Dora was the most anxious of the trio, and at every opportunity she tried to look through the driving rain toward the wreck.

"I'd give almost anything to know if Dick is safe," she murmured.

"Don't be discouraged, Dora," said Grace. "Perhaps he will return as soon as the storm is over."

The girls were huddled close to a window, looking out into the rain, when Dan Baxter threw aside the pipe he had been smoking and approached them.

"See here, girls," he said, "why can't we be friends? What is the use of being enemies in such a place as this?"

"Dan Baxter, we want you to keep your distance," said Nellie coldly.

"And if you do not, it will be the worse for you when the others come back," put in Grace.

"Humph! I reckon you think it is fine to ride such a high horse," sneered the bully. "What are you going to do when we bring the rest of the sailors over here? We'll be eleven to seven then."

"Never mind what we'll do," said Dora. "I would rather have the company of some of those sailors than your company."

"That is where you make a mistake. The sailors are all rough fellows, some of them worse than Jack Lesher. Now, if you are willing to count me as a friend, I'll stand by you when the crowd comes over."

"We don't want your friendship, Dan Baxter, so there!" cried Nellie. "We know your past, and we know that you cannot be trusted."

"Don't think I am as good as the Rovers, eh?"

"We all know that you are not," answered Grace.

"What have you done to Dick Rover?" questioned Dora. "He ought to be here long before this."

"Oh, I guess the storm is holding him back," said Baxter, shifting uneasily as she gazed earnestly into his eyes.

"If anything has happened to Dick, I shall hold you responsible," said Dora.

At that moment the fury of the storm cut off further talking. A sudden rush of wind had come up, whistling through the jungle and bringing down a palm close to the house with a crash. The fall of the tree made Baxter jump in alarm.

"The house is coming down!" he cried, and ran outside.

The wind made the waves in the bay rise higher and higher until they lashed furiously in all directions. Then came another downpour of rain, which caused the bully to seek shelter again.

"Hark!" said Nellie suddenly, and raised her hand for silence.

"What did you hear?" asked Grace.

"Somebody calling. Listen!"

All were silent once more, and just then the wind fell a little.

"I don't hear anything," said Dora.

But then followed a distant voice -- two voices calling desperately:

"Help! help! Our boat is sinking! Help!"



Chapter XXIII

What Happened On The Bay


To go back to Tom, Sam, and Captain Blossom at the time that they placed the two dead goats in their rowboat and prepared to return to the camp.

It was already raining by the time the shore of the bay was reached, and scarcely had they begun to row when the water came pouring down in torrents.

"Gracious! I must say I don't like this!" cried Tom. "The rain is running down my neck in a stream."

"I move we row into shore over yonder," said Sam, pointing up the coast. "There are some trees which will shelter both us and the boat nicely."

Captain Blossom was willing, and in a few minutes they were under the trees and wringing out their clothes as best they could.

"If I know anything about it, this storm is going to last for some time," said the captain, after a long look at the sky.

"Such a downfall as this can't last," said Sam. "Perhaps we can get home between showers."

It was dry under the trees for about half an hour, but then the water began to reach them once more, and they had to shift their position again.

This kept up for some time, until all were wet through and thoroughly uncomfortable, when Tom proposed that they start for home regardless of the storm.

"We can't get any wetter than we are," he declared. "And the sooner we reach the house the sooner we'll be able to change our clothes."

The others agreed, and when the worst of the lightning and thunder had passed they set off once more, two rowing and the third steering the boat and bailing out the water, which came in faster than was desirable.

"When it rains in the tropics, it rains," observed Tom. "Puts me in mind of that storm we met when we were in Africa. Do you remember, Sam?"

"Indeed, I do," answered his brother. "I thought we'd all be killed by the trees that fell in the jungle."

"Have you been in Africa?" came from Captain Blossom in astonishment.

"Yes," answered Tom. "Our father got lost there once, and we went in search of him," and he gave a few of the particulars, as already related in another volume of this series, entitled "The Rover Boys in the Jungle."

"Well, you boys have had some ups and downs," said the captain. "But I reckon you weren't cast away before like this."

"Not like this," answered Sam. "But we were left on a lonely island once in Lake Huron," and he related a few particulars of their exciting experiences with the Baxters while on the Great Lakes.

Another downpour of rain cut off the talking, and Tom was kept busy bailing out the row-boat. With three persons and the two dead goats the craft was pretty heavily loaded, and more than once the rising wind swept some water over the bow.

"I'd give a little to be ashore again," said Tom presently. "It seems to me that the rain is shutting out everything."

"We'll have to land again, lads," put in the captain, with a grave shake of his head. "This wind is growing worse. We don't want to be swamped."

They turned to what they thought must be the direction of the nearest shore, but though they pulled with might and main for nearly quarter of an hour no land appeared.

"We're mixed," cried Sam. "The storm has twisted us up."

By this time the wind was blowing a regular gale on the bay. It took off Tom's cap, and in a twinkle the headgear was out of sight.

"My cap's gone!" groaned the youth.

"The water is coming in over the bow!" came from Sam. "We will be swamped!"

"We must throw the goats overboard," said the captain, and overboard went the game, much to the boys' sorrow.

This lightened the craft a little, but still the waves swept over the gunwale, and now both Sam and Tom set to bailing, while the captain took both oars. Then came another blast of wind, worse than before.

"I see land!" cried Sam.

"We are going over!" yelled Tom, and the wind fairly whipped the words from his lips. Then came a mighty wave, and on the instant the rowboat was upset, and all three found themselves in the waters of the bay.

As they went under the same thought was in the mind of each: Were there any sharks around?

"Help! help!" cried Sam, as soon as he came up. "Our boat is sinking. Help!" And Tom soon joined in the cry. They had caught hold of the overturned boat, but the craft, for some reason, failed to support them.

Captain Blossom was close at hand, and he advised them to strike out for the shore.

"It's in this direction," he said, and led the way.

"I -- I can't swim very far with my clothes on," gasped Sam, yet he struck out as best he could.

"Hullo! Who calls?" came a cry from the shore, and, looking up, they saw Dora standing there, with Nellie and Grace Laning close beside her.

"It's Tom and Sam!" cried Nellie.

"And Captain Blossom," added Grace.

"Perhaps we can throw them a rope," came from Dora, and she ran to get the article she had mentioned.

But by the time she returned the three swimmers had reached a point where they could touch bottom with their feet, and, watching for a favorable opportunity, they rushed ashore, almost into the arms of the girls.

"Oh, Tom, how glad I am that you are safe!" cried Nellie, while Grace caught hold of Sam and asked if he was all right.

"Yes, I am -- am all right, but -- but pretty well fagged out," gasped Sam.

"It was a close shave," said Captain Blossom. "And our guns are gone."

"We had two dead goats, too," put in Tom. "They went overboard first, and -- goodness gracious -- is that really Dan Baxter?"

"Dan Baxter!" ejaculated Sam, and even Captain Blossom stared in amazement.

"I see you've had a rough time of it," said Baxter, coming forward coolly. "How are you?"

He shook hands with Captain Blossom, while the Rover boys continued to stare at him.

"Are you alone?" asked the master of the Golden Wave.

"No, Jack Lesher is with me, and we left nine of the sailors on another island."

"Is that so? Where is Lesher now?"

"In the house, asleep."

"He is intoxicated," said Nellie. "We has been drinking ever since he put in an appearance."

"Humph! That's like Lesher," muttered the captain, and his brow darkened.

All moved toward the house, and entered to get out of the wet. The mate was still at the table, snoring loudly.

"Might as well let him sleep it off," said the captain. "But when he is sober I'll have a talk with him."

Wet clothing was changed for dry, and then the captain and the boys listened to what Baxter and the girls had to tell. The captain was glad to learn that so many of his men had been saved, and asked for the names.

"I don't care much about Peterson and McGlow," he said. "They are tough customers. I would rather have heard from Peabody, Dickson, and Fearwell. You don't know anything about them?"

"No," said Dan Baxter.

"This news about Dick and old Jerry worries me," said Tom.

"Dan Baxter, I think you know more than you care to tell," said Sam boldly.

The bully hardly knew how to reply. He could not now fall back on Jack Lesher for support, and he had thought to be on his way to rejoin the sailors ere this. The storm had upset all of his calculations. It had been a foolish movement to attack Dick and old Jerry, and it now looked as if he must suffer for it.

"Well -- er -- I don't mind telling you that Dick and the mate had something of a quarrel," he said hesitatingly.

"How did it end?" asked Tom.

"I can't say exactly."

"Why not? You were with Lesher at the time."

"No, I wasn't. He ordered me to get into the rowboat and wait for him while he went back to get a pistol or a gun. I heard loud talking on the deck of the schooner, and I knew a row was on. I was just going back to the deck when the mate came and leaped into the rowboat. He said the sailor and Dick were going to remain behind, and that we wouldn't wait any longer. Then we rowed over here."

"If that's the case I'll make Lesher tell us what happened," cried Tom, and shook the mate roughly. "Wake up here!" he cried. "Wake up and give an account of yourself!"



Chapter XXIV

In Close Quarters


Slowly Dick came to his senses. He remembered little or nothing, and only knew that all was dark around him, and that his head was spinning like a top.

For several minutes he remained quiet, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he sat up and passed one hand slowly over his forehead.

"Oh, how my heed aches!" he murmured.

It was fully five minutes before he felt like moving around. Then he arose and took a step forward and stumbled over old Jerry's body.

"Oh!" he murmured, and felt of the body in the dark, "Who is this? Can it be Jerry?" he asked himself.

Then came a recollection of the cowardly attack. But what had followed was a blank, and he could not imagine where he was.

Dick remembered that he had a match safe in his pocket, and soon he made a light. By this he caught sight of a lantern in the brig and lit it. Then he bent over old Jerry, and saw that the sailor was still alive, but suffering from his treatment.

"He must have been attacked, too," murmured Dick. The bucket of water was at hand, And he took a drink and bathed Captain Jerry's forehead.

It was fully half an hour before the old sailor felt at all like himself. Both sat down to review the situation.

"The cowards!" said Dick. "What do you suppose they attacked us for?"

"Can't say as to that," replied old Jerry. "Perhaps Lesher wanted to show us he was master."

"He'll settle with me if I ever get out of this hole, Jerry. What place is this?"

"The lock-up of the Golden Wave. I think it used to be an oil room."

They gazed around them, and soon discovered the can of ship's biscuits and also the beans.

"They evidently meant to keep us prisoners for some time," said Dick. "Hark, what is that?"

Both listened, and made out the sounds of distant thunder and heard the patter of rain on the deck.

"A storm is brewing," said old Jerry. "It sounds as if it was putty heavy, too."

They tried the door to the brig, but found it locked and bolted. In vain Dick kicked against it, and shoved with his shoulder. It refused to budge.

"This looks as if we'd have to stay here -- at least for the present," said Dick, with a sigh. "I must say I don't like the prospect."

"How long do ye calculate we've been here, lad?"

"There is no telling, unless by my watch." But when he looked at the timepiece, he found that it had stopped.

They ate some of the biscuits and drank some water and rested for a while longer. Outside the wind blew furiously and they heard the rain and the waves dash in all directions. Then some water came trickling in slowly, at one corner.

"It seems to me as if the wreck was shifting," cried Dick presently.

"It won't shift very far in this bed o' sand, lad. But she may break up and go to pieces," added old Jerry.

"If she goes down, we'll be drowned like rats in a trap," said Dick. "We must get out somehow."

They talked the matter over and began a systematic examination of their prison. The four walls were solid and so was the ceiling above them.

"The flooring has a couple of loose planks in it," announced. Dick. "If we can get them up, where will the opening lead to?"

"The forward hold, lad, and that is now half full of sand and water."

"Never mind, I'm going to get the planks up if I can."

With his head still aching Dick set to work and old Jerry helped him. It was no easy matter to shift the heavy planking, but after a while they got one plank up and then used this as a pry to bring up the second.

A dark hole was revealed, covered at the bottom with water. Then Dick took the lantern and let himself down cautiously.

"The water is only about a foot deep," he announced. "I'm going to make a search around with the lantern."

"Hold on, I'll go with ye," cried old Jerry, and came down with a splash.

With great caution they moved around the hold, wading through sand and water, and climbing over boxes, barrels, and crates.

"What a mixture of cargo," said Dick. "And what a pity so much of it is going to ruin," and he pointed to some valuable mining machinery which was rusting in the salt water.

Fortunately old Jerry had been in the hold before the Golden Wave was wrecked, so he knew something of the surroundings. He led the way to some boxes directly beneath the forward hatch.

"I don't reckon the hatch is fastened down," he said. "An' if it aint we may be able to shove it up by standing one box on top of another."

This was tried, and after much difficulty the hatch was thrown to one side, and they crawled to the deck of the schooner.

"I'm glad I am out of that!" ejaculated Dick. "But how it's raining! Let us go to the cabin for shelter."

Once in the cabin they proceeded to make themselves as comfortable as the state of affairs permitted.

"With no boat it is going to be no easy matter getting back to the house," said Dick. He was much worried concerning the girls.

"We'll have to stay here until the storm is over," said old Jerry.

But Dick demurred and at last it was decided to try getting to the house by journeying from one island to the next.

This was a dangerous proceeding, as we already know. They had to build themselves a small raft and carry this from one crossing to the next.

By the time the last crossing was made the storm was clearing and the day was drawing to a close.

"We had best not show ourselves until we are sure how the land lays," said Dick, as they came up the beach.

Captain Jerry thought this good advice and they proceeded with caution until they came in sight of the house. Then Dick set up a shout.

"Tom, Sam, and Captain Blossom are back! Hurrah!"

"They look as if they were having a row with Baxter and the mate," came from old Jerry.

A row certainly was in progress, and as they came closer they heard Tom talking.

"Yes, Lesher, I want to know all about this quarrel with my brother Dick. I am sure he was not in the wrong."

"See here, I know my own business," the mate growled. "You shut up and leave me alone."

"We won't leave you alone," came from Sam. "We want to know the truth."

"Yes, tell us the truth, Lesher," said Captain Blossom sternly.

"All against me, aint you?"

"We want the truth," answered Tom.

"Well, if you must have it, all right. He got cheeky and hit me on the head with an oar. Then I hit back and knocked him down. Then he got mad and so did Jerry Tolman, and both refused to come back in the boat with Baxter and me."

"I'll wager you started to boss things," said Sam. "Dick doesn't raise a row without just cause."

"Good for Sam," murmured Dick.

"Your brother was entirely to blame," grunted the mate. He was still far from sober.

"Jack Lesher, you tell what is not so," said Dick loudly, and joined the group, followed by old Jerry.

Had a bombshell exploded, Lesher and Baxter would not have been more astonished. Then stared at the newcomers as if they were ghosts.

"How -- er -- how did you get here?" stammered Baxter, while the mate continued to stare, in open-mouthed astonishment.

"That is our affair," responded Dick. He strode up to Lesher. "You miserable villain. How dare you say that I was to blame when you attacked me without warning? Take that for what you did."

And hauling off, Dick hit the mate a fair and square blow in the nose which sent Lesher flat on his back.



Chapter XXV.

Trying To Come To Terms


As the mate went down the girls gave a scream, and even Tom and Sam looked at Dick in wonder. Never had any of them seen the eldest Rover so aroused.

"My lad, that was a hard blow," observed Captain Blossom, as Jack Lesher lay where he had fallen.

"Not half as hard as the blow he struck me," answered Dick.

"Not hard as hard as thet chap hit me," put in old Jerry, and turning quickly he flew at Dan Baxter and bore him to the ground.

"Hi! hi! let up!" roared the bully. "Let up! Take him off!"

"I'll let up, when I'm done," panted old Jerry, and he gave him a thump in the cheek, another in the eye, and a third on the chin. "Now, then, Dan Baxter, see how you like that!" And then the old sailor arose once more.

"I'll -- I'll -- " began Baxter, in a terrible rage. "I'll -- "

"Shut up, Baxter, until we hear what they have to say," put in Tom. "If you are not quiet, I'll give you a thumping on general principles."

"No more fighting," commanded Captain Blossom. "Dick Rover, tell us what happened on the wreck."

Dick told his story, and then all listened to what old Jerry had to say. In the meantime Jack Lesher arose unsteadily to his feet.

"Where is that boy?" he roared. "I'll fix him." And then he made a movement as if to draw his pistol, but discovered that the weapon had been taken from him.

"Who took my pistol?" he demanded.

"Be quiet, everybody," said Captain Blossom. "Lesher, there will be no shootng here, unless I have to make an example of somebody. You had no business to attack Dick Rover on the wreck, nor attack Jerry Tolman, either. It was a mean thing to do. If we are to remain on these islands together, we ought to keep friendly."

"I know my business," growled the mate.

"And I know mine, Lesher. Please remember that I am captain."

"And I am first mate."

"Your being first mate doesn't count with us," came from Tom.

"Not for a minute," added Dick. "If I had my own way, I'd pitch you out of this camp in double-quick order."

"And Dan Baxter with him," put in Sam.

"Why cannot both of them go and live with the other sailors who were saved?" asked Dora. "They could have their share of what is on the wreck."

"I see you don't care for their company," said Captain Blossom. "Well, I can't say that I blame you, miss. After this they shall keep their distance. They can either live on the wreck or build themselves their own house, and so can the other sailors who were saved."

"You are not my master!" cried Dan Baxter. "On these islands all are equal."

"That may be so, but you have got to let the others alone," answered Dick. "If you don't -- "

"What will you do?"

"We'll punish you in a way you least expect."

After this there was a general talk which almost ended in another all-around row. But the Rovers and Captain Blossom were firm, and at last Dan Baxter and Jack Lesher said no more.

"We ought to remain on guard after this," said Dick to Tom, when they and Sam were alone. "I don't want to trust our enemies for a single moment."

And it was agreed that one or another should watch constantly.

The storm cleared away as suddenly as it had come, and the next morning the sun shone as brightly as ever.

When Baxter and Lesher came to breakfast both were sullen. The mate had wanted more liquor, but Captain Blossom had refused to give him more than a single glass.

"You had better return to the others at once," said the captain. "Tell them they can come over here, and then we will make arrangements as to how all hands shall live until some ship comes to take us away."

The Rovers suspected that Dan Baxter wished to remain behind, leaving the mate to go after the others. But Lesher would not go alone, and off they started at noon, each carrying a good supply of food with him, and also a pistol and some ammunition.

"I wish they weren't coming back," murmured Dora.

"I wish the same, Dora," said Dick. "But it can't be helped and we must make the best of it."

There was a general air of relief when the two had departed. Later on each told his or her story once more, and a general conversation ensued regarding the future.

"Lesher is not the man I thought he would, be," said Captain Blossom. "If he insists on getting drunk he will surely cause us a good deal of trouble, and if I try to keep the liquor from him he will get ugly. More than that, he has several sailors with him who are old friends, and they like their liquor just as much as he does."

It was seen that the flag of distress was down, as already mentioned, and after Baxter and Lesher had departed, Tom and Dick set off to put the flag up once more.

The way was by no means easy, for the storm had washed the dirt and stones in all directions and the path was strewn with broken branches and torn-up bushes. On the way they picked up hard a dozen dead birds and also saw three dead monkeys.

When the spot where the flag had been was reached they found the tree still standing. The halyard of the flag had snapped and the colors lay in a mass of bushes a hundred feet away.

To get to the bushes the boys had to leap over something of a gully. Tom took the leap in safety, but Sam went down out of sight.

"Help! help!" cried the youngest Rover.

Tom looked back, to see Sam's fingers clutching at some brushwood which grew at the edge of the gully. Then the hand disappeared and he heard a crashing far below, for though the gully was not wide, it was very deep.

"Sam! Sam!" he called. "Are you hurt?"

No answer came back, and much alarmed, Tom got on his knees and tried to look into the opening. At first he could see nothing, but when his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he made out the form of his brother lying on some broken brushwood which the storm had swept into the opening.

How to get down to Sam was a problem, and Tom was revolving the matter in his mind when Sam let out another cry.

"Are you hurt, Sam?"

"N -- not much, but m -- my wind was kno -- knocked out of me."

"Can you climb up to the top?"

"Hardly, Tom, the sides are very steep, and -- yes, there is a regular cave down here," went on Sam.

"A cave?"

"Yes."

"Where does it lead to?"

"I don't know. It's on the south side of the opening."

Tom's curiosity was aroused, and bringing forth the new rope they had brought along for hoisting the flag, he tied one end to a tree and lowered himself to his brother's side. By this time Sam was on his feet and inspecting some scratches his left hand had received.

"Where is the cave, Sam?"

"There," and the youngest Rover pointed it out.

The opening was about two feet above the bottom of the gully. It was perhaps four feet in diameter, but appeared to grow larger within.

"If we had a torch we might investigate a bit," said Tom. "I'd like to know if the cave amounts to anything."

"It might have a pirate's treasure in it, eh?"

"Not likely, Sam. I don't believe it has ever been used. But if it was of good size it might prove handy for us at some time or another."

They looked around, and finding some dry brushwood made two rude torches. With these flaring brightly they entered the opening, the flooring of which was of rock and tolerably smooth.

"We could live in this cave, if it wasn't that the opening to it is in the gully," said Sam as they advanced.

"There may be another opening at the other end," said Tom. "It is certainly quite long."

They had advanced fully a hundred feet, and now found themselves in a chamber forty or fifty feet square. The ceiling was arched and so high that they could not touch it without jumping up.

"This is as good as a house," said Tom. "See how dry the flooring is. That proves that it is waterproof."

From the large chamber there were several passageways, all leading toward the bay.

"Which shall we investigate first?" asked Sam.

"Let us start at the right."

"All right, Tom; the right ought to be right," answered Sam lightly.

On they went once more, the flooring now sloping before them. Here there was considerable moisture, and they had to walk with care for fear of slipping down.

Suddenly a number of bats flew out of a hole nearby, dashing against the torches and against the boys themselves. The rush was so unexpected that each youth dropped his light and put up his hands to protect himself.

"Get out! Let me alone!" spluttered Sam.

"Whoop!" roared Tom. "Confound the bats anyway! Get along and let us alone!"

Lying on the flooring the torches soon went out, and in their efforts to protect themselves from the bats the boys rushed blindly down the passageway. Then of a sudden both slipped on the wet rocks, slid a distance of several yards, and went down and down, landing into a well-like opening with a loud splash!



Chapter XXVI

The Cave On The Island


"Tom!"

"Sam!"

"Are you safe?"

"Yes, but I wasn't looking for such a cold bath as this."

"I guess we must have fallen into a regular well of spring water."

"Never mind what we are in. The question is, how are we to get out?"

"Can you touch the top of the opening?"

"No."

"Neither can I."

Luckily the two boys could touch the bottom of the hole, so they were in no danger of drowning. They were in water up to their waists and calculated they had dropped a distance of two or three yards. All was pitch dark around them and as silent as a tomb, save for some water which trickled close at hand. The bats had departed, leaving them to their fate.

"This is cave-investigating with a vengeance," said Tom, with something like a shiver.

"Never mind, Tom, we won't die of thirst anyway."

"Do you think this is a laughing matter, Sam?"

"No, I don't. I'd give a good deal to be out of this hole and out of the cave also."

"I've got an idea. Let me climb on your shoulders and see if I can reach the top that way."

Sam was willing, and soon Tom was balancing himself as best he could. He felt around with care, Sam moving from point to point as directed.

"Here is a sharp rock; I think I can pull myself up on that," said Tom. He tried with all of his strength and went up off Sam's shoulders. Then the youngest Rover heard him crawling around the wet flooring carefully.

When Tom felt fairly safe he brought out his waterproof match safe and lit a match. Then one of the torches was picked up and he lit that, but kept it partly sheltered, fearing another attack from the bats.

By the aid of the torch, Sam was able to reach a sharp rock quite low down in the well hole, and when Tom gave him a hand he came up with ease. Both saw that the passage ended at the hole and hurried back to the main chamber of the cave.

"That's the time that right was not right," said Sam, wringing the water from his trousers, while Tom did the same. "Let us try the left after this."

"I trust we don't get left by it," added Sam.

The passageway was small and winding, but fairly level. There were several sharp rocks to pass and then Tom gave a cry.

"I see a light ahead!"

"It must be an opening, Tam."

"Exactly what I think."

Both hurried forward. As they did this, the opening appeared to grow larger and they saw a number of bushes ahead of them. They pushed these aside and saw beyond a clear stretch of the bay and to the northward the house they had built. The opening was twenty or thirty feet above the beach and hidden in the rocks and bushes.

"This is a short cut to the beach from the flagstaff," said Sam. "I wish we had put up the flag. Then we could carry the news of the cave to the others."

"Let us hurry back, Sam. It won't take so very long to put up the flag, with the tree still standing."

When they reached the gully they were careful that no further mishaps should befall them. Having picked up the flag they hoisted it once more, stars down, and then went back through the cave to the beach.

As they had imagined, the others were greatly interested in the news. All left the house and visited the place. The girls did not go any further than the main chamber, but the captain, Dick, and old Jerry made a complete investigation, taking care not to fall into the well-hole or any other unsafe place.

"As the boys say, this cave may come in very handy some time," said Captain Blossom. "In case of a very heavy wind storm it would be a good place for shelter."

"Why couldn't the sailors, Lesher, and Baxter live here?" asked Dick. "We don't want them, and it will save them the trouble of building a house, in case they don't want to live on the wreck."

"No, I advise that we tell them nothing about the cave," said Tom. "If we should have a fight and get the worst of it, we could hide here and they wouldn't be able to find us very readily."

"Do you think it will get as far as that?" asked Dora, and her face showed she was much disturbed.

"I hope not, Dora," said Dick. "But you must remember that we have had some pretty sharp quarrels already."

"I think Tom is right," came from Sam. "We'll not tell the others anything about the cave. If they don't want to live on the wreck, they can build a house or two, just as we did."

On returning to the shore of the bay, Captain Blossom and Tom went on a hunt along the beach and presently discovered the rowboat that had overturned with them during the storm.

The craft was but little damaged and they soon had it mended, and then the captain brought it around to the anchorage in front of the house.

"I wonder when Baxter and Lesher will arrive with the sailors?" said Nellie.

"Not before to-morrow night," answered Tom.

"Then do you know what I would do if I were you?" went on the girl.

"What, Nellie?"

"I'd bring some stores away from the wreck and hide them in the cave. If you did that, it might save us a good deal of trouble. For all we know, that mate might try to take command and refuse to let us get anything more from the ship."

"Do you think he'd do that while Captain Blossom was around?" came from Grace.

"Oh, he might do anything when he is half full of liquor," answered Tom. "I think Nellie is right. I'll talk it over with the others."

Tom lost no time in the matter, and Dick, Sam, and old Jerry agreed that Nellie's idea was very good. Captain Blossom shrugged his shoulders and looked ugly.

"Jack Lesher shall not take the command from me," he said. "If he tries it, he'll find himself in the biggest kind of a row."

"But you must admit that there is grave danger," said Dick.

"Yes, I admit that."

"Then you are willing that we shall hide the stores?"

"If you want to."

"Won't you help us, Captain Blossom? Of course, we recognize the fact that those things belong to you, since you remained on the ship up to the time she struck the island."

This speech pleased the captain, and he said he would help them willingly.

Without delay the two rowboats and the raft were called into commission, and an hour later the men and boys were hard at work transferring goods from the wreck to the beach in front of the cave. Five trips were made back and forth, the boats and the raft bringing over each, time as much as could be conveniently floated.

By the time the last trip was made and the goods piled on the beach and covered with a large tarpaulin, it was dark and all were utterly worn out by their labors. The girls had prepared an extra good supper, and of this they ate heartily and then sat around a little while, when they went to bed.

At the beginning the castaways had kept guard during the night, but of late this had been done away with, everybody being satisfied that no harm could befall them during the darkness.

But as the doorway to the house was an open one it had been considered the duty of one or the other to sleep directly in the opening. This was Dick's night, and the eldest Rover lay there sleeping soundly until about two in the morning.

By this time the moon had disappeared and the stars were partly hidden by some clouds. The night was quiet, save for the hum of insects in the jungle back of the house and the soft lap-lap of the waves on the beach of the bay.

Suddenly Dick awoke with a start. He sat bolt upright, wondering what had brought him to his senses so quickly. He listened intently, but nothing unusual greeted his ears.

"I must have been dreaming, or something," he thought. "But is queer I should be so wide.. awake."

At first he was on the point of lying down again, but then concluded to get up and get a drink of water.

He arose to his feet and stood in the open doorway, gazing into the darkness. The faint light of a few stars shone in the waters of the bay, and between the waters and himself he presently saw a dark form stealing along, close to the ground.

What could that be? Was it something real or only a shadow? Dick rubbed his eyes and peered out more sharply than ever. It was not a shadow, but a real form, slowly moving around to the rear of the house.

"An animal, or else a man crawling along," said Dick to himself, and reached for his gun, which stood close at hand. Then he made up his mind to investigate, and stepped outside of the doorway for that purpose.



Chapter XXVII

A Fight With A Wild Beast


As Dick stepped out of the house, gun in hand, the form disappeared behind a small clump of bushes growing not fifty feet away.

"It's gone," he said to himself, but waited patiently, with his gun ready for use.

The clouds were increasing, making it darker than ever. Almost holding his breath, the youth took several steps forward. Then he waited again.

At last the form reappeared, crouched lower than ever, so that it was almost hidden by the rocks and low brushwood leading to the jungle. At first Dick imagined the beast, or whatever it was, was going to retreat to the timber, but soon it appeared to turn back, as if to make another semicircle, this time around to the rear of the house.

It must be admitted that Dick's heart thumped madly in his breast. The gun was raised and he kept his finger on the trigger. But he did not dare to shoot until he was certain of the object of his aim.

"I don't want to kill anybody," he reasoned. And he thought of a story he had once read of a hunter shooting his companion who had got the nightmare and was crawling around in his sleep. For all he knew, it might be Sam or Tom, or one of the others.

But now came a sound which was not to be mistaken. It was a low, savage growl, followed by the rustling of a bushy tail among the brushwood. It was a wild animal, and it was getting ready to make a leap for the boy!

Taking aim as best he could, Dick pulled the trigger. Bang! went the firearm, and a snarl of pain and rage rang out. Then the beast made its leap, striking Dick in the breast and knocking him over.

"Hullo! what's the row?" The cry came from old Jerry, who had been sleeping next to Dick. "Who fired that shot?"

"Help!" answered Dick. "A wild beast has attacked me."

"A wild beast!" came from several throats at once.

"Let me get a shot," came from Tom, as he bounced out of the house, pistol in hand, followed by Sam and Captain Blossom.

By this time Dick had gotten to his knees and was trying to fight off the animal which had fastened its teeth in the youth's trouser leg, for the boys slept with part of their garments on them.

"Shoot him! Hit him over the head with a club!" screamed the eldest Rover. He expected every moment to have the beast fly at his throat, and he knew that that would be his death.

Old Jerry turned back to get a pistol or a club. As he did this Tom rushed past him and up to Dick's side. Taking a hasty aim, Tom discharged the pistol twice.

Another growl rang out and the beast dropped back, shot through the foreshoulder and the neck. Then Tom let drive once more and the beast fell forward, shot through the left front leg.

"Good for you, Tom!" cried Dick, as he arose.

"What is it?" came from Captain Blossom, as he appeared with a shotgun. A shot from this finished the beast and it rolled over and over in its death agonies, and Sam finished it with a blow on the head with a big club.

By this time the girls were crowding outside, having clothed themselves with whatever was handiest. Torches were lit, and a ship's lantern, and all went to examine the creature.

"It looks like a tiger," declared Tom. "Only it is not quite so large."

"I should say it was a California puma," came from old Jerry. "He's a bad one, too."

"I think they call them jaguars out here," said Dick. "They all belong to the same family, you know. Some old American hunters would call it a painter."

"Never mind what it is," said Dora, with a shudder. "I am thankful that it is dead."

"You can be thankful that it didn't chew Dick up," added Tom. "He was in a tight corner, I can tell you that."

"I didn't want to shoot until I was certain of what I was shooting at," answered Dick. "Then, just as I fired, the beast leaped for me. If I hadn't wounded it, it would have had me by the throat sure. But my shot kind of made it fall back, and it caught me by the trouser leg."

"Are you sure you are not hurt, lad?" asked the captain.

"Not hurt in the least," answered Dick, and all were thankful that this was so.

The animal was dragged close to the cabin. It measured about five feet in length, regardless of the tail, and was of a dull yellowish color. Its teeth were long and sharp, and its face had a fierce, blood-thirsty look about it that made all the girls shiver.

"I must confess that I am surprised to find such a beast on these islands," said Captain Blossom. "Usually they are to be found only on the mainland or on large islands."

"What I am wondering is, are there any more around?" came from Sam.

"If there are, we'll have to be careful how we move around," put in old Jerry. "I don't want any of 'em to leap out at me from behind a rock."

"We'll have to be on the watch," said Tom. "I'm sure I don't want to furnish any tropical tiger cat with a square meal."

"Oh, Tom, how awful to even mention it!" cried Nellie.

"I think I know a way to keep 'em away from the house at night," said old Jerry.

"How?" questioned several.

"Keep a camp-fire burning close to the door. All wild animals hate a fire."

"Jerry is right," said Captain Blossom. "We'll do it after this."

"What shall we do with the beast?" asked Dick. "I don't think it is good to eat."

"Save the skin," said Dora. "That will surely make an elegant rug."

"Leave the carcass until morning," said Captain Blossom. "We must get some more sleep if we want to go to work to-morrow."

"To-day, you mean," said Tom, looking at his watch. "It is already three o'clock."

A camp-fire was lit and then all but Jerry retired, it being agreed that the old sailor was to turn in once more when the others arose for breakfast. All but Dick slept soundly, but even the eldest Rover was benefited by the additional rest.

The first work in the morning was to skin the wild beast. This was rather a difficult task since no one had had any experience, outside of the Rover boys, on small game. Old Jerry said he would try a steak cut from the best part of the the animal, but when he did he said it was too tough to eat. Then the carcass was dragged away and flung into a hole between the rocks.

After breakfast, the men and boys began in earnest to place the stores brought to the beach in the cave. It was hard work getting the boxes and barrels up the incline to the mouth of the cave, and the work took until the middle of the afternoon. Once at the entrance, the stores were speedily shifted to the chamber previously mentioned, and covered again with the tarpaulin. With the stores were placed a cask of fresh water, some dry pine torches and a box of matches. Captain Blossom left a gun and some ammunition in the cave, and the Rover boys added two pistols and a couple of swords taken from the ship.

"Now we will re-arrange the entrance to the cave as it was before," said Dick. "Then the sailors will never suspect what we have done."

By sunset the work was over and all hands were back at the house, taking it easy. Supper was ready, but they waited hard an hour, thinking that Baxter, Lesher, and their party would put in an appearance at any moment.

"I reckon they aren't coming just yet," said Captain Blossom, at length. "Let us wait no longer."

"I'm willing," said Tom. The extra work had sharpened his appetite wonderfully.

The evening passed quietly and soon one after another retired. As agreed, the camp-fire was left burning, and each took his turn at remaining on guard.

In the morning it was Dora who made an announcement that startled all of them. The girl had taken Captain Blossom's spyglass and was looking across the bay in the direction of the wreck.

"There are men on board of the Golden Wave" she announced. "I can see them quite plainly."

"Men on board of the wreck!" cried Dick. "Are you sure, Dora?"

"Look for yourself, Dick."

The youth did so and saw that Dora was right. Half a dozen figures could be seen walking to and fro.

"Who are they?" asked Tom. "Lesher and his crowd?"

"That I can't make out," answered Dick, and handed over the glass to his brother.

All could see the men on the wreck, but at such a distance it was impossible to make out any faces.

"Maybe they are savages," came from Grace.

"No, they are dressed like white people," said Captain Blossom..

"Perhaps another ship has come in!" ejaculated Tom. "If it has, we are saved!"

"I don't see any other ship," said old Jerry.

"It may be on the other side of yonder island," came from Sam.

"The best thing we can do is to row over and investigate," said Captain Blossom. "If another ship has come in, the captain may claim that wreck and everything on board."

A hasty breakfast was prepared and eaten, and it was agreed that the captain, Dick, and old Jerry should row over to the wreck in the best of the boats. The three were soon on the way, wondering whom they were to meet and what sort of a reception would be tendered to them.



Chapter XXVIII

The Mate Shows His Hand


Captain Blossom had taken the spyglass along, and as they drew closer to the wreck he gazed long and earnestly at the men walking the deck of the Golden Wave.

"They are my crew," he announced at last. "And they are in tatters."

"They must have had a hard time of it since you were cast ashore," said Dick.

"Unless I am mistaken, not a one of them is sober," went on the captain. "They are cutting up like a band of wild Indians."

Before long they were within hailing distance of those on the wreck. Then a voice from the rail hailed them.

"Boat ahoy!"

"Ahoy!" answered the captain.

"What do you want?" demanded the sailor on the wreck. He could scarcely talk straight.

"We want to come on board."

"Sorry, cap'n, but I can't let you come aboard," answered the sailor, with something of a hiccough.

"Can't let me come aboard?" repeated the captain. "Why not?"

"Cause it's ag'in orders."

"Whose orders?"

"Captain Lesher's."

"Captain Lesher!" ejaculated Captain Blossom indignantly. "How long has he been a captain?"

"We made him cap'n yesterday."

"That's right," put in another sailor. "We 'lected him unan -- nan --  nan'mously; yes, sir, unan -- nan -- nan'mously."

"You are drunk, Bostwick."

"No, sir, aint drunk at all. -- Lesher, he's drunk -- but he's cap'n all the same."

"That's right," put in a third sailor. "Hurrah for Captain Lesher and the rum he let us have!"

"Got to keep off, I tell you," went on Bostwick. "If you don't, we have -- er -- we have strict orders to fire on you, yes, sir."

"To fire on us!" cried Dick. -- "Do you mean to say you would fire on us?"

"Now, see here, don't you put in your oar," said a fourth sailor. "You don't count with us. It's the cap'n that was we're talkin' to."

"I am captain still," said Captain Blossom firmly. "If you don't want to obey me, you must leave the ship."

"Aint going to leave no ship!" was the cry. "She belongs to us. You keep off!"

"Yes, yes, keep off!" added the others on the deck.

"The ship is mine," said the captain. "If you refuse to let me come on board -- "

At that moment two other figures appeared on deck.

"Dan Baxter and Jack Lesher!" murmured Dick.

"Captain Blossom, you had better keep your distance," said Lesher in a voice that showed he was just getting over a spell of drunkenness.

"So you too refuse to let me come on board?"

"I do. The boys have made me their captain, and as such I am bound to look after their interests. I have told them what you proposed to do, and they don't intend to stand it."

"Didn't I tell you we'd get square?" put in Dan Baxter, his evil face glowing with triumph. "We have all that is on board, and we mean to keep everything."

"This is mutiny!" stormed Captain Blossom.

"Call it what you please," answered Lesher recklessly. "I reckon I and the boys know what we are doing!"

"That's right!" cried the half-drunken sailors. "Hurrah for Cap'n Lesher. He's a man after our own hearts!"

"Supposing I demand to be let on board?" went on Captain Blossom.

"Don't ye go, cap'n," whispered old Jerry. "They are in jest a fit mood to kill ye. The rum has put the Old Nick in 'em."

"You can't come on board, and that settles it," roared Jack Lesher, drawing a pistol. "Keep your distance."

"Yes, keep your distance," added Baxter, and also showed a firearm.

"This is a fine way to treat us, after what we did for you," said Dick. "But, wait, Baxter, the end is not yet."

"Bah! I am not afraid," said the bully. "These men are all my friends, and we know exactly what we are doing."

"Do you expect to remain on the wreck?" asked the captain, after a moment of silence.

"That is our business," answered Lesher.

"I think you will find that you are making a great mistake, men, to follow Lesher when you ought to follow me. I have always treated you fairly, and -- "

"Hi! none of that!" roared the mate. "We won't listen to it."

"The men shall listen, if they will. I

"Say another word and I'll fire!" cried the mate, and pointed his pistol at Captain Blossom's head.

"Do-do you mean that?" asked the captain, in as steady a voice as he could command.

"Of course he means it," said Dan Baxter. "He isn't a fool. We are all going to stand by him, too," he added.

"That's right," came from part of the crew. Dick noticed that a few of the others looked doubtful.

"I mean it, and I want you to leave right now," stormed Jack Lesher. "I'll give you one minute in which to turn your boat around," and he pulled out his watch.

"Might as well go back," whispered old Jerry. "You can't reason with a lot of half-drunken men."

"Very well, we'll go back," said Captain Blossom loudly. "But, remember, you haven't seen the end of this affair."

"And remember another thing," added Dick, in an equally loud voice: "Don't any of you dare to come anywhere near our house. If you do, you'll be sorry for it."

Then the three turned the boat around and rowed slowly back whence they had come.

"The rascals!" muttered Captain Blossom, when they were out of hearing. "Lesher and Baxter have poisoned the minds of the crew against me, and have bought over the men with liquor."

"It's a mighty good thing ye put them stores in the cave," came from old Jerry. "If ye hadn't we'd be a-wantin' a good many things in a few days."

"That is true," answered Dick. "Dora told me they must have another barrel of flour by day after to-morrow."

"How many at the cave?"

"Two."

"Well, it certainly was a good job done," said the captain. "But it makes me boil to think they want to keep me off my own ship. On the ocean that would be mutiny, and I could hang every mother's son of them from the yardarm for it."

"Lesher must have told 'em some putty strong stories," said old Jerry. "Otherwise the men wouldn't be so dead set ag'in ye, cap'n."

"No doubt he made out the strongest possible case."

"I wonder if they will stick to the wreck all the time," said Dick. "They'll find it mighty hot when the sun shines."

"Oh, they'll most likely take some of the things ashore, and set up a camp nearby, Rover."

"We'll have to watch them closely."

"I agree with you. Now we have two kinds of enemies -- beasts and men," and the captain laughed bitterly.

The others were gathered on the shore awaiting their return, and they listened attentively to what was told them.

"Oh, Lesher wanted to be leader, you could see that right off," declared Tom. "And Baxter will do anything to make it disagreeable for us boys," he continued.

"Well, there is one satisfaction," said Nellie. "We haven't Baxter with us."

"If only a ship would stop here and take us away!" sighed Dora. To her it seemed like an age since they had landed on the seven islands.

"After this we must keep a regular guard," announced Dick. "Unless we do that, somebody may play us foul when we least expect it."

Slowly the day wore away. By the aid of the spyglass they could see the sailors still on the deck of the wreck. Nobody appeared to go ashore.

That night it fell to Sam's lot to be on guard from nine to ten o'clock. The camp-fire was left burning brightly, and the youngest Rover sat near it on a log, a gun in his lap.

"No wild beast shall surprise me," he told himself, and kept his eyes on the jungle back of the house.

His time for guard duty had almost come to an end when a noise down on the beach attracted his attention. By the faint light he made out a raft, which had just come in, bearing the figures of two sailors.

"Stop!" he called out. "Do not come closer at your peril!"

"Don't shoot!" called back one of the sailors. "Don't shoot! We mean no harm."

Sam had backed up toward the house, and now he called to those within. He was soon joined by Captain Blossom, Dick, and several of the others.

"Who is it?" asked the captain, as he came forth, pistol in hand.

"Two of the sailors from the wreck, I think."

"Don't shoot us, captain," called one of the men. "We are unarmed and want to talk with you."

"They are Gibson and Marny," said Captain Blossom. "They were generally pretty good sort of fellows. I reckon we have nothing to fear from them."

"Are you alone?" called out Dick.

"Yes."

"Then come up to the fire. But mind, no treachery."

"We don't wonder at your being on guard," said the sailor named Gibson, a tall, thin Yankee. "The others treated you like so many dogs."

"We have deserted Lesher," put in Marny. "We came over here on the raft to see if you wouldn't take us in."

"Were you alone?" asked Captain Blossom.

"No, we had Hackenhaven with us. But he fell overboard just after we left the wreck, and the sharks caught him," answered Gibson, with a bitter shake of his face.

"What did Lesher say to your leaving?" asked Tom.

"He didn't know it until after we were a hundred yards or more from the wreck. You see, he and the others were drinking in the cabin, so we got away without much trouble," answered Marny. "They might have shot at us, but it was too dark for them. We had a hard pull to get over here, and when poor Hackenhaven was gobbled up both of us felt bad, I can tell you."

It was now seen that both sailors were almost exhausted, and Captain Blossom allowed them to rest, while Dick prepared a pot of coffee. While they were drinking, Gibson told them the particulars of how the mate had made himself leader of the sailors now left on the wreck.



Chapter XXIX

The Burning Of The Wreck


"When Lesher and Baxter got back to where they left us they were very bitter against you," began Gibson. "They told us that you had tried to make them work like niggers, fixing up this house. They said that they wanted to come right back and bring us here, but you wouldn't let them go until the house was finished."

"Which is not true, as all of us here know," said Captain Blossom.

"Lesher also said that you were angry at us for leaving the ship before the rest, and that you had said you would have us all tried for mutiny the first chance you got. Baxter said the same, and also told us that you were going to dump all the rum and other liquor into the ocean, so that the mate and none of the others could get a drop of it while they stayed on the islands."

"I didn't say that, but I did say that Lesher Shouldn't have all he wanted," replied the captain.

"This sort of talk made most of the sailors wild," went on Gibson. "Then Lesher made a speech to them, and they voted to stick by him through thick and thin and not let you rule them. He promised them all the liquor they wanted, and told them that if they stuck by him the whole lot could swear in court that they had found the wreck deserted, so that they could get whatever was coming in the way of salvage. Then he handed around some liquor he had brought along, and some pistols, and most of them said they would stick to him, as I said before."

"What about going directly to the wreck?" asked Tom.

"That was Baxter's idea, and it wasn't thought of until we were on our way to this spot. Baxter said that if we captured the ship we would have you at our mercy, for sooner or later your provisions would run out, and you'd be begging for something to eat."

"The scoundrel!" cried Dick. "So he thought to starve us into submission, eh? Well, he shan't do it."

"I said I didn't think it would be fair on the young ladies," continued Gibson. "But he told me he'd take care of the girls after he had brought you to your knees."

"He'll never take care of me!" cried Dora.

"Nor me!" came from Nellie.

"I'd rather die than leave this place in Dan Baxter's company," added Grace.

"Captain, I want you to understand that Gibson and I didn't agree to what they wanted to do," came from Marny. "But we were overruled, and we had to hold our tongues for fear of being knocked down or shot."

"Do you want to join our crowd?" asked Dick bluntly.

"We do, and if you'll take us in we'll promise to stand by you to the end, no matter what comes. We know they've got the best of it -- having the ship's stores -- but we don't care for that. They are a drunken, good-for-nothing crowd, and we are done with them."

"All right, men, I think we can trust you," said Captain Blossom. "It's a pity that Hackenhaven was lost overboard and eat up by the sharks. We could rather have spared Lesher."

"Or Dan Baxter," observed Tom.

"With three gone they have but eight men left on the wreck," said Sam. "And we now number seven men and three ladies. If we stand our ground, I can't see as we have much to fear from them."

"It will be all right so long as they keep their distance," said Captain Blossom. "But if they come over here in a body when they are half full of drink, there is sure to be a row and probably some shooting. Still, we needn't try to meet trouble halfway."

The sailors gave some more of the details of their doings while in Lesher's company, and then they were provided with additional clothing, and each was given a pistol and some ammunition. Nothing was said to them about the cave or the provisions stored there, Captain Blossom deeming it best to wait and make sure if they were to be thoroughly trusted.

"You see," said he, "they may be straight enough, or they may be spies sent by Lesher to find out just what we propose to do."

"They look honest," said Dick. "I should trust them."

The long pull on the bay had worn the two sailors out, and they were soon sleeping soundly. The girls followed, and then the boys started to turn in.

Sam had just gone to rest, and Tom was following, when Dick, who had stepped out on the beach, uttered a cry.

"What's up?" asked Captain Blossom.

"Look toward the wreck. What does that light mean?"

The captain looked, and then ran for his spy-glass.

"The Golden Wave is afire!" he exclaimed. "That light is coming up out of the cabin!"

"The wreck is on fire!" shouted Tom, and this cry brought everybody out once more.

With remarkable rapidity the light grew brighter, until the heavens and the entire bay were lit up by the conflagration. There was a strong wind blowing, which carried the sparks to the jungle back of the ship. Listening intently, they could occasionally hear the roaring and crackling of the flames.

"The ship is doomed, that is certain," said Sam. "I wonder if all who were on board escaped?"

"The fire has caught in the brushwood on the shore," announced Captain Blossom, who had continued to use the spyglass.

"Can you see any of the men moving around?" questioned Dora.

"I thought I saw one or two, but I am not certain. Most of the men must have escaped, but if they were drunk, as Gibson says, perhaps some have been caught like rats in a trap."

The flames continued to roar upward, and toward the island back of the ship, for over an hour. During that time they heard two dull explosions, caused by some barrels of chemicals catching fire. The second explosion sent the bits of burning wood and rigging flying in all directions.

"That will leave the mutineers without a home and without stores," said old Jerry. "They're in a poor fix now."

"I'd like to know how the fire started," said the captain. "Can you explain it?" he went on, to Gibson and Marny.

"I've got an idea," said Marny. "Just before we came away old man Shular went down in the hold with a light to look for some certain brand of liquor we were carrying. He was more than half drunk, and he most likely dropped his lantern and set something on fire."

At the end of an hour and a half the flames had died down to the water's edge. A few small bits of wreckage continued to burn, and also a grove of trees and brushwood on the island. But before morning every bit of the fire was out, and only a heavy smoke showed where the Golden Wave had once rested.

No one had thought of retiring again, and sunrise found them all worn out, and anxious to know what was going to happen next.

"You can rest assured that some of them will be over here sooner or later," said Dick. "Now they have no place to shelter them, and no provisions, they will want us to help them out."

"What will you do, Dick?" asked Dora.

"That depends on Captain Blossom, Dora. Personally I want nothing to do with any of them."

"But some may be badly burnt, and they may need medicine and bandages," came from Nellie.

"We can send them whatever we can spare," said Tom. "But I object strongly to letting anybody come here."

It was decided to remain on guard during the day, and all were cautioned to keep within call of the house. The bay was scanned for the sight of a rowboat, but none put in an appearance.

"I'll wager that those who did escape are sorry they quarreled with us," said Sam.

"Especially Dan Baxter," answered Grace. "He'll find that living out in the woods isn't so pleasant as it looks."

By nightfall all grew anxious, and sat in front of the house to discuss the situation.

"It can't be possible that all on board were burnt up," said Dick. "That would be horrible."

"Oh, some must have escaped," answered Captain Blossom. "But they may be suffering from burns, or they may have no means of getting here. With the ship burnt up, and all the tools gone, it would be no easy matter to build even the roughest kind of a raft."

"What do you think about some of us rowing over to what is left of the wreck?" asked Sam.

"I was thinking of that. But, if we do that, we had better wait until to-morrow morning. You can't see much in the dark."

"If I thought anybody was dying for the want of aid, I'd go over," said Tom. "We all know what brutes Lesher and Baxter are. They wouldn't hesitate to go off and leave some of the others to die where they had fallen."

"I think Tom is right, and some of us ought to go over," said Dick.

"I'm willing to go," announced old Jerry. "We can move around like cats in the dark, so they won't know we are near until we tell 'em."

"You might take some medicines along, and some bandages," said Nellie.

"Take a bottle of sweet oil and some flour," put in Grace. "They are both good for burns."

The matter was talked over until midnight, and then it was settled that Dick, Tom, and old Jerry should take the largest rowboat and some bandages and medicines and row over to the vicinity of the fire. They were to land on the beach below what was left of the wreck and crawl through the bushes on a tour of discovery. If they found that they were not absolutely needed, they were to return without making their presence known to the mutineers and Dan Baxter.

The two boys and the old sailor were soon on the way. Care had been taken to wrap cloth around the oars where they slipped in the row-locks, so that the boat moved through the water, as noiselessly as a shadow.

Once out in the bay the boys and old Jerry, pulled with a will, and in less than half an hour the beach north of what was left of the wreck was gained. They approached with great caution.

"Do you see or hear anything?" whispered Tom.

"No," answered Dick, and then the rowboat grated on the sand, and all leaped ashore.

With their medicines and bandages in their pockets, and pistols in hand, they commenced to crawl through the bushes. Before long they came to a point from which they could look toward the wreck. All was dark and deserted and the air was filled with the smell of burnt wood and water.

"I don't see anybody, do you?" whispered Dick.

"Nary a soul in sight," answered old Jerry.

With equal care they moved around to the other side of the wreck, over a mass of burnt brushwood.

"Hark!" said Tom.

They listened, and, from a distance, made out a faint groan.

"That is somebody, and in great pain," said Dick. "Come on," and he led the way.

Around a pile of rocks they found a sailor. He was propped up against a tree, and was suffering from some burns on his legs and feet.

"Bostwick!" said old Jerry.

"Oh! oh! Help me!" groaned Bostwick piteously. "Give me a drink of water!"

"Where are the others?" asked Dick.

"Gone! They left me to take care of myself. Oh, the wretches! Please help me; won't you, for the love of Heaven!"

"Yes, we will help you," answered Tom.

"You are certain they have all gone?" went on Dick, as he got out some oil and bandages, while Tom ran for water.

"Yes, yes!"

"Where did they go?"

"They went -- oh, my legs and feet! How they smart! They went to the -- the -- house! Lesher said you must have set the ship on fire, and Baxter said the same. They -- oh, what a pain! Please be careful!" Bostwick gulped down the water Tom gave him. "That is good."

"What did they say, Bostwick?" asked Dick, as he continued to work over the hurt man.

"They said they were going to pay you back. They all went armed; that is, all but me and Shular. Shular was burnt up. They said they were going to shoot you down on sight, and then run the house to suit themselves. I said -- oh, the pain. I -- I -- how weak I am!"

And with those words the burnt sailor fell back in a dead faint.



Chapter XXX

The Defense Of The Cave -- Saved!


"He has fainted, poor fellow!" said Dick, as he bent over the unconscious form of Bostwick.

"We ought to git back to the house at once!" put in old Jerry. "We must warn the cap'n and the others of what Lesher and his crowd intend to do."

"That is true, but we can't leave this poor chap here. He might die for the want of care," came from Tom.

"We'll take him along," said Dick. "Come, lift him up."

As carefully as they could they lifted the unconscious form up and bore it to where the rowboat was lying. Soon all were on board, and while Tom did his best to revive Bostwick, Dick and old Jerry bent their back to the oars, pulling as they had seldom pulled before.

The beach in front of the house was almost gained when they heard a shot ring out, followed by several others.

"Just as I feared!" groaned Dick. "Lesher and the others have begun the attack!"

"Then we'll have to be careful how we land," said old Jerry. "If we aint, we may run right into 'em!"

There was no moon, but the stars shone brightly, so the beach line was dimly visible in the distance. Standing up in the bow, Tom saw a flash of fire from the jungle below the house, and heard the crack of a firearm. Then he saw some dark forms running along the beach.

"Our party is making for the cave!" he cried. "We had better turn in that direction."

Several other shots followed, but they could not tell if anybody was hit. In the distance several rum-crazed sailors were yelling like so many Indians.

Bostwick came to his senses just as the sand was reached.

"Whe -- where am I?" he asked feebly. "Oh, my feet!"

"We have brought you with us, Bostwick," answered Dick. "Keep still, and we will do what we can for you."

As soon as possible they took the hurt man up, and all started for the entrance to the cave.

"Who goes there?" cried a voice out of the darkness.

"Is that you, Sam?" called back Dick.

"Dick! I am glad you are back. They attacked the house, and we are going to the cave to -- "

"Yes, we know all about it, Sam. We have brought one of the sailors along. He is badly, burnt. Are the girls safe?"

"I guess so. We told them to go ahead," answered Sam.

Carrying Bostwick between them, Dick and old Jerry soon reached the cave, where they found the three girls standing in a group, each full of dread over what was occurring. Hardly had they gotten inside when Captain Blossom came up on a run, accompanied by Gibson and Marny.

"Back, are you?" he said. "I am glad to see it. But it may put you in a tight hole. Hullo, so you've got Bostwick with you, eh? Everybody get into the cave, just as quick as you can."

Once inside of the cave Captain Blossom commanded everybody to he silent. The hurt sailor was carried to the inner chamber, where a lantern was lit, for it would be impossible to see this light from outside. Then the girls set to work to make Bostwick comfortable.

"Has anybody been shot?" asked Tom.

"I got a bullet scratch on the arm," answered the captain. "And Marny got a few buck-shot in his shoulder. But neither of the hurts amount to anything."

"What do you think the mutineers will do next?"

"Ransack the house first," said Sam. "Oh, but they are a bad crowd! They came on like a lot of demons."

"Of course Baxter was with them."

"Yes, but he kept in the background, for fear, I suppose, of being shot."

With caution one after another left the mouth of the cave to look in the direction of the house. No one outside of their own party was visible.

Suddenly a glare lit up the scene, growing brighter each instant.

"By the great boots!" ejaculated Captain Blossom. "They have set the house on fire!"

"That shows how crazy they are," declared Dick. "In their rage they are liable to do anything. Ten to one they get to fighting between themselves before this is over."

The house, being built of semi-green logs, burnt slowly. As it was consumed, they heard some of the sailors singing and yelling, and heard several pistol shots and a scream of pain.

"Some of them are coming now!" announced Sam, half an hour later.

"Everybody get back out of sight," cried Captain Blossom.

There was a wild scramble, and in the rush Tom tripped and fell. His foot struck a stone, which went rolling down to the mutineers' feet.

"Hi! hi! there they are!" came in a rough, thick voice.

"Where?" roared back the voice of Jack Lesher.

"Up there, among the rocks and bushes."

"Let's go after 'em!"

"Shoot 'em down, boys! They deserve it for burning up the ship!"

Up the rocks came the hard-drunken sailors, accompanied by Lesher, and with Dan Baxter in their rear.

"Back! back! All of you, stand back!" cried Captain Blossom. "Come a step nearer at your peril. We are all armed and ready to fire!"

At these words the sailors halted for a moment.

"Say, cap'n, why did you set the ship afire?" asked an unsteady voice.

"We had nothing to do with that," answered Captain Blossom. "We were all over on this island when the blaze started."

"It's a lie!" came in the voice of Lesher.

"Of course it's a lie," added Dan Baxter. "They did their best to burn every one of us up.

"It is the truth," cried Dick. "Now stand back, or we shall fire on you."

"Come on!" yelled Lesher, and fired a pistol at those near the mouth of the cave.

"If ever I get the chance to have you tried, every one of you shall be hung for mutiny and murder!" cried Captain Blossom, and then fired in return.

The bullet hit Dan Baxter in the arm, and he fell back with a shriek of pain.

"I am killed! I am killed!" he moaned, and ran down toward the beach.

Then came a volley from the mutineers, followed by one from those in the cave.

"Oh, what a close 'shave!" muttered Tom. A bullet had grazed his ear, cutting away one of his curly locks.

Lesher was wounded in the shoulder, and in a moment more of the mutineers ran off, feeling that they were at a disadvantage.

"They can see us out in the open, while we can't see them for the rocks and bushes," said one sailor. "Let us wait till morning "; and so it was decided.

Inside of the cave a council of war was held, and it was decided to block up the entrance fronting the bay with large rocks, leaving only two loopholes open, for watching and for possible shooting.

All of the wounded ones were cared for, and then a watch was set. In the meantime Bostwick was put at ease, and he told the particulars of what happened on the burning wreck, and how Lesher and Baxter had urged the mutineers to attack those at the house.

The remainder of the night wore away slowly. Nothing more was seen of the mutineers, who had retired to the jungle, drank more liquor, and gone to sleep, Baxter with them, moaning and groaning over his wound.

"I am going to take a look around," said Tom, early in the morning.

"A look around where?" asked Dick.

"From where we have the signal of distress. I don't believe any of the mutineers are in that vicinity."

"I'll go with you," put in Sam, and so it was decided.

It was an easy matter for the two boys to make their way to the gully entrance, and with great caution they climbed out of the opening and walked to where the flag of distress floated in the breeze. Not a sight of the mutineers or Dan Baxter was to be had in any direction.

"They are either sleeping, or else they are afraid we'll shoot at them if they show themselves," said Tom. And he added: "I am going to climb the tree and take a look around."

"Be careful," cautioned Sam; nevertheless, he went up the tall tree with his brother.

Once in the tree, directly under the flag, they took a careful look around the island and then out to sea.

"My gracious, Sam, look!" screamed Tom suddenly, and pointed out to the ocean.

"A ship! A ship!" ejaculated Sam.

"Yes, and do you see what kind of a ship it is? A warship, and an American warship at that!"

"Hurrah, Tom; we are saved!"

"Yes! yes! They are sailing this way. Our flag of distress has been seen! Hurrah!"

"We must tell the others right away."

Both slid down the tree with all haste. As they reached the bottom a gun boomed out across the waves.

"That is to let us know that our signal has been seen," said Tom. "Won't the others be delighted when they know a ship, an American ship at that, is so close at hand!"

As quickly as they could they reentered the cave and ran to where they had left the others.

The good news spread like lightning.

"A ship! an American warship is coming!" was the cry.

"Oh, how thankful I am," came from Dora.

"What shall we do next?" asked Nellie, with tears of joy streaming down her cheeks.

"We'll go to the shore and meet the small boat that is sent in," answered Captain Blossom.

Without delay he set out, accompanied by Dick and old Jerry, leaving the others to defend the cave during his absence.

It was nearly two hours before he returned.

"The ship is the cruiser Jefferson," he said. "She is bound for Honolulu, to await orders. The captain says he will take us on board willingly, and he will do what he can to help us bring those other fellows to justice."

"Hurrah!" cried Tom. "If that is so, then our troubles as castaways are over."

"And we are not sorry," said Grace. "Not a bit sorry."

And all of the others agreed with her.



A few words more and I will bring to a close this story of the Rover boys' adventures on land and sea.

The captain of the warship was true to his word, and before nightfall all who had been in the cave were safe on board of the Jefferson. Those who were wounded or hurt were given the best of medical attention, and everybody was made comfortable.

"What attracted me to the islands was the bright reflection in the sky when the wreck was burnt," said the captain of the cruiser. "I thought perhaps that a volcano had become active. But at daybreak we saw nothing unusual, and were about to turn away when the lookout discovered your flag of distress."

"What will you do about the mutineers and Dan Baxter?" asked Dick.

"We'll bring them to justice, if we can, lad."

When a visit was paid to the burnt house nobody was in sight. But in the woods nearby a wounded sailor was discovered. He was badly hurt, and, though given every care, died two days later while on shipboard.

"You'll have a job finding Lesher, Baxter, and the others," he said, when being attended. "They said they wouldn't give in to anybody, and when they learned the warship was here they rowed away in a boat for one of the other islands, They'll hide away until after you are gone."

"If that's the case, let them stay here," said Captain Blossom. "It will be punishment enough for them to live here without any stores."

"They may find those at the cave," said Tom.

"Even so, those stores won't last forever," said Dick. "Yes, they will be punished enough, for there is no telling when another ship will stop here and take them away."

"More than likely they'll have to remain here a year or two," said Captain Blossom.

Everything of value was taken to the warship, and twenty-four hours later the Jefferson steamed away on her journey to the Hawaiian Islands.

"How glad mother will be to learn that I am safe!" said Dora to Dick.

"It will be good news to all of our folks," answered Dick. "They will welcome us as from the grave."

"I hope we can get a steamer directly from Honolulu to San Francisco," said Tom. "Our little vacation has proved unusually long."

"Do you think that we will ever see Dan Baxter again?" questioned Sam.

"I hardly think so," said Dick. "After what has happened he will not dare to show his face again." But Dan Baxter did show himself, and what he did to harm the Rover boys in the future will be told in another volume of this series, entitled "The Rover Boys in Camp; or The Rivals of Pine Island," in which we shall meet many of our old friends again. It may be as well to mention here that Baxter and two sailors escaped from the seven islands just one week after our friends left it. The others, including Jack Lesher, lost their lives while in a quarrel over the last bottle of rum which the mate had brought with him from the burning wreck. Their taking off was an awful example of the evils of intemperance.

It was soon seen that Bostwick was not seriously burnt, and before the trip to Honolulu was over he was able to sit up and to walk a little. The wounds of those who had been shot proved slight.

"We are well out of that adventure," said Tom one evening, as the Rover boys and the girls sat on the deck in the starlight. "And I don't know as I want to go through anything like it again."

"All I am thinking of is home, sweet home," said Sam.

"Just what was in my mind," answered Dick. "How father and Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha will welcome us!"

"Let us sing," put in Dora, and in a moment more all were singing the first verse of "Home, Sweet Home"; and here let us bid them good-by.

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The Chinese Kitten

By

Edna A. Brown



Chapter I

The Surprise


"I think," said Lucy Merrill in a whisper to her sister Dora, "that Uncle Dan has a surprise for us."

Dora was industriously setting the table for supper. Lucy, at the kitchen dresser, was peeling peaches. Lucy had on a big apron belonging to her mother, and it covered both her and the stool on which she sat. Dora wore a pink apron over her checked pink-and-white dress, and Dora's apron was just like the big one, only the right size.

Lucy owned a proper-sized apron also, but Lucy had been unlucky enough to upset the blueing bottle when she took a dish from the kitchen closet. Her apron wasn't hurt a bit, but Mrs. Merrill had rinsed it out and now it was flapping on the line in the back yard. The closet floor was bluer than the apron and not so easy to wash.

"What makes you think there is a surprise?" asked Dora, standing back from the table to see whether she had remembered everything that anybody could use during supper. No, she had forgotten the pulverized sugar for the peaches.

"Because," said Lucy, "he keeps following Mother everywhere she goes, and I know he is teasing her to do something. I heard him say something about the beach."

Dora stopped in the pantry doorway, her eyes big and blue. "Do you think we can be going to the beach?" she asked eagerly.

"My, I hope so!" said Lucy. "We haven't been away this summer. And Father said last night that the press was going to shut down for the week after Labor Day."

Dora looked out of the window across the street at the low brick building where Father Merrill worked in the printing office.

"We had better not ask too many questions," she said wisely. "Perhaps Uncle Dan is going to take us to White Beach for a day. But we did go to the vacation school, Lucy, and that was a great deal of fun."

"It was," agreed Lucy. "And it cost a dollar a week. But just one day at the beach would be lovely. I wish the Sunday-school picnic had gone there."

Dora didn't agree with Lucy. That annual picnic had been held at World's End Pond. Even the salt water could not be nicer than that place.

Just as Lucy finished the last peach, Mrs. Merrill came in. Dora brought the sugar-bowl from the pantry and looked hard at her mother. Sometimes it was possible to tell by Mother's face how she felt about things.

Mrs. Merrill did not seem disturbed, but neither did she look as though she was thinking of anything especially pleasant. She put the rest of the supper on the table and told Lucy to call her father and Uncle Dan.

It was Uncle Dan who told the secret. Right in the middle of supper he turned to his sister.

"You know, Molly," he began, "Jack says I may have his tent and we should need only one."

"Dan!" said Mother Merrill, and everybody was still. The children looked at Uncle Dan. Then Father Merrill laughed.

"A tent!" shrieked Lucy. Dora jumped right out of her chair and ran around the table to her uncle.

"Are we going, too?" she asked quite breathlessly. "Can I sleep in a tent? I never did, you know."

Mr. Merrill laughed again, and this time Dan laughed with him.

"You've done it now, Dan," said his sister. "You may as well tell them."

But Uncle Dan didn't explain. "Oh, Molly, then you will go?" he asked as eagerly as the little girls.

"I suppose I shall have to," said Mrs. Merrill, but she didn't look as though she would find it very hard work.

"What is it? What is it?" Dora was asking with her arms around her young uncle's neck.

"Quit choking me," said Dan. "Go back and eat your supper."

Dora gave him one last hard hug before returning to her chair. "I know it is nice," she said. "But is it the beach, Uncle Dan, and are we to sleep in a tent?"

"Maybe," said Dan.

"The press is going to shut down for a week," said Mrs. Merrill, "and Dan can get off, too. He wants to go over to White Beach. There's a little shack we can have for not much money, but it has only two rooms. Dan thinks he can bunk on the porch. He wants Olive Gates to go with us, and she and you children would have to sleep in the tent."

"I wouldn't be scared if Olive was with us," said Lucy. Dora was too happy to say anything at all. Her eyes shone and looked bluer than ever. When one is only eight, there are a great many important things in life. To go to the beach and to sleep in a tent seemed almost too good to be true.

"Alice Harper is at the beach this summer, but she sleeps in a house," said Lucy. Nobody was listening. Dan and Mr. Merrill were both talking, and it was plain that they wanted to go just as much as the children did.

"What shall we do with Timmy?" asked Dora, a sudden cloud coming over her face. It would never do to leave the tiger-striped pussy to take care of himself for a week. "Can he go with us?"

"No," said Mrs. Merrill. "He would be scared to death, if he didn't run away entirely."

Dora looked so distressed that Mr. Merrill could not stand it. "We'll plan for Timmy," he said kindly. "I never did think much of people who go off for a vacation and leave their cats to take care of themselves. We will leave the key of the house with Jim Baker, and ask his little girl to come over twice a day to feed Timmy and to let him into the kitchen every night if he wants to sleep inside. But these nice nights, Timmy may prefer to stay out."

Dora's face looked bright again. Of course she could not enjoy the beach if Timmy were not cared for. He was used to being petted and fed regularly. Now there was not a cloud in her sky.

Uncle Dan was as pleased as the little girls. He talked much more than usual during supper, and after it was over and the dishes were being washed, he came to where his sister was mixing bread.

"All right for me to ask Olive?" he inquired.

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill, smiling a little. "Tell her we all want her to go with us."

Dan was off in a hurry, but before he went he gave his sister an awkward hug.

Never were dishes done with such speed! Mrs. Merrill looked at them suspiciously but did not say a word. Lucy had washed them properly and Dora had wiped them as dry as could be, even though they worked so fast. And yet neither of them knew why they were hurrying. They were not to go to the beach for three days, not until Saturday.

There was plenty to do between then and the end of the week. First, they had to decide what clothes to take, and were surprised to find that Mother did not think as they did about the dresses. She came and looked at them when Lucy and Dora had laid them out on their bed.

"You won't need your good clothes," she said. "Those must be kept for school. You will be playing on the beach all day, and not need to be dressed up. When we go over, you will have on one good dress apiece, and that is enough."

Lucy and Dora were disappointed. They thought that people who went away on a vacation should take all their best clothes.

"But not people who live in tents," said Mrs. Merrill. "That makes a great difference. We are only going to camp, you know."

"But I may take Arcturus?" Dora begged, bringing from her bureau the little silver bear on her neck-chain, the bear which had been named for a star. "Arcturus does really need sea air, Mother."

"He looks as though he were pining away," said Mrs. Merrill, but she said that on the way over Dora might wear the necklace.

After Mother had edited that collection of clothes, Lucy and Dora packed them very easily into one suit-case. When they considered that this was to be a camping-trip, it was fun to see how much one could get on without.

Then there was the question of food. Mother made a great many cookies, both of sugar and molasses, and shut them into tin boxes. She also made some cake.

On Friday a pleasant thing happened. The man who owned the printing-press where Mr. Merrill was foreman, said that he would have all their things taken over to the beach in the delivery truck belonging to the press. There would be room on the driver's seat for Mr. and Mrs. Merrill. The little girls could sit on the soft baggage in the back of the truck.

This made it very easy to take whatever they wished. Mrs. Merrill wrapped up some more blankets and made some more cake. She also filled a basket with apples.

Though they were expecting to find it great fun, Lucy and Dora did not ride on the back of the truck. Jack Simmons, who lent Uncle Dan his tent, had a little Ford car. He offered to take Olive and Uncle Dan and the two children. He would stay and help Uncle Dan pitch the tent.

It was important to have a pleasant day on Saturday. All Friday afternoon, while they were doing the last things, Lucy and Dora kept looking at the sky. Their looking did not seem to make any difference, for it did not become more blue, nor any less so, no matter how hard they gazed.

One of the very last things was to go to the Public Library and choose some books to take with them. For, as Mrs. Merrill said, it might rain at the beach, and then they would be glad of something to read.

The children did not wish to think of rain, but they chose the library books with great care. Lucy decided to take "What Katy Did," but Dora could not find any book which seemed suited to so important an occasion. Finally she asked the librarian, Miss Perkins, to choose one for her.

When Miss Perkins knew that the story must last a week and was to be read at the beach, she agreed that no ordinary book would do. She went to a shelf in the back of the library and brought Dora the "Story of Doctor Dolittle."

"You will like this book very much, Dora," she said. "And I think your Uncle Dan will like it, too. It is a new book, just put into the library, so you will take very good care of it, won't you?"

"Oh, I will!" said Dora, who had caught sight of the funny pictures in the text. "I will be very careful of it, Miss Perkins."

"And is Arcturus going to the beach with you?" asked Miss Perkins as she slipped "Doctor Dolittle" into an envelope for safe traveling.

Dora explained that Arcturus would benefit from sea air, and Miss Perkins at once said that it would do him good.




Chapter II

At The Beach


The house where the Merrills lived in Westmore was a brown cottage, but it seemed large and like a palace when the children saw the shack at the beach. Still, they liked the shack very much.

The front room had a couch and chairs, and a square table which could be used for eating. There was one wee bedroom and the smallest kitchen ever seen. That kitchen was hardly so large as a good-sized cupboard. Mrs. Merrill could stand in its centre and reach everything on all four walls. It contained a little sink and an oil stove and some dishes, -- not a great many dishes, but that made fewer to wash.

The shack stood on a hard sandy ridge, not near any other house. Behind, the sand sloped to a road where automobiles were always passing. In front there was sand that slid around under foot, and then a broad hard beach and the wonderful ocean. When the children came on that sunny Saturday, for it was sunny in spite of all their watching the sky, the sea was a deep blue, with white fringes on the shore, where the waves ran up and then slid back again. The sand looked grayish-green, but when the water touched it, it turned shiny.

Dora could not take her eyes off the ocean. She forgot that she had wished to see Uncle Dan and Jack Simmons put up the tent. They pitched it near the shack, on the south side, and drove the poles and the pegs in just as hard as they could hammer them, so that the wind would not loosen the ropes.

When the tent was up, Dora and Lucy went inside. They pulled up all the beach peas growing in the enclosed space, so there was only a floor of warm dry sand, soft and fine. Mrs. Merrill had brought on the truck some rag rugs. These were spread on the clean sand and the legs of the cots put on the rugs. If this were not done, a cot might tumble down when somebody was asleep on it.

Between the tent poles Uncle Dan stretched a rope. This was for Olive and the little girls to hang their clothes over. There was not much room left when the three cots had been set up and a chair brought from the house to hold a wash-bowl and pitcher, but Lucy and Dora thought it was beautiful.

"We will keep our suit-cases under the beds," said Olive. "And we must be careful not to lose little things in this sand."

It took only a few minutes to get settled in the tent. Lucy and Dora put on some old rompers they had brought for bathing dresses. Olive put on her pretty blue suit and tied a blue handkerchief around her hair. Dora thought she looked extremely nice. She decided that when she was twenty, like Olive, she would have a blue jersey bathing suit. But meantime she liked her rompers very well.

Such a wonderful beach that was! There were not many shells to pick up, but a great many interesting pebbles. Almost immediately the children found a strange creature, shaped like a horse's hoof, but transparent and with a long, sharp tail. It seemed quite dead and Dora was glad that it was. She really would not like to meet it strolling down the beach. Olive laughed and said that it was a horseshoe crab and would not do her any harm.

Quite soon, Father and Mother Merrill and Uncle Dan came out, dressed to go into the sea. Lucy and Dora waded in to their waists, squealing because the water was so cold. But in just a few minutes it did not seem cold at all, and they wanted to stay in all day.

Mother would not let them. Much sooner than they wished, she told them to go out and dress.

"It won't do to stay too long the first time," she said. "Put on your old ginghams and you may go barefooted and wade all you like, but you have been in the water long enough for to-day."

It seemed hard to come out when Uncle Dan and Olive were still jumping waves and even diving through them, but it would be fun to go without shoes or stockings and to run into the edge of the water whenever they wished. Besides, Mother herself came out when they did.

Lucy and Dora dressed quickly. They hung their wet clothes on a line which Mother stretched from the corner of the shack to the rear tent pole. Something was cooking on the oil stove which smelled very good.

"When will dinner be ready?" asked Lucy. "I am as hungry as can be."

"It will be ready before the others are dressed," said her mother. "I wish they would come out."

Strange to say, Uncle Dan was willing to leave the ocean before Olive. Father Merrill grew cold and waded ashore, but Olive did not look cold at all. It was Uncle Dan who seemed shivery and whose lips turned blue. Olive ran into the tent and presently threw out her suit. Dora hung it on the line, after brushing off what sand she could manage.

What a funny dinner that was! Nobody had more than one spoon, and some of the spoons were not a size any one would choose to eat with. There were just forks enough to go around and Lucy and Dora had to share a knife. But this was only the more sport.

Olive's hair was wet and tied with a ribbon, so she looked like a little girl with it hanging down her back. There were not chairs for everybody, and Uncle Dan sat on an old crate which kept cracking and acting as though it were going to break and let him down on the floor. But Dan didn't care if it did.

"Alice Palmer lives in a house somewhere at this beach," said Lucy contentedly. "It is much more fun to camp."

After dinner Mrs. Merrill told them all to go down on the beach and she would wash the dishes.

"We will do nothing of the kind," said Olive. "You got dinner alone and I shall wash the dishes myself and the children will wipe them. You will not be allowed in the kitchen, Molly Merrill, and indeed, there is not room for anybody but Lucy and Dora and me."

"Well!" said Mrs. Merrill, and she put on her hat and went down to the edge of the water with Father Merrill.

There was no can for the garbage, so Olive gave the dish to Uncle Dan and told him to take it down the beach away from all the houses and dig a hole and bury it.

"What for?" asked Dan. "Why not throw it out for the gulls to eat?"

Olive said he was not to do this. The gulls might not eat it immediately and the flies would collect and it would be unpleasant for people who were passing. It must be buried, and quite deep at that.

Lucy and Dora were amused to see Uncle Dan go off to bury the garbage just as Olive said. But she looked so pretty with her wavy hair tied back with the blue ribbon that it was no wonder Uncle Dan did what he was told.

For dinner, they had used every dish in the shack, except one big and very black kettle, but even then it did not take long to wash them. Just for fun, Lucy and Dora counted as they wiped. There were precisely forty-three dishes, and that included all the spoons and knives and forks.

"Now," said Olive as they finished, "don't you think it would be nice to have sandwiches for supper and eat them on the beach?"

Lucy and Dora both thought it would be an excellent plan.

"Then let's go and ask your mother," said Olive. "Because if she is willing, we will make the sandwiches right now, and then we shall not have anything to do for supper except eat it."

Olive and the little girls ran a race to see which would first reach Mrs. Merrill. Lucy won, because her legs were longer than Dora's and, anyway, Dora wasn't trying very hard to beat Olive.

Mrs. Merrill approved of the sandwiches. She said that Olive might plan supper exactly as she liked. So they ran back to the shack.

By this time Uncle Dan had buried the garbage and he helped make the sandwiches. Some were filled with peanut butter and some with orange marmalade. Olive also boiled six eggs, one for each. She wrapped the sandwiches in waxed paper, and put them in a basket covered with a damp cloth. She put in the eggs and the salt and the pepper, and a loaf of cake and a knife to cut it with. She put in some peaches and some paper napkins.

"Our supper is ready," she announced. "All we have to do is to come for the basket when we want to eat."

Uncle Dan wanted to walk up the beach to see the life-saving station. Olive's hair was dry now, so she twisted it up and pinned on a pretty hat made of blue silk ribbon. They invited the little girls to go, but both preferred to play in the sand.

Lucy took a big spoon from the kitchen to dig a well, but Dora planned to collect shiny white and gray-green pebbles and make a house for herself. This she did by outlining the walls with pebbles and leaving spaces for doors and windows. The beach was so wide that there was room for a large house. Quite soon Lucy came and began to make herself a house next door to Dora's.

To build the house took a long time, but just as it was finished, Dora had a visitor. The tide was coming, and the first she knew, old Father Ocean ran right in through her front door without even so much as knocking! He did not stay, but ran promptly out again, leaving wet marks all over the front hall of Dora's new house.

Dora did not say anything then, but the next time a big wave rushed up, the water came into her parlor and curled about her bare toes.

"I shall have to move," she said to Lucy.

"Or go away until to-morrow," suggested Lucy. "Look! How low the sun is."

Where had that afternoon gone? It did not seem as though they had been playing more than a few minutes. But the sea was growing gray instead of blue, and the sun struck long level lines through the air. Up by the shack Father and Mother were enjoying themselves; Mother sitting quite idle, just looking at the water; Father lying on his back in the sand. Away down the beach Olive and Uncle Dan were coming. It must be time for that picnic supper.




Chapter III

About Arcturus


Lucy and Dora thought it was great fun to go to bed in the tent. They were even willing to undress at their usual hour and not tease to be out on the moonlit beach.

The only place to put their clothes was over the rope Uncle Dan had stretched between the poles. They hung them there, and the clothes immediately slid into a heap in the middle of the rope. Dora could not make hers stay neatly at one end.

Olive did not go to bed with the children. She and Uncle Dan took the trolley car which ran along the road behind the shack and went to another beach where there was a Saturday night dance. Lucy and Dora did not mind. The window of the room where Father and Mother were to sleep was close at the end of the tent.

After Mother had tucked them into their cots, Lucy went quickly to sleep but Dora lay with eyes wide open. Because of the moon the tent was bright, and through its open flaps she could see the waves breaking lazily on the shore, and hear the surge of the water. Across from the moon came a path of light.

For quite a long time Dora watched the sparkles and then suddenly she began to think about bears, not tiny silver bears like Arcturus, but real ones, full-sized and covered with hair. This was not a pleasant thought.

Dora knew there were no bears anywhere near White Beach. Still, it seemed possible that one might walk into that open tent. And then she heard a rustle outside.

Dora gave a little gasp. At first, she thought she would call Mother, but she remembered that she had wanted to sleep in the tent and that doing so was a part of camping. To be sure, she had not expected that Lucy would be asleep when she wasn't.

After that first gasp, Dora decided not to scream. She lay still, and listened hard. In a minute, a cricket began to chirp.

When she heard the cricket, Dora felt much better. It surely would not be chirping if a bear were walking round the tent. It would not dare to make any noise. But she thought it would be comforting to have Arcturus for a bed-fellow.

The suit-case was under Lucy's cot, so Dora got up and pulled it into the moonlight. Without any trouble she found the silver bear on his slender chain and snapped it about her neck. Then she went back to bed and did not think any longer about real bears.

Instead, she thought of fairies and of a poem she had once read in a library book. She tried hard to remember how it went.

"When the moon shines bright on the pebbly beach And the sea is half-asleep; Heaving, heaving, evermore, And the surf falls lazily along the shore, And the whispering ripples creep. Then the wet little fairies come out of the waves And dance in the light of the moon. With gossamer dresses of white sea-foam, Brown seaweed sash and coral comb, And spottled shells for shoon."

While Dora was thinking about the poetry, she watched the edge of the sea and thought she saw one fairy creep out and shake the spray from its wings. She wasn't quite sure, for it might have been a sandpiper. When Olive came in softly, about midnight, Dora was as sound asleep as Lucy.

Next morning, the sun touched Dora's cot rather than either of the others, just as the moon had done. When she opened her eyes, the sun was just above the horizon, its lower rim not clear from the water. Never before had she seen it so tremendous! It looked a perfect elephant of a sun.

A soft little breeze came into the tent, blowing straight from sea. Sandpipers really were running along the edge of the foam and the beach was washed hard and smooth. Not a trace was left of Dora's house except a huddle of the larger pebbles. Every footmark was gone. A perfectly new and fresh playground lay before them.

Just then Lucy woke and she and Dora looked at the sunrise sky and talked in whispers because Olive was still asleep. Her hand was tucked under one cheek, and a long braid of hair lay across her pillow.

They decided to get up and dress very quietly. It was easy to be quiet because the sand under foot muffled every step, and easy to be quick because they had very few clothes to put on.

Just as they were dressed, Lucy stopped short. "O my!" she said in a whisper, and stood on one foot.

Twisted about her bare toes was a little silver chain.

Dora looked at it. Then she put her hand to her neck. Arcturus and his leash were gone. That was her silver chain tangled in Lucy's toes, but where was the bear? She gave a frightened sob, which woke Olive.

Olive sat up in her cot and looked from one to the other. "What's the matter?" she asked.

Between sobs, Dora explained that she had felt lonely after Lucy went to sleep and had taken Arcturus into bed with her. When she awoke, she never thought of him. There was the chain, but where was Arcturus?

Olive got up at once. She put on her kimono and her slippers. Then she took the top blanket from her bed and spread it carefully on the sand. Next, she took Dora's blankets and shook them carefully over hers. If Arcturus were hiding in the bed, he must come out. But he did not.

Olive shook Dora's pillow and her mattress and her nightdress, and felt the pockets of her dress and looked in the suit-case. She emptied the suit-case and shook every garment. Trying not to cry, Dora watched Olive and Lucy helped her. But Arcturus was not anywhere.

"I am afraid he is in the sand," said Olive. "Show me just where you have walked since you got up."

"I have been right by my cot except when I washed myself," choked Dora.

Olive felt all about in the sand by Dora's bed and sifted it through her fingers. Then she sat back against the cot, for she really did not know what else to do. She was very sorry for Dora, and Dora knew it. She crept into Olive's arms and cried softly, so as not to wake the people in the shack.

Arcturus had certainly run away, but after her cry Dora felt better. Lucy and Olive both were hugging her tightly and though it was hard to lose her dear bear, she still had those who loved her.

"Perhaps we shall find him yet," said Olive. "Let's think so, Dora, and don't let it spoil your nice time at the beach. Perhaps Dan will know something more to do. Perhaps Arcturus has just gone to be a sand-bear for a little while."

At this Dora smiled through her tears. She kissed Olive. Of course it would not be right to spoil things by being sad, and she would hope for the best. There might be a worse fate for Arcturus than being a jolly little sand-bear.

So they all got up from the rag rugs and Lucy picked up Olive's pretty rose-trimmed hat which had slipped from the nail where she tried to hang it.

"You might put that under my cot, Lucy," said Olive. "It won't stick on that nail, and I don't believe I shall wear it here. I like my ribbon one better for the beach."

Lucy tucked the hat under Olive's bed and then she and Dora went down on the shore. Olive said that she knew it would be hard for Dora to speak about Arcturus, so she would do it for her. She would ask the others not to say very much about him, only to look for him everywhere they went.

This made it easier for Dora to come to breakfast. She could even smile when they all called her Theodora. Usually, only Mother remembered that on Sundays she wished to have her whole name used. This morning even Uncle Dan thought about it.

The tide was going out, and away to the right were some shining mud-flats. Uncle Dan and Olive said they were going to dig clams and Lucy and Dora went with them to pick up the clams after they were dug. There was only one clam-fork, but Mr. Merrill found an old spade which he thought he could use. They all put on their bathing suits.

When Dora reached the clam-flat, she did not like it very well. She had not known that clams chose to live in such queer mud. It seemed much dirtier than ordinary wet earth, and after Dora and Lucy had sunk into it far above their ankles, they told Olive that they would let her pick up the clams. If she needed help, she might call, and they would come, but it did not look as though three people would be needed to collect clams for Father and Uncle Dan.

Olive thought she could manage all the clams, so Lucy and Dora went back to the hard beach and made some more houses. Lucy's had a great many large rooms and long halls with plenty of windows. Dora made a small one which was just like the brown cottage she lived in on Main Street.

Father and Uncle Dan heard what Olive and the children were saying about the clams, and so they dug very hard and very fast. The clams were not so many that Olive needed help to pick them up, but there were plenty for a chowder and for steaming, which was much more than either she or Mrs. Merrill had expected. They decided to have the steamed clams for dinner and to make the chowder for supper.

When the clams were dug, Mr. Merrill carried the basket home and Lucy and Dora saw Uncle Dan and Olive coming up the beach. Olive was carrying a heavy shovel and Uncle Dan had a queer-looking thing over his shoulder. Even when he came up to the shack the children did not know what the thing could be. It was a large oblong frame of wood, with a wire screen bottom, and was tilted up on one end.

"We are going to look for Arcturus," said Olive, as Uncle Dan dumped the frame beside the tent. "Some men have been getting gravel from the ridge and using this. We have borrowed it for a little while."

Neither Lucy nor Dora could guess how this frame was to help find the silver bear. Uncle Dan and Olive took out of the tent the three cots and the single chair. Olive shook each rag rug carefully.

Then Uncle Dan carried the frame into the tent. He set it up and lifted a shovelful of sand and threw it against the screen bottom. All the sand went straight through, but the pebbles, even some smaller than Arcturus, fell back in a pile. It would not be possible for Arcturus to go through that wire screening.

Uncle Dan took every single bit of loose sand from the space covered by the tent, and threw it against the screen. Olive and Lucy and Dora watched the pebbles which fell back. Arcturus could not escape three pairs of eyes. But finally there was no more loose sand, only a kind of stiff dry clay, and no Arcturus.

Dora tried hard not to cry but she felt much grieved. It did not seem possible that the bear could evade a search like that. She managed to thank Uncle Dan, who was as sorry as Olive that it had been of no use. They smoothed the sand floor and Uncle Dan returned the screen and the shovel. No, there was nothing left but to think of Arcturus as being a sand-bear now, enjoying himself by the sea.

Then they went swimming, and how Uncle Dan and Father Merrill did laugh at Olive. Olive said that it was Sunday morning and that she usually went to church instead of into the ocean. She should take with her a cake of salt-water soap and call it a bath. She wasn't sure it was quite right to go swimming just for fun. She should feel more comfortable about it if she took the soap.

Mrs. Merrill did not laugh at Olive. She said she was glad that Olive liked to keep Sunday different from other days.




Chapter IV

Friends From Home


During all that week at White Beach it rained only a part of one afternoon. Both "Doctor Dolittle" and "Katy" stayed shut into Mother's suit-case. After the mishap to Arcturus, nothing precious was trusted in the tent. Even on the day the rain fell, the air was so warm and soft that Lucy and Dora played on the shore just the same and thought the sprinkles only the more fun.

Every day people passed up and down the beach. Sometimes they were children who would stop and help Lucy and Dora build a sand fort or run races with them in the edge of the water. Sometimes they had a collection of pebbles to be admired, or a sea-urchin picked up in the sand. These were considered great treasures. Some were worn smooth by the waves, and some -- but these were fewer -- still had long green spines sticking to their shells.

Except for the friendly children, Lucy and Dora paid very little attention to the passers-by. They could see as many people as they wished in Westmore, but in Westmore there were no gulls and no beach and no sea.

One afternoon Dora did look up when a gentleman on horseback came down the shore. The horse was the color of a bright chestnut and his hair reflected the sun. Somebody must have brushed that horse extremely hard to make him so shiny.

Dora looked at the horse and Lucy looked at the rider and presently Lucy smiled a little.

The gentleman glanced at the children and smiled also. "Aren't you Mr. Merrill's little girls?" he asked.

At this Dora looked up. It was Alice Harper's father. They often saw him in church.

Mr. Harper made the pretty horse stop. He asked Lucy where they were staying. He looked at the shack and at the tent beside it.

"And do you sleep in the tent?" he asked. Lucy explained that they did.

"Alice has wanted to sleep in one this summer, but her mother wasn't willing. I know it is great fun. I will tell Alice that you are here and I think she will be down to see you. Our house is the other side of the life-saving station."

Mr. Harper and the shiny horse went on along the beach. Dora watched for some time. The horse walked down by the water where the sand was hard, but whenever a wave came curling in, he danced up the beach. Evidently he did not like to get his feet wet.

When the children went up to supper they told Mrs. Merrill about their visitor.

"He had a very pretty horse. It shone like a bottle," said Dora.

"Do you think Alice will come to see us?" asked Lucy.

"I wouldn't set my heart on it," said Mrs. Merrill.

"Mrs. Harper is always very nice to everybody in the church," said Olive, who was trying to make toast over the oil stove and was not succeeding very well.

"I know she is," agreed Mrs. Merrill. "But church isn't the beach, and people who live in big houses don't always want to know people who live in small ones."

Olive burned a slice of bread and gave a little moan over it, so Dora forgot to ask just what Mother meant. She felt quite sure that Alice would come. Of course, her father might forget to tell her. Fathers did sometimes forget very important things, like posting letters and giving messages and bringing home yeast-cakes.

Lucy also thought that Alice would come, and they were not disappointed. The very next afternoon, which was Friday, while they were playing on the beach, Alice came, and Mrs. Harper with her. Alice stopped with the children and Mrs. Harper went straight to the shack to speak with Mrs. Merrill and Olive. Father and Uncle Dan had gone fishing.

Alice asked a great many questions. She wished to know how long they had been there, how long they were going to stay, and why they had not been to see her.

It was easy to answer the first question and the second answered itself, because school began the next Monday and the printing-press started work again, but the third question was not so easy.

"We did not know where your house was," said Lucy at last.

"You could have asked," said Alice. "There are no girls my age anywhere near me. I have had nobody to play with all summer but babies and boys. The babies are very well for a time, but they can't do much but dig holes in the sand, and I don't like the boys at all. They do horrible things, like putting crabs in shoes and dead fish in playhouses."

"Girls are nicer to play with," said Lucy. "Would you like to make a pebble house, Alice, or would you like to wade?"

"I would like to go into your tent," said Alice eagerly.

The children took Alice up to the tent, which she admired very much. "What fun it must be!" she said. "I wish I could sleep here with you just one night."

Lucy and Dora began to wonder if this could be planned. It did not seem easy, for there was not room for another cot, even if there were one to bring from the house. It would be hard to find space for even a doll's bed. As it was, Lucy's doll had to sleep with her. Dora's Teddy wore a fur coat and he sat up all night. It would not be polite to ask Olive to give Lucy her cot, and there was no place for her to sleep if she did. There seemed no way to make Alice's wish come true.

When the children came out of the tent, they saw Mrs. Merrill on the porch with her hat on and a coat over her arm.

"Goody!" said Alice. "Mother was going to ask your mother if she didn't want to go over to the Port in the motor-boat. We are going, too."

What a pleasant surprise this was! Lucy and Dora thought it very kind of Mrs. Harper. They had half envied Father and Uncle Dan their trip.

Everybody walked up the beach beyond the life-saving station where the boats lay ready to be launched the moment they were needed. Ships need help sometimes as well as people, and these boats were always waiting for a call from sea.

Beyond the station lay a row of pretty houses on a curving strip of land which ran around a big bay. Across, was the town which Alice called the Port.

Mrs. Harper took them up on the porch of her cottage and gave them some lemonade and cookies. She brought out the pitcher herself and Alice brought the glasses. It tasted very good because there was no ice at the shack to keep things cool.

After drinking the lemonade they went down to the boat-house where a man helped them into the motor-boat. Lucy and Dora had been around World's End Pond in a launch, but this one was much more trim and tidy and went through the water much faster. Its boards were very white and all the brass shone and it plunged right at each wave as though it were going to dive through rather than sit on top.

Dora became very quiet. The foam flew on either side, and the waves were as blue as Mother's blueing water, but on the whole she liked the pond better than the sea. For one thing, there was not so much of it.

Lucy and Alice went forward in the launch. Alice wanted to sit on the roof of the little cabin. Mrs. Harper said she might if the man at the wheel thought it was safe.

"Safe as lying in a cradle," said the man, so Lucy and Alice climbed up where they could get all the wind that blew.

"Don't you want to go with them?" Mrs. Harper asked Dora.

"No, thank you," said Dora shyly. She was sitting next Olive and presently she cuddled so close that Olive understood and put an arm around her.

Before long the waves grew even larger and some of them broke over the bow of the launch. Alice and Lucy were spattered with spray and both gave little shrieks.

"Don't you feel well, Dora?" asked Olive in a whisper. "Don't you want to go to the Port?"

"I'd rather go on land," said Dora. "Any land."

Dora spoke softly but Mrs. Harper heard. "Poor child!" she said. "And I thought she would enjoy a ride."

Mrs. Harper opened a locker, which was a cupboard under the seat, and took out a big soft shawl. She spread it on the seat and told Dora to lie down.

Dora was extremely glad to feel herself on something flat. She shut her eyes and kept still while Mother and Mrs. Harper wrapped her in the rug. Then Mrs. Harper spoke to the man at the wheel. He turned the launch in a different direction so that the bow did not hit the waves quite so hard.

It seemed a long time to Dora before they were back at the boat-house. The launch had been out only about an hour, but she thought it was the whole afternoon. Alice and Lucy thought it was about ten minutes.

Just as soon as she stepped ashore, Dora began to feel better, and she did not really need the hot soup which Mrs. Harper insisted she should drink. By the time they were home at the little shack, Dora could hardly believe that she had not enjoyed the trip.

"But would you like to go again in the launch?" asked Olive.

No, Dora would not go so far as to say that. She felt surprised and hurt, that the sea which looked so lovely, could make her feel so disagreeable.

When the fishermen came they brought with them five fish. Four were ordinary plain fish such as the children often saw at the market, but the fifth one, which Uncle Dan had caught, was much longer and broader and looked strange. Dora at once asked Uncle Dan its name.

"I think it is a walrus," said Dan gravely.

Lucy looked respectfully at the fish but Dora looked at Uncle Dan. Though his face was quite unsmiling, there was a twinkle in his eyes.

"It must be a walrus," he went on, "because I am a carpenter, you see."

Lucy didn't "see" at all, but Dora laughed in delight. Of course it must be a walrus. She remembered the poem perfectly.

"The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: 'If this were only cleared away,' They said, 'it would be grand!'

"'If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,' the Walrus said, 'That they could get it clear?' 'I doubt it,' said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear."

Dora laughed hard at Uncle Dan waving the fish and pretending to wipe his eyes. Olive understood and laughed also, but Lucy and Mrs. Merrill didn't understand the joke at all.

Then the fishermen were told about the launch trip and Dora was rather sorry they had to know that she did not enjoy it. But she felt comforted when Father confided to her that he did not like the motion of the boat himself.

"It was all right as long as we kept moving," he said, "but when we anchored to fish, I felt as though my dinner wasn't to be depended upon."

"I know just how you felt," said Dora earnestly. "I grew so jiggly that my stomach came up on top of me."

And the very next day they had to go home. The truck was to come over early in the afternoon and everything must be ready. Uncle Dan and Olive were going back by trolley and they said they would take the children, but Lucy and Dora decided to ride on the truck.

For that last dinner they had another chowder, because it was easy to make and to heat when there was not a great deal of time for cooking. And it was odd how easy the packing seemed. Scarcely five minutes were needed to tuck into the suit-case the clothes it had taken so long to choose. The cookies and cake and apples were all eaten.

Only, as Dora folded the last rug and looked around the empty tent, ready now to be taken down, she thought of Arcturus and the tears came to her eyes. She did not mean anybody to see them, because they had all been so kind. Mother had not said one word about her being careless and Lucy offered to give back the pink coral heart Dora had lent to her. But when the tent was all pulled to pieces, the thought of her dear bear was more than she could stand. Olive saw her wipe away a tear and put an arm around her.

"I am so sorry, Dora," she said. "Indeed, if I could, I would get you another bear."

"It wouldn't be Arcturus," choked Dora.

"No," agreed Olive, "but it might be his twin brother. I don't suppose it would be possible to buy one in this country, and I shall never be lucky enough to go to Switzerland. But I am thinking you a little bear, Dora. Can't you feel him growing?"

Dora pretended she could, and when she came out of the tent, nobody could have suspected any tears. But as they left White Beach, her last look was not for the sea nor the sky nor the gulls, nor the goldenrod and asters along the sandhills, but for the place where the tent had stood, and in her heart she was hoping that Arcturus would be very happy in his new life by the shore.




Chapter V

When School Begins


Timothy was glad to see Lucy and Dora come home. He looked fat, and Marion Baker said he had slept in the kitchen every night but one. On Wednesday evening he chose to visit his friends. But Timmy had evidently been lonesome, for he purred loudly and followed the children up to their room. As soon as the suit-case was opened, he got into it to see whether they had brought anything for him. Dora had done so. There was in the suit-case a stalk of catnip for Timothy.

Some mail and papers were at the house and when Mother looked over the letters there was one for Dora from Miss Chandler, whom she called Aunt Margaret.

Dora planned to answer the letter on Sunday. There was much to tell about the beach. Only, when she began to write, she thought of Arcturus and felt quite sad. When she spoke of him, Mother suggested that Dora should tell Miss Chandler how Arcturus had run away. It was right that she should know, because she gave Dora the little bear.

To write about it in a letter was easier than speaking of it when she saw Miss Chandler, so Dora wrote what had happened and how sorry she was. Then she told her about the nice time at the beach, and what fun it was to sleep in a tent, and how she and Lucy rode home sitting on a roll of blankets in the back of the truck.

When the letter was finished, Mother looked at it. She told Dora about one word which was spelled wrong and said that the writing looked neat. Then she told Dora how to direct the envelope and gave her a postage stamp from Father's desk.

Dora stuck the stamp on the proper corner and put the letter in the box on the post by Mr. Giddings' drug-store. Then she came back to the house and read the "Story of Doctor Dolittle." She thought it was one of the most interesting and funniest stories she had ever read. She tried to have Lucy enjoy it, but Lucy liked "What Katy Did" better.

After supper that Sunday night, Dora followed Mother into her bedroom.

"I have a plan," she said. "Mother, you know Aunt Margaret told me that her birthday is the same as mine. Both are next Friday. I would very much like to make her a birthday present, Mother. You see she gave me Arcturus and the other little charms. And anyway, it would be nice, because she was so kind to us in the vacation school."

Mrs. Merrill thought this was a nice plan. She asked Dora what she wanted to give Miss Chandler.

"I have twenty-five cents," said Dora, "which I earned picking blackberries. I thought I could buy her some paper to write letters on."

"I think," said Mrs. Merrill, "that Miss Chandler would like better a gift which you made for her. You know you did some cross-stitching for the bedspread this summer. Haven't you still the paper with the pattern showing the colored squares?"

Yes, Dora still had the paper pattern of the roses.

"I am going to the city to-morrow," said Mrs. Merrill. "Would you like me to buy a bit of the canvas they use for cross-stitching, and four skeins of colored cotton? Then you could make a pincushion for Miss Chandler with the cross-stitched roses on it. I have a piece of pretty white linen you may use for the top, and I will help you put the cushion together. Don't you think that would be a nice present?"

Dora was perfectly delighted with Mother's plan. She begged her to find the piece of white linen at once, and when she saw it, she was sure that it would make an unusual cushion. She was so afraid that Mother would forget what an important errand that canvas was, that she took a pencil and wrote it down on a piece of paper and stuck the paper into Mother's purse, where she could not fail to see it.

Next morning school began. Lucy and Dora were glad, for both liked to go to school. Lucy was one grade ahead of Dora and so each year, Dora had the teacher Lucy was leaving. Because she heard Lucy talk about them at home, she felt acquainted immediately, and it was not hard to change into a higher grade.

This year Lucy was sorry to leave Miss Leger, and she was not sure she should like Miss Scott, into whose room she was going. Some of the older girls did not like her.

While Mother was tying their hair-ribbons, Lucy spoke to her about it. Mother did not think Miss Scott would be cross.

"If you learn your lessons, Lucy, and behave yourself as well as you should do, your teacher will not be cross. It is only sick or naughty children who can't get on at school."

Lucy admitted that Mother's advice sounded sensible, and she and Dora started for school. Lucy had on a white waist, which had buttoned to it a pink plaid kilted skirt. On the waist was a collar of the pink plaid gingham. When Mother planned that dress, Lucy did not think she should like it, but now the dress was made, she liked it very much.

Dora wore a new dress, too. Hers was a loose blue gingham which was smocked at the shoulders and had a round white collar. They both wore socks and sneakers, because Mother thought best to save their leather shoes for colder weather.

All the children seemed glad to come back to school. All the little girls wore clean crisp dresses, slipped on five minutes before they started for the schoolhouse. All the little boys had clean shirt-waists and their hair brushed back very hard and very wet.

The children went into the rooms belonging to their new grades. Lucy hoped to get a back seat in a row of desks, for all the girls considered the back seats the most desirable. Lucy didn't get the seat she wanted, but the one she did get was the third from the back, and beside a window, so that was not so bad.

Dora didn't care where she sat, and this was lucky, because Miss Leger told the children to stand, and then arranged them according to how tall they were, with the smallest ones in front. This put Dora in the first seat of all, but she liked it as well as any other.

Everything went well until recess and then an accident happened to Dora. The little girls were playing tag on the grassy grounds about the schoolhouse. The older girls were walking up and down with arms around each other's waists, talking of the many things which had happened during the long vacation.

Dora was playing with five other little girls and running as fast as she could when suddenly something hit her hard and everything turned black.

The next Dora knew she was lying flat on the soft grass and Lucy was holding her hand and one of the big girls was putting water on her face. And ever so many girls were standing around and looking at her.

"What is the matter?" asked Dora. "What hit me?"

"You and Marion Baker ran into each other," said the big girl who was mopping her face.

Dora thought this odd. She had not even seen Marion. How queer that she could run into a person whom she didn't see!

The next second Dora discovered that her lip was cut and bleeding. It hurt worse than her head and the blood was dropping on the pretty blue dress which had been so fresh and clean that morning.

When the littler girls saw the blood-stains, they were frightened. Some of them ran to tell Miss Leger that Dora was hurt.

Miss Leger came out at once. She bathed Dora's lip and found that there was only a small cut. It was very small to produce so many drops of blood. She told Dora to hold the wet cloth against it. Then she looked at Marion, who had a big bump on her forehead.

For a time both Dora and Marion felt very sorry for themselves, but in a few minutes Marion's head stopped aching and Dora's lip no longer shed bright drops of blood. They could even think it funny that with all that big school-yard, both should have tried to stand in the same place at the same second.

Lucy was disturbed about Dora's dress. It looked worse than Dora could see. Mother was shopping and would not be at home until afternoon school was over. Lucy did not know what was best to do about the dress.

Luckily Father knew. He was sorry that Dora's lip was cut, but glad she was not badly hurt. He said that Dora had better take off the dress and put it to soak in cold water. He was sure that cold water would not hurt it and that it would be safe to leave it soaking until Mother came and decided what should be done to it next. He asked Dora if she did not have another clean dress.

Yes, there was a clean dress, but not perfectly new, like the blue gingham. Dora was sorry to change, but she saw that even a dress which wasn't brand-new looked more tidy than one dribbled with red spots. She took off the spotted one and Lucy buttoned the other and they went back to school.

When they were through at four, Mrs. Merrill was at home. She had attended to the blue gingham and it was hanging on the line, just as clean as ever. Of course she wanted to know about the spots.

Lucy and Dora told her about them and then Dora asked anxiously if Mother found the note in her purse and if she remembered to buy the canvas and the colored cottons.

Mrs. Merrill had remembered. There was a piece of canvas and two shades of green cotton and two of pink. They had cost seventeen cents.

Dora ran to bring Mother her quarter, for she wanted to pay for them so that her gift to Aunt Margaret should be entirely hers. Mrs. Merrill gave her eight cents in change.

"And will you fix the top of the cushion so I can begin on it right away?" she asked.

"I can't do it just this minute," said Mrs. Merrill, "because I have to cook something for supper. I will try to do it early this evening."

"Dora and I will wash the dishes and do all the clearing away, so you can have plenty of time," offered Lucy.

After supper, Mrs. Merrill sat down with the pattern and the cross-stitch canvas and the linen for the cushion top. She measured and planned carefully. She basted the canvas in the proper place so it could not slip while Dora was working. She made one cross-stitch so Dora could start easily.

When the last dish was put away, Dora came eagerly to see the cushion. From the one stitch Mother had set, it was easy to follow the pattern and she sat down at once to sew. Before bedtime, the roses and their leaves were made and she was ready to pull out the canvas.

Mother showed her how to do this, just one thread at a time. They were stiff and hurt her fingers, but she kept on and soon the linen top with its design of roses lay before her.

"You have done the pretty part now," said Mrs. Merrill. "The rest will be plain sewing, but you must set every stitch as well as you possibly can. I want Miss Chandler to think that you work neatly. I will baste it for you."

"I will try very hard," said Dora. "I suppose I couldn't begin that part this evening?"

"No," said Mrs. Merrill. "Tell Father good-night, and then you and Lucy run up to bed. When you are ready, knock on the floor and I will come and put out the light."

Both Lucy and Dora laughed at forgetful Mother. Almost always she said that when they were going to bed. It sounded all right any time, and it was all right in winter, when there really was a light to put out. But in September, with daylight-saving time, there was twilight when they went to bed. What Mother meant was that she would come and kiss them and see that the window was open and their clothes properly picked up.

Next day Dora back-stitched the case for the cushion and filled it with some old knitting wool which she snipped into tiny pieces. Dora was surprised to learn from Mother that pins stick much better into a cushion stuffed with wool. It is no use to stuff one with cotton.

Next, the embroidered top was pressed, and this Dora did herself after Mother had finished ironing. Mother basted the top and bottom together and Dora sewed the edges over and over. She tried so hard to make the stitches even and small that her cheeks grew pink and she felt hot all over. Into each stitch she sewed a loving thought for Miss Chandler.

When the cushion was done, Mother said that it looked very neat and Lucy thought it was beautiful. She liked it so much that Dora had another idea. If Mother would help her, she would make a second cushion for Lucy's Christmas present. There was plenty of cotton for more roses and there were canvas and linen, too. Perhaps it might be possible to make one for Olive. To make three pretty gifts and have them cost but seventeen cents would be a good deal for a little girl to accomplish.

Dora could hardly wait until Lucy left the room before asking Mother about the other cushions. Mrs. Merrill said at once that she would help. They would be desirable Christmas presents for both Lucy and Olive.

Dora found a clean empty candy-box into which the cushion fitted exactly. She wrapped it neatly in tissue paper and put in a card so Miss Chandler would know from whom it came.

"You might tell her that you made it yourself," suggested Mother, who was now darning Uncle Dan's socks.

So Dora put on the card: "I made it myself." Then she thought a moment and wrote some more: "All but one stitch which Mother made so I could get the roses in the middle. And the bastings. She sewed those, but they are all pulled out."

Mother smiled a little over Dora's card, but she said that it would do, and that she thought Dora was improving in her writing. Then Dora wrapped the box in brown paper and directed it to Miss Chandler in Boston. She decided to pay the postage with her eight cents. Then there would be nothing about the gift not wholly hers.




Chapter VI

Dora's Birthday


The seventeenth of September was Dora's birthday. On Thursday night she went to bed expecting to feel quite different when she waked in the morning and was nine instead of eight. But she didn't. She felt just the same.

The day was bright and sunny but cold. Lucy looked out to see whether there had been a frost. So far as she could see, nothing was touched in the garden. Even the nasturtiums, which get discouraged and turn black if the thermometer casts a glance toward the freezing-point, were looking as alert and cheerful as usual.

When the children were dressed, they ran down-stairs. Lucy went into the kitchen to help Mother. Dora sat down in the parlor and tried to read. The birthday girl never helped about breakfast. She didn't even come near the table till she was called.

Dora simply couldn't read. She knew there was to be a surprise and she wanted to think how pleasant it would be. Out in the kitchen she could hear Lucy whispering to Mother and then came a rustle of paper as though somebody was arranging soft packages.

"Breakfast is ready," called Lucy at last. "All right for you to come, Dora."

Dora didn't need to be called but once. Nobody does on a birthday morning.

She saw that her plate was covered with bundles, and then she had to hide because Uncle Dan said that her nose must be buttered and that she should have nine spanks, and one to grow on.

Dora had to dodge around the table till Mother told Uncle Dan to sit down and behave properly. Uncle Dan put down the butter-knife and Dora let him catch her and give her ten love pats and a big hug.

Then Father kissed her, and Mother said if they wasted any more time the children would be late for school and Father and Uncle Dan would be late for work.

Dora sat down at her place and picked up the first package. It was fat and not a bit heavy. She opened it to find some yarn, soft, and of the prettiest blue you can imagine. Dora didn't know it, but it was the color of her eyes.

"That is to make you a sweater," said Mother. "I am going to knit one like Mary Burton's. You said you liked hers so much."

Dora was delighted. She kissed Mother and looked very happy.

"My old sweater is growing so small," she said. "Will you knit it soon, Mother?"

"I will begin it this evening," said Mrs. Merrill. "I want some work to pick up after supper."

"It is the color I like best," said Dora, and she opened another package.

This was from Olive and it contained two new hair-ribbons. One was blue and exactly matched the sweater yarn. The other was pink. Dora liked them both.

The next package was small and heavy and Dora wondered what it could be. It was a paint-box with paints of all the different colors that any picture could possibly need. This was from Uncle Dan, and Dora went straight and hugged him.

"How did you know I wanted a paint-box?" she asked. "I wanted it very much and I didn't expect to have one."

"A little bird told me," said Dan promptly.

"I guess it was an Olive-bird," laughed Dora. "I don't remember telling anybody but Olive how much I wanted one."

Lucy was eager for Dora to open her gift. Dora thought it was lovely. It was a roll of colored papers and paper lace, for making hats and dresses for paper dolls. Such a gift was most desirable for work on winter evenings.

Now two packages were left, one of which had come through the mail. Dora opened the other first. This was from Father and was a copy of "Alice in Wonderland."

Dora loved that story. She had borrowed it many times from the Public Library and never expected to have a copy of her own. Father explained that he had a chance to buy it through the printing-press and knew she would like it.

"There is another part to my present," he said. "Next week there is to be a good film at the movies, 'Anne of Green Gables.' You and Lucy and Mother are to see the afternoon performance."

Lucy and Dora both had to hug Father now. It was not often that Mother let them go to the movie theatre. She thought the pictures were not as nice as books. It would be great fun to see "Anne," and all the more fun to know about it so long before.

Now there was one package left to open, but under it were two post-cards and a letter. One card was from Mr. Thorne, the rector of the church where the Merrills went and where Uncle Dan sang in the choir. The other was from Miss Page, Dora's Sunday school teacher. Both had remembered to send a birthday greeting.

The letter and the package were from Miss Chandler. Dora took off the outer wrapper of the package and found a candy-box, much like the one her pincushion had gone traveling in. But no candy, unless made of sea-foam, could be so light as that box. When she opened it, nothing showed but tissue paper.

Very carefully, Dora pulled this out and in the middle, wrapped in bright red paper so she could not fail to see it, was a small box, tied with white ribbon. When she opened it Dora gave a gasp. She was so surprised that she could not speak.

Inside the box was a little thing rolled in cotton, and when Dora's trembling fingers took it out, it was another charm for her to wear on her silver chain.

This charm was a tiny kitten, about three-quarters of an inch high. Unless it had upset a blueing bottle, no earthly kitten was ever that color. This one was deep blue, and it didn't seem to be made either of glass or metal. Its pointed ears gave it a surprised look and its kitten face wore a pleasant expression. About its neck was a silver collar with a ring at the back to slip on a chain. About its feet its tail coiled tight as though to keep its paws from scattering. Anybody could see that it was an unusual kitten. Dora felt sure it must have a story.

"The letter is from Miss Chandler," said Mother. "If you open it, Dora, it may tell you where the little cat came from. I suppose it is something she brought from Europe."

The kitten had come from even farther than Europe! Dora read the letter aloud.

"Dear Little Dora:

"Many happy returns of your birthday! I hope you may have the nicest possible time. I am sorry Arcturus was so ungrateful as to run away from his kind mistress, but you know bears are wild at heart. I am sending you another pet in his place, one which I hope will be willing to stay at home. This is a Chinese kitten which came from the city of Hong Kong. If you drop it, it will not break because it is made of stained ivory.

"Since you named your bear for a star, perhaps you may like a star name for this kitten. Would you like to call it Vega? That is the name of a brilliant star which in summer is almost directly overhead. I am sure your uncle will help you find it. It is a star which shines with a blue light, so its name is suited to a blue kitten."

Dora was delighted that the blue kitten should be named for a blue star. She stopped to say so before finishing the letter.

"I wanted to spend our birthday together, but I have to teach all day. So I made another plan which Mother will tell you."

Dora at once turned to Mother. "I will tell you when you have eaten your porridge," said Mrs. Merrill. "Your breakfast is getting cold, Dora. Eat your oatmeal and drink your milk."

"No eat -- no go," said Uncle Dan.

"Dan, keep still," said Mrs. Merrill. "Begin to eat, Dora."

Dora was too happy to feel hungry, but she knew the oatmeal must go down and that she must eat an egg and a slice of toast. When she had almost finished, Mrs. Merrill told the plan.

"I had a letter, too, from Miss Chandler," she said. "She has invited you and Lucy to come into Boston to-morrow morning and stay with her until Sunday afternoon."

"Mother! May we?" exclaimed Lucy and Dora in one breath.

"I never went to Boston but twice in my life," said Lucy.

"I never visited anybody over night," said Dora and then they both said, "Mother, do let us!"

"Father and I are willing you should go," replied Mrs. Merrill. "Miss Chandler sent a dollar to pay for your tickets, and Father will put you on the eight o'clock train and Miss Chandler will meet you in the North Station."

"I didn't know Aunt Margaret kept house," said Lucy.

"It isn't a real house," said Mrs. Merrill, "that is, not like this one. She has some rooms in a big building."

"Mother!" said Dora, "oh, Mother, may I take Aunt Margaret a piece of my birthday cake?"

"How do you know there will be a birthday cake?" asked Mrs. Merrill.

"Because there always is," said Dora.




Chapter VII

About Boston


You may be sure that Lucy and Dora did not oversleep next morning. For supper there had been pink ice-cream and a proper birthday cake with nine pink candles, and the holiday feeling lasted all night.

Father took them to the station and put them on the train. He spoke to the conductor and then to Lucy.

"Now, Lucy," he said, "if Miss Chandler is not on the platform where the train comes in, you and Dora are to walk right back to the car where you got off, and this gentleman will bring you home on his next train."

"But, Father," said Dora, "Aunt Margaret will be there. She said she would meet us."

"Yes, I know," said Father, "and I think she will be waiting. This is so you will know what to do if anything happens to prevent her being there."

Father kissed them and the conductor said, "All aboard!" Father stepped off quickly.

Neither Lucy nor Dora often went on a train. They traveled so seldom that it was great fun to see the farmhouses and cows and hens as the train scurried past, and to watch the telegraph poles swooping down to gather up their wires.

Before long, the farms grew fewer, and the houses came closer together and instead of having only two tracks, one for the trains going to Boston and the other for trains going in the opposite direction, there were many tracks on both sides, with engines puffing past or cars standing in long lines.

Quite soon the trainman came and took their suit-case. Lucy looked at it anxiously for it contained a clean white dress for her and one for Dora. These were to be worn on Sunday if Aunt Margaret wished to take them to church. Lucy was not sure what the man meant to do with the suit-case.

Dora did not notice his taking it. The train was moving across a bridge with water coming quite close on either side. In the air, gulls were flying, and in the distance she could see some big ships.

The trainman saw that Lucy looked troubled. "The conductor told me to take this," he said. "I'll go with you to meet the party you are looking for."

Lucy didn't know what he meant. "But we aren't going to a party," she said shyly. "We are going to meet Aunt Margaret."

The trainman smiled. "I'll help you meet her," he said, and he looked so pleasant that Lucy was willing he should take the suit-case.

When the train stopped, the children followed the other people to the door and there the trainman stood with the suit-case. He lifted Dora down and took Lucy by the elbow to help her just as he did the grown-up ladies. Then he walked with them down a long platform.

Lucy and Dora were glad that he came with them. The train was standing under a big shed with a very high roof and many people were hurrying about. Huge engines snorted and made so much noise that it seemed most confusing.

Miss Chandler stood by the gate which let the people through from the train-shed into the other part of the station. She kissed the little girls and thanked the kind trainman for helping them find her.

The first thing was to dispose of the suit-case. Miss Chandler called a messenger-boy and sent him to take it to her rooms.

"Now," she said to the children, "we will go by the elevated train."

Lucy and Dora had read about the elevated railways in big cities, but neither had been on one. They went through the big station and up some steps and through a turnstile and along a corridor above a street where the trucks and electric cars were, and up some more steps to a platform. Soon a train of cars came, but it did not have a smoky engine. This train ran by electricity.

"Is this the evelated train?" asked Dora.

"Yes, this is the elevated," said Miss Chandler, laughing. "We will step into this car."

In half a minute the train was again moving, but the children were surprised because it did not stay on the tracks above the street. Instead, it promptly plunged underground, into a lighted tunnel which ran under the street instead of above it.

"It is a funny kind of elevated train which runs underground, isn't it?" said Miss Chandler. "But it does in Boston."

Lucy and Dora thought it was odd, but they liked the brightly lighted stations where the train stopped. Quite soon, Miss Chandler said they would get out.

When they left the car they were still underground and climbed many stairs before seeing daylight. When they came out, it was on a sidewalk in the midst of tall buildings, much higher than any in the city where Mother went shopping. The streets were very narrow and at almost every crossing stood a policeman. He told the automobiles to stop and let people cross the street, or he told the people to wait on the sidewalk until it was safe for them to come. Everybody did exactly what he told them to do.

"I think it is very kind of that policeman to stand there and help the people," said Dora.

Miss Chandler smiled. "Do you, Dora?" she asked. "He says we may cross now."

Such wonderful shop-windows! Lucy and Dora were really obliged to stop and look, for they had never imagined anything so beautiful. One big window was draped with silks of different shades of orange and flame.

"Is it a fairy palace?" asked Dora. "It is like a story I read once."

No, it was not a palace, only a big shop and people could go in and buy those very silks if they liked. Miss Chandler let the children look in a number of windows and then she called their attention to an open space across the street.

"Let us go over on the Common," she said. "Perhaps the squirrels will come to be fed."

Directly across from the beautiful shops was a big park with great elms and green grass and seats where men and women were sitting. When the children entered, they saw three fat gray squirrels with bushy tails climbing over a man who sat on one of the seats.

"They know he has nuts for them," said Miss Chandler.

The man saw the children looking at him. He drew his hand from his pocket and it contained some peanuts.

"Would you like to feed the squirrels?" he asked.

"Will they bite?" asked Lucy.

"Not if you don't scare them. Don't touch them nor try to grab them, but just hold the nut in your fingers."

"Thank you," said Lucy and took one nut.

"May we?" Dora asked Miss Chandler, and when she smiled, Dora took a nut and thanked the man.

The squirrels came at once. Dora shivered a little when her squirrel put its paws about her fingers to steady the nut. Its wee hands felt so queer!

The third squirrel sat on the man's knee and nibbled a peanut. When it was eaten, it put its paws over its heart in a beseeching way. As well as it knew how, it was begging for another.

Perhaps it was lucky that the man did not have many peanuts, for Lucy and Dora would have stayed until they were all gone. When there were no more, they thanked the man again and followed Miss Chandler across the Common.

"Who takes care of the squirrels in the winter?" asked Lucy. "Who would feed them if the people didn't?"

"The park commissioners feed them," said Miss Chandler. "Did you know that the State legislature of Massachusetts once stopped some important work to provide for a family of orphan gray squirrels on Boston Common?"

"Did they really?" asked Lucy.

"They really did. So you see that the squirrels would be looked after even if people didn't like to feed them with peanuts. Did you ever hear of the Frog Pond?"

"I have," said Lucy eagerly. "I have just studied about it in my history class. Dora hasn't had history yet, but we can tell her."

Dora looked at the small pond before them. She didn't see any frogs.

"Just think, Dora," said Miss Chandler, "that pond has been here since the first people came to Boston. The boys always slide on it in winter. Once during the Revolutionary War, British soldiers camped on the Common. They spoiled the ice where the children wanted to slide."

"I know what happened," said Lucy proudly. "The general in command of the British army was a very cross man, but the boys didn't care if he was. They went straight and told him what the soldiers had done. And the General said they were to let the slide alone. Didn't he, Aunt Margaret?"

"He did," said Miss Chandler.

Dora looked respectfully at the Frog Pond. There were better places in Westmore for sliding when winter came, but it was interesting to know that children had played with the Frog Pond ever since there were any children in Boston to play there.

Beyond the Common lay a pretty park, called the Public Garden, and here they came to a larger body of water with white birds swimming on it. Some were ducks and some were swans, and the children stopped to watch them. Miss Chandler kept looking at a wooden platform not far away. Part of it was on the bank and part floated on the water.

Presently a boat came in sight, but it was like no boat Lucy and Dora had ever seen. It was not like the launch on World's End Pond nor like the one at the beach. It looked like a tremendous great bird, floating lightly on the water.

"Would you like to go in the swan boat?" asked Miss Chandler.

Would they like to! Dora and Lucy could hardly speak for joy. But Dora asked one question.

"There won't be any waves, will there?" she inquired anxiously. "Not to tip the swan about?"

"It will be perfectly smooth," said Miss Chandler, and it was. Dora enjoyed every second she spent in the swan boat.

Next, Miss Chandler took them to the Boston Public Library. The children were very fond of the library in Westmore, but they had never imagined a library as big as this great building. Miss Chandler told them that Boston was a large city and the people needed many books to read.

They stayed a long time in the Public Library. In it were many rooms and in some were beautiful paintings. To see them, they climbed a marble stair where great lions kept guard. Dora at once revised her ideas of fairy palaces. If only that windowful of silks could be hung on the walls of the marble stair, it would be better than any palace of which she had read.

On the walls of one room were paintings about Sir Galahad. Lucy and Dora knew his story and how he went to seek the Holy Grail. Miss Chandler explained each painting.

Then she took them into a pleasant room with low bookcases and small tables and chairs and told them that it belonged to the children of Boston. All the books on the shelves were books which children liked to read.

Dora looked at the shelves carefully. It would be nice to have a library just for children, with no grown-ups at all. Still, the Westmore library was nice, and a little town didn't need a big library like Boston. Some of the books she saw on the shelves were in the children's corner of the Westmore library.

"Now I think it is time for luncheon," said Miss Chandler. "We will have it rather early because I have a plan for this afternoon and I don't want you to get too tired."

Lucy and Dora had not thought about eating, but now it was mentioned, they both felt hungry.

Miss Chandler stopped an electric car near the library. To the amusement of the children, after running a few blocks down a wide street, the car dived underground. Cars in Boston seemed to have this habit.

When they came out of the subway they were in a different part of town, one which was crowded with people and had many large stores.

Miss Chandler took them into one of these stores and up in an elevator to where there was a restaurant with music playing.

First they washed their hands and smoothed their hair and then sat at a pretty round table with two pink asters in a vase.

In every direction were tables with people eating luncheon. The waitresses wore gray linen uniforms and white caps, and boys in white suits carried away trays of used dishes. The place was so large and strange that Dora was glad Miss Chandler was with them.

"What would you like for lunch?" Miss Chandler asked.

"Ice-cream, please," said Lucy.

"Oh, yes!" said Dora. "I would like that best of anything, Aunt Margaret."

"We will have ice-cream for dessert," said Miss Chandler, "but we must eat something else first."

Neither Lucy nor Dora cared especially what they had for lunch. There was too much to see for them to feel interested in the paper which had printed on it the things to eat.

"We will have fricasseed chicken and baked potatoes and rolls," said Miss Chandler. "I will have some coffee and you girls shall have milk. Then we will all order ice-cream."

The luncheon came on pretty dishes and the chicken was gay with green parsley. The potatoes sat in white paper boats. Most unusual of all, each lump of sugar for Miss Chandler's coffee came wrapped in smooth white paper.

Miss Chandler said she did not use sugar in her coffee and that the children might each have one lump. Lucy ate hers while waiting for the ice-cream, but Dora tucked hers into a coat pocket. She thought she would take it to Mother.

"What is the nice plan for the afternoon, Aunt Margaret?" Lucy asked when she had finished her chocolate ice-cream. Dora's ice-cream was strawberry and Miss Chandler's vanilla.

But the afternoon of that day must have a chapter to itself.




Chapter VIII

Sunday Afternoon


Of course the Chinese kitten came to Boston with Dora. To visit Miss Chandler without wearing her gift would be rude. Mother took a pair of pliers and bent the clasp on Dora's silver chain so that it unfastened less easily. It must have come apart while Dora was sleeping, and so Arcturus found a chance to escape. Mother made sure that Vega could not get away.

Dora was holding the dear kitten in one hand while Miss Chandler explained her afternoon plan. They were to see "Jack and the Beanstalk." This was a play, not a film picture, but a most unusual play, because it was acted, not by real people, but by dolls!

Lucy and Dora both opened their eyes wide. How could dolls act a play? They had sometimes tried to have a play with their dolls, but the stupid things would not take any interest.

Miss Chandler explained that these dolls were called marionettes. All any one could see was the stage with the marionettes giving the play, but they were really worked by strings attached to their jointed arms and legs. These strings went up above the stage and were pulled by people out of sight.

A great many children came to see the marionettes and Lucy and Dora enjoyed looking about at all the little girls and boys.

When the curtain rose, showing Jack and his mother and their cottage, they could scarcely believe that the figures, or puppets, were only dolls. They looked the right size for people. They walked about easily and rapidly. It was possible to understand just what they were saying, or rather, what the people behind the scenes were saying for them.

How all the children laughed when the cow galloped clumsily in! A frisky cow she was, for she tossed her horns and kicked up her heels when Jack tried to catch her. And then he sold her for the magic bean and planted it, while his mother scolded him and wept.

The magic bean began to grow! Away it went up past the top of the stage, and away went Jack, climbing the stalk while his mother wrung her hands and begged him to come back.

Lucy liked the giant and his wife, but Dora never cared for that part of the story. She was glad when the giants were done with and Jack brought home the gold and chopped down the uncanny beanstalk.

There followed a second play, and this time the actors were cunning rabbits with pointed ears and furry faces. They wore gingham dresses or trousers and acted much like real boys and girls.

All over the theatre the children laughed aloud when a naughty boy rabbit got himself wet and Mother Rabbit hung him to dry on a line behind the kitchen stove. But it was the grown-ups who laughed when the postman came with a letter, for the postman was a turtle, and turtles, you know, never move very fast.

Lucy and Dora enjoyed every minute. They could have watched the marionettes for hours and were sorry when it was over.

Miss Chandler knew some of the people who managed the puppets, so she took the children behind the scenes. They were astonished to find that Jack was a small doll, and that the giant was only as large as Lucy's biggest one. Because everything on the stage was made just the proper size for the puppets, it seemed as though they were really as large as living people.

The girls who managed the puppets were dressed in knickerbockers and stood on planks raised above the stage. One of them showed Lucy and Dora exactly how she held Jack, and how by pulling one string or another, she could make him walk across the stage, or raise his arms, or turn his head. It seemed wonderful to the children, and, indeed, it was wonderful.

After the play they ate supper at a place called a dairy lunch, with nice milk and butter and white shiny tiled walls. But here there was no music.

"Now we will go home," said Miss Chandler. "I am sure you have seen enough for to-day."

Another electric car took them where Miss Chandler lived. On the fifth floor of a tall building, she had three rooms which were called an apartment. The first was a living-room, with a big table and a lamp and comfortable chairs and many books. There was one bedroom and a tiny bathroom with a tub for short people. Lastly was a sort of cupboard where there was a gas plate and some pretty dishes. This, Miss Chandler said, was called a kitchenette, because it was too small to be a real kitchen.

Lucy and Dora were pleased with this name. They knew now that they had used a kitchenette at the beach.

The suit-case was there before them and on Miss Chandler's bureau was the rosebud cushion. She had liked it very much.

The children were tired enough to go to bed early, but they did wonder where they were to sleep, for the bedroom contained only one bed, and it was altogether too narrow for more than one person. Three would be a tight fit.

Miss Chandler moved some books from the mantel in the living-room. She pulled a knob. The whole front of the mantel came down and there was a deep box with a mattress.

"This is a folding-bed," said Miss Chandler. "Did you ever sleep in one?"

"Never," said Dora.

"Will it shut up while we are in it?" asked Lucy doubtfully.

"It can't do that," said Miss Chandler. She showed them a bolt which kept the bed from shutting until the proper time in the morning. Even if at heart it wanted to close, it couldn't until the people were ready to put it away.

Miss Chandler brought sheets and blankets, and in five minutes a comfortable bed was ready for two tired little girls. Soon they were tucked into it.

"I shall be reading in my bedroom for a while," said Miss Chandler. "If you want anything, just speak to me."

Miss Chandler expected that the children would talk for a time, but they did not. Lucy was sleepy and Dora had so much to think about that she didn't feel like talking. Very soon Lucy was asleep.

Dora watched the wind blow the sash curtain before the open window and then she suddenly discovered a strange thing. It was exactly like a bright round eye on the wall near the door.

Dora looked at it hard, and the longer she looked, the less she liked it. How could a person or an animal with one eye be staring at her in the dark? How could any eye shine like that?

Dora tucked the Chinese kitten under her cheek for comfort and tried not to look at the queer eye. She looked toward the table where the pretty lamp stood.

That direction wasn't pleasant either. She saw another queer thing, a streak of light this time, which seemed in the middle of the air. It was a thin, short streak, much nearer the folding-bed than the eye on the wall.

Dora hid her face in her pillow and tried to think what these queer things might be, but the longer she thought, the worse they seemed. She turned her head, and there was the round bright eye on the wall. She looked toward the table, and there was the streak of light in a place where no streak ought to be.

Dora sat up in bed and saw a line of light under Miss Chandler's door. That was a right and proper place for it to be. She got up and put her arm across her face so she should not see the queer eye as she passed. She knocked on the door.

It opened instantly and when Miss Chandler saw Dora, she took her in her arms. "Why, honey, what is the matter?" she asked. "Can't you go to sleep?"

For a minute Dora did not say anything. She was contented just to feel loving arms about her.

"There is a very queer thing in that room, Aunt Margaret," she said at last, her head on Miss Chandler's shoulder. "I don't like it at all and I don't think it ought to be there."

"What is it, darling?" asked Miss Chandler.

"It is a round bright eye on the wall," explained Dora. "It looks at me in the dark. And by the table is a little shiny streak."

Miss Chandler gave a soft laugh and hugged Dora tight. "Would you be afraid of that eye if you saw it with me?" she asked.

Dora said she would not feel afraid. Miss Chandler put out the light in her bedroom. In half a minute, right by the door, out of the darkness grew a shiny round spot, exactly like the one in the living-room.

"You see it, don't you, dear?" asked Miss Chandler. "Now, we will put on the light."

When the room was bright with electricity, Miss Chandler took Dora over to the wall where the eye had shone. There was an electric switch with two push-buttons. One was white and one was black.

"It is this button, Dora," said Miss Chandler. "The top has been painted with something which shines in the dark. It isn't an evil eye at all, little Dora, but a nice friendly eye that says, 'Did you want to put on the electric light? Here am I, showing you just where to touch your finger and snap it on in a jiffy!'"

Miss Chandler turned out the light and Dora saw the button begin to shine. She pushed it in and out and saw how nice it was to have a bright eye to tell her where to find the switch.

"And the streak by the table?" she asked.

"That is a bit of radium paint enclosed in a glass pendant. When you pull the pendant, the lamp on the table lights."

Dora gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Aunt Margaret," she said. "We have gas at home, and after Mother turns it off, nothing shines."

Miss Chandler tucked Dora again into bed. When Dora was alone in the dark, she could smile at the friendly eye on the wall.

On Sunday morning the children had the fun of getting breakfast in the kitchenette. First, the folding-bed had to be whisked out of the way, and the room aired and straightened.

There was a wee refrigerator about as large as Mother's cake-box. In it were butter and milk, a jar of cream, and a comb of honey. A paper bag held crisp half-moon rolls, and there was also a tumbler of orange marmalade. Miss Chandler made coffee for herself, and Lucy proudly boiled three eggs exactly four minutes. She knew just how, because she often cooked them for Mother.

After breakfast they went to church, wearing the white dresses. It was fortunate that Mother thought to send an extra dress apiece, for though the gingham dresses were still clean, they were rumpled after all the exciting things that happened on Saturday.

It was a wonderful church to which Miss Chandler took them, big and dark, with windows like rainbows, and an organ which sounded like heaven. The service was like that in the Westmore church. Dora wished Uncle Dan were with her, for he liked music and the Westmore choir could not sing like this one.

After service, Miss Chandler showed the children the statue of Bishop Brooks outside the church and told them how good a man he was, and how people loved him so much that the whole city of Boston mourned for him when he died, even people who didn't go to his church. Long years ago he used to preach there in Trinity Church.

"We are going to do a very interesting thing this afternoon," Miss Chandler said while they were eating dinner at the College Club. The Club was only a pleasant house, and there was ice-cream for dessert, which was important.

"Will it be a surprise?" asked Dora.

"I think you will be much surprised," said Miss Chandler.

After the ice-cream was eaten, they walked through a parkway and before long went into a large building.

Inside was a room where a lady wearing a white dress and a white cap sat at a desk. Miss Chandler told the children to sit down and she talked with this lady. A bell rang somewhere.

Presently in came another lady, dressed in the same way as the one at the desk, but she was much younger. Miss Chandler spoke to her and then came to the children.

"This is Lucy and this is Dora," she said. "This lady is Miss Perrin, and she is going to show us something interesting."

Miss Perrin took them into a broad hall and to an elevator which went up so slowly that the children could see on every floor they passed, more ladies dressed in white, or in blue with white caps and aprons, and men, too, who, strange to say, wore white coats and trousers.

Dora looked inquiringly at Miss Chandler. She smiled back. There was a queer smell in the air. It smelled almost like Mr. Giddings' drug-store. Miss Perrin left the elevator and led the way to a door.

The room beyond was unlike anything the children had ever seen. The bare floor looked as though it were washed every hour, it was so fearfully clean! Not a picture hung on the straw-colored walls. All the woodwork was white and the table had a glass top. There were only two chairs, and they were white. You can never guess the rest of the furniture.

All around three sides of the room white baskets stood on tall white frames, and in every basket lay a tiny, tiny baby. A whole room full of babies and no grown people at all!

Miss Perrin went straight to the nearest basket. "O dear!" she said. "Those doctors are so careless. They are forever coming and unpinning covers. Then these persons kick off their blankets and take cold. This one's hands are freezing."

Such a very little person to kick off blankets! But they were in a heap at the bottom of the basket and the baby was crying real tears. Dora could hardly bear to see them on its tiny cheeks and to see how pitifully its lower lip quivered. Miss Perrin took it up and laid it against her warm cheek and it stopped being pitiful. Then she tucked it in and pinned down the covers. It did not cry again.

"That is all men know about babies," said Miss Perrin. "I don't mind the doctors looking at them, but they never leave them as they find them. No man knows how to put one to bed."

Miss Perrin looked at every baby to be sure no careless doctor had left it to kick off its covers.

"I have a friend who is here in the hospital," said Miss Chandler. "I want to see her for a few minutes. Would you two like to stay with the babies? Which is Mrs. Stoddard's baby?"

"This person here," said Miss Perrin, indicating a crib. "She is five days old."

Lucy and Dora went to look at the friend's baby. It was sound asleep.

While Miss Chandler went to see Mrs. Stoddard, Lucy and Dora looked at all the babies. Then Miss Perrin took them into another and much larger room. Even this big room was full of babies.

They were not sleeping in bassinets like those in the smaller room, but their beds were just as comfortable. Each one lay on a mattress in a wire basket which looked something like Mother's dish-drainer. When a nurse wanted a special baby, she picked it up, basket and all, and carried it off.

In the middle of the room was an odd table, with wheels and two shelves. One of the nurses was collecting wire baskets, each with a wee baby. She set the baskets side by side on the shelves of the table. When there was room for no more, she wheeled the table and the babies into the corridor.

"They are going to their mothers," said Miss Perrin. "The mothers are in another room and it is time the babies were fed."

"How do they know which baby belongs to which mother?" asked Dora. "There are so many that I should think they would get mixed."

"No, they are never mixed," said Miss Perrin. "We are careful about that, for of course each mother prefers her own baby."

Miss Perrin lifted the blanket of the nearest baby and showed the children a tag fastened to its dress. On the tag was a number and a name. The name was that of the mother, and the number that of her bed.

"Whenever a nurse dresses a baby," Miss Perrin explained, "the first thing she does is to take off this tag and fasten it to the clean dress. And she mustn't touch another baby until the first one is finished. But we also mark them in another way."

Miss Perrin uncovered a tiny foot. On its sole was stuck a piece of cloth plaster with the mother's name written on it.

"You see they cannot be mixed," she said. "And, anyway, the mothers soon know their own babies."

"Of course," Dora agreed.

Lucy gave an exclamation. In one wire basket lay a baby, no smaller than the others, for all were small, but different, because it was a colored baby. Its skin was black and wee bits of wool covered its head.

"Isn't it cunning!" said Lucy. "Oh, Dora, I wish we could have it at our house."

"So do I," said Dora.

Miss Perrin laughed. "I guess Mother wouldn't want you to have it," she said. "Her name is Blanche, and she is just as good as a kitten."

Lucy and Dora could not leave that little black baby. They liked it best of any, and when Miss Chandler came back, she found them by its basket. They talked about it all the way to Miss Chandler's apartment, and while they were packing the suit-case.

"We have had a beautiful time, Aunt Margaret," said Lucy, when they were ready to start for the station.

"Thank you for asking us," said Dora. "I think Boston is a very nice place."

"Nice enough to live in?" asked Miss Chandler.

"Oh, yes," said Dora, and then she stopped. "If I could live in two places," she went on, after thinking a little. "Because Westmore is home, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Miss Chandler, and then she kissed Dora. "But you will like to visit in Boston sometimes?"

"I shall like it very much," said Dora. "We will always come when you invite us, Aunt Margaret. That is, if Mother says we may."

"I shall certainly ask you both to come again," said Miss Chandler.




Chapter IX

The Kitten's Story


When they reached home, both Lucy and Dora talked a great deal. They had to tell Father and Mother all the things they had seen and done in Boston. Father was especially interested in the marionettes and asked many questions about them.

Some of the questions the children could not answer, so Father said that the next time they went to the Public Library, he wished they would ask Miss Perkins for a book on marionettes. Dora said she would do so.

Uncle Dan liked to hear about the church with the beautiful picture windows and the wonderful music. He said that once he had been there to a choir festival.

After a time Father went to see Mr. Baker, and Uncle Dan took his hat and went out through the kitchen. Dora ran after him.

"Are you going to see Olive?" she asked. "Please tell her that I love my new ribbons. And tell her I have been in Boston and that is why I haven't said 'thank you' for them."

Uncle Dan said that he would tell Olive. Dora went back into the parlor and sat on Mother's lap.

"I must tell you about my Chinese kitten," she said. "Oh, Mother, Aunt Margaret liked the piece of birthday cake so much! She said to tell you she wished she could make cake like that. She did not have any of her own, Mother."

"Next year we will make her a birthday cake," said Mrs. Merrill, and she looked pleased. "What about the Chinese kitten?"

"First of all," Dora began, "Aunt Margaret showed me the star she named it for. Last night it was very bright, and I can find it now for Uncle Dan. At least, I think I can. And then she told me about the kitten.

"When Aunt Margaret's grandfather," Dora went on, "was about as old as Uncle Dan, he went on a long voyage on a ship that sailed to China. When he came home, he brought with him a set of ivory chess-men. Do you know what they are, Mother?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill. "Chess is a game, played on a board with squares marked off, -- a checker-board, like yours, -- and a set of counters. You and Lucy have counters for your game of parchesi."

"Yes," said Dora, "but those are flat and round. These chess-men were different. They stood up tall, and the pieces which counted most, -- the kings and queens and knights and bishops -- were cats, big cats, made out of ivory. And the littler pieces, the pawns, were kittens. Half the pieces were white and half were blue. There were eight blue kittens and eight white ones."

"They must have been very pretty," Mrs. Merrill agreed. "What became of them?'

"Some were lost," said Dora, "and Aunt Margaret thinks her boy cousins took the cats when they visited their grandmother. So many chess-men were gone that people couldn't play the game any more. The grandmother thought, since the boys had taken the cats, she would divide the kittens between the little girl cousins.

"She gave Aunt Margaret four kittens," Dora went on, "two blue ones and two white."

Dora stopped. Lucy was calling Timothy at the back door. Dora looked to see that Lucy was beyond hearing. Even then, she whispered the rest.

"Aunt Margaret told me that she is going to give Lucy a white kitten for Christmas. You will keep it a secret, won't you, Mother?"

"I will try to," said Mrs. Merrill. "But what with your pincushion and now this white kitten, and its being only September, I think we are getting Lucy's Christmas started early."

"I know she will like it," said Dora happily. "I told Aunt Margaret so. In the beginning the kittens didn't have anything around their necks, but Aunt Margaret took Vega to a jeweler, and had him put on a silver collar and ring, so I could wear her on my chain. Lucy's white kitten will have a collar, too. And that is why Vega sits down so hard and flat, Mother, so as not to tip over on the chess-board."

Next, Dora told Mother about the babies, and how one had cried real tears until Miss Perrin comforted it. Lucy came back and they both talked of the little black baby.

"Would you have minded if we had brought it home?" asked Lucy.

"I should prefer a white one," said Mother.

"But this was more unusual," explained Lucy.

"It would be in our family," agreed Mrs. Merrill. Then she said they must go to bed early, because, after two such exciting days, she knew they were tired.

Quite soon after Dora's birthday, Jack Frost took out his paints and colored all the leaves. Some were yellow and some red, mixed with green. Some, he turned a faded brown. All over Westmore, the leaves began to flutter down and carpet the streets with bright spots of color.

Then one night, Jack took a look at the flower-beds. Evidently he didn't approve of people's raising flowers in gardens; he cared only for things which grew wild. For the flowers did not become bright colors; they turned black and shriveled.

Uncle Dan cut down the tall hollyhocks which had been so pretty all summer. Many of them towered far above his head. Lucy and Dora dragged the stalks to a place where they could be burned. Some of the seeds went into their hair and some went down their necks. And hollyhock seeds tickle when they slip inside one's clothes.

Mother asked Uncle Dan to trim the rose-bushes on either side of the back door. She said she was tired of having them snatch out her hairpins every time she tried to hang up clothes. The children thought Mother was joking, but Uncle Dan cut off one long sprout and on it, there really sat a hairpin. Dora took it straight to Mother who put it in her hair and said she was glad to see it again.

Dora read "Doctor Dolittle" through five times. Then she looked once more at every picture and returned the book to the library, just as clean and nice as when she took it. She told Miss Perkins that she liked that story best of any book she had ever read. Miss Perkins said she liked it herself. That was the reason she chose it for Dora to take to the beach.

Dora remembered to ask for the book for Father about the marionettes and she told Miss Perkins about seeing them in Boston. She was pleased to know that Miss Perkins had seen those very plays, the rabbit play and the one about Jack.

Miss Perkins found two books for Father to read about them. One was a big book and she thought it was rather heavy for Dora to carry, but Dora thought she could manage it. Once or twice on the way home, she would rest it on a wall.

The weather grew so cool that even the big girls played games at recess. It was pleasanter to run about than to stand still and let the wind blow right through one. To stand still, it was necessary to get into a corner where the sun shone brightly and the wind couldn't come.

Miss Leger always dismissed her children before Miss Scott's room came out, and Dora would wait for Lucy. One afternoon, Miss Scott's class filed out, walking two and two across the school grounds to the sidewalk, where they broke ranks and began to skip and prance. Dora was waiting, but Lucy was not in the file.

"Where is Lucy?" she asked Dorothy Barrows.

"Miss Scott kept her after school," said Dorothy. "Lucy has been very naughty, so naughty that we are none of us to tell what she did."

Dora felt sorry to hear this, but she could not believe that Lucy had been more than a little naughty. The other children all went home, but Dora waited in the cold wind, trying to keep warm by jumping up and down. She kept looking at the schoolhouse to see when Lucy came.

It grew later and later and Dora was afraid that Mother would worry, but she could not leave Lucy to walk home alone. Lucy would need to be comforted when she came out.

After a long time Lucy did come, and her face was swollen with crying and her eyes were red. In her hand she held a note.

When Dora saw the note, she knew that Lucy had been really naughty. Anybody who was given a note to take home had done something shocking.

Dora ran to meet Lucy and kissed her. Then she held her arm and did not say a word. Lucy began to cry again and walked slower and slower. Dora was cold and wanted to walk fast.

"What is the matter?" Dora asked when they had gone about a block. "Was Miss Scott cross to you?"

Lucy nodded and choked. She tried to speak but only cried the harder.

When they reached the brown cottage, Mother was watching for them. She came and opened the door.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "You are very late and you know I want you always to come straight home after school."

Then Mother saw how Lucy looked. Dora began to cry also, just because she was so sorry for Lucy.

Mother took them into the warm kitchen and asked what the matter was, but Dora did not know, and Lucy could not tell. She sobbed and held out the note. Mother read it.

Lucy cried harder than ever and so did Dora. For a minute Mother did not say anything at all. Then she told Dora to stop crying and told Lucy to go and wash her face.

When Lucy came out of the bathroom, Mother sat down in the rocker and took her in her arms. She told Dora to go into the parlor and work on the cushion for Olive.

Dora sewed until it began to grow dark, which was soon, because they had been so late coming from school. Mother never allowed her or Lucy to light the lamp on the table, so she looked out of the window and wished she could do something for Lucy.

After a time, she heard Lucy going up to their room and then Mother opened the door into the parlor. Dora ran to her at once.

"Please tell me, Mother," she asked, with her arms about Mother's waist.

Mrs. Merrill sat down and took Dora on her lap. "Lucy has done something very wrong," she said. "She didn't know how to do a problem in number-work, so she kept her book open under her desk and copied from it."

"But she is very sorry," said Dora, and the tears came into her eyes.

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill. "She is so sorry that we will not say anything more to her about it. But you will never do it, will you, Dora?"

"No, Mother," said Dora earnestly. "But I don't need to, you see. I like number-work and the problems are easy for me."

"I mean in anything," said Mrs. Merrill. "It never does any good to cheat in this world, and it hurts only the one who does it."

"I won't, in anything," said Dora. "May I go and tell Lucy that I love her and that we aren't going to say anything about it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill. "I told Lucy to lie down for a little while because she has cried so much that her head aches. It is her turn to help me get supper to-night, but if you want to, you may do it for her."

Dora was glad to do this. She ran up-stairs and kissed Lucy and whispered in her ear, and then half-way down the stairs, she ran back and took the Chinese kitten out of the pink box where Arcturus used to live. She tucked it into Lucy's hand.

"Vega is very comforting to hold," she said. "When you come down to supper, please put her back in her pink box."

Just then, Lucy didn't think she should want any supper, but Dora and the kitten made her feel better, to say nothing of the talk with Mother. When Dora called, she put Vega away and came down.

Mother had told Father and Uncle Dan not to speak of Lucy's red eyes, and they did not. Only, after supper, Father took her on his knee and talked to her a little while.

That night, after she and Dora were in bed, Lucy rolled over and cuddled close to Dora.

"I am never going to cheat again," she said. "I don't like Miss Scott and I never shall like her, but it is because of Father and Mother. They care so much about our doing what is right, that we shall just have to do it."

"Yes," said Dora, snuggling into Lucy's arms, "we mustn't be naughty when they care so much."




Chapter X

The Victory Park


In most States October twelfth is a legal holiday, because long ago on that day, Columbus landed in America. He didn't know it was America; he thought it was Asia, but that was the day when he arrived.

To celebrate in honor of Columbus seemed hardly fair to children who learned in school that other explorers than Columbus came here before him. In fact, America was not named for him, anyway, but for another voyager.

But the children approved of the holiday even though the cause had become mixed during the centuries. This especial Columbus Day was to be celebrated in Westmore as none had ever been before.

Away back in June the plan was made, and all summer long, men and women had been arranging for it.

On the morning of October twelfth, when the sun rose, and everybody hoped that he would rise smiling, he would look upon a big square meadow tucked into an edge of Westmore, a pretty meadow with some large trees. Around three sides were streets. On the fourth side lay the school grounds.

When the sun set on October twelfth, if all went as expected, the last thing his astonished face would see, would be a park where the meadow had been, -- the Victory Park of Westmore. The people were going to make it themselves in memory of the five Westmore boys who sailed to France at the call of duty and didn't come home again.

Judge Winslow owned the meadow and his son was one of the five who were lying in Flanders with red poppies blowing in the sunshine above their graves. The Judge said that he would give the meadow to the town on one condition. The town must agree to take care of it always.

To arrange for this, the people of Westmore met in June. They voted to accept the meadow, and promised that forever and forever, they would keep it as a park.

They asked the Judge if he would like them to call it Winslow Park, but the Judge said not. Both he and Mrs. Winslow knew that Lieutenant Ned would not want the park to bear his name, when the four other Westmore boys gave their lives for their country just as truly as he did. The memorial was to be for them all. Why not call it the Victory Park?

So the town voted for this name. Mr. Lawrence, who knew how parks ought to look, measured the meadow and drew a proper plan, showing where flower-beds should be made and shrubbery set out. The beautiful trees already in the meadow would stay just where they were. The centre of the field was to be grass, kept smooth and short. Around the edges, curving flower-beds were planned, with gravel walks where people could stroll in the cool of the evening.

At one side of the meadow stood an oak-tree and under it a large boulder. When the park was completely finished there would be on the boulder a bronze tablet, saying that the people of Westmore had made the park in memory of their five boys.

Early in the summer a copy of the plan Mr. Lawrence made was hung in the Town Hall. Beside it was tacked a large sheet of paper, divided into columns. At the head of each column stood the name of a plant or a shrub, and the number of each Mr. Lawrence thought would be needed. Anybody who could spare that plant from his garden or who wanted to buy it for the Victory Park, wrote his name in the proper column. Long before summer was over the columns were full of names and every plant and shrub had been promised.

There were to be tulips and daffodils also in the park and these the children gave. Every child in school brought five cents to buy one bulb.

The farmers promised to lend their horses and carts and tools, and all those belonging to the town were to be ready for people to use. Mr. Harper had charge of the day's work. Everybody was to do what he directed.

To make the Victory Park would take all day, so the ladies said that at noon they would serve a lunch in the Town Hall for the workers. This would be their part.

Every person in Westmore was to have a chance to help in some way. Even the kindergarten children were planned for.

Mrs. Merrill was one of the ladies to provide the lunch. Mr. Merrill and Uncle Dan were to help dig the park. You will see what Lucy and Dora did.

On the evening of the eleventh, everybody went to bed prepared to get up early. Tools were laid ready, and also old clothes suitable for gardening.

Lucy and Dora expected to wake of themselves, but they did not have a chance. Just after six o'clock Uncle Dan opened the door of their room and shouted to them:

"In fourteen hundred ninety-two Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Awake, arise! though yet 'tis dark, To-day we make our Victory Park."

"Oh, Uncle Dan!" groaned Lucy, but Dora sat up and looked at Dan. Then she laughed into her pillow for almost a minute.

Before eight a big crowd collected on the meadow which was to be a park before the sun set. First they sang "America." Then Mr. Harper made a little speech and reminded them why they were making the park, out of gratitude to the heroic boys who helped save the country from great peril. One of the ministers prayed that their work might be blessed for themselves, and for all the children who in years to come would play in the Victory Park.

Then everybody watched while the mothers and fathers of the five heroes each took a spade and turned one sod.

The minute that was done the work started. The people who were to plough the field brought the horses, harnessed ready to begin. Behind the plows came harrows, and behind them men and boys with garden forks, to remove stones and shake out sods of turf.

The flower-beds had been carefully marked with stakes, and the people who were to make them ready began to dig, one set of people to each bed. Many of the young men were in their old khaki uniforms, and the young women came in overalls and bloomers in which they had been farmerettes during the war.

There was only one mix-up. The committee who were to make the gravel paths wanted to make them at once, and this interfered with the people who were trying to dig the flower-beds. Mr. Harper explained to the gravel-path people that they would really have to wait.

Grace Benson had brought her donkey. Its name was Souris, which is the French for a mouse, and it was all mouse-color except the black tips of its ears and tail.

Grace expected Souris to help about making the park, but what could one wee donkey do? Souris was very small, and the moment Grace led him among the people he began to shiver and shake until his harness rattled.

Nobody knew why Souris was afraid. Perhaps he did not like the big cart-horses several times larger than he; perhaps they spoke unkindly to him in horse language; at any rate, Souris stood still and shook from nose to tail. Only when Grace put her arms about his neck and spoke comfortingly to him did he stop trembling. The minute she took her arms away he began shivering again.

Clearly Souris was of no use, and Grace took him home. He looked so miserable that nobody wanted him to stay and keep on feeling unhappy, but Grace felt ashamed of him.

At first only the older people could work, because horses and machines were needed, and there was nothing the children could do. But soon they could help.

The Boy Scouts cleaned a little brook which ran through the meadow. All proper parks have a brook or a lake, and so it was fortunate that the meadow possessed one. To plant flowers and bushes was easy, but to coax a brook to come from another place and run through the Victory Park might have been hard.

The boys took out of the brook all the tin cans which thoughtless people had thrown into it. Never again would there be tin cans in the Victory brook. They pulled out sticks and branches and took away some stones, but only those which Mr. Lawrence said were to go. Some must be left so the brook could make pretty ripples and have something over which to sing.

There were also stones in the meadow for the children to pick up and carry to baskets on the edge of the field. As fast as filled, men emptied these baskets into tip-carts, which took the stones away. The older boys raked where directed, so as to make the earth the proper level.

The committees which had charge of the flowers dug the beds and did it very thoroughly. They dug down nearly two feet and put in fertilizer so the roots of the new plants would have plenty of food. They prepared the beds and then said that they must have water. The summer had been so dry that the plants could not grow unless the earth was made wet all around the roots.

Nobody had thought that there must be water. Mr. Harper went into the nearest house and telephoned to the fire station. The hose-cart came immediately and fastened a hose to the hydrant. Any amount of water could be turned anywhere it was wanted.

The committee in charge of each bed had a copy of Mr. Lawrence's plan. This told them exactly how many plants and shrubs were to go in the bed and where they were to be set. When the ground was ready the head of each committee put a marker where each was to be planted.

The High School students planted the shrubs, and then came the turn of the smaller children. Each of them carried a bulb and marched in line to the flower-bed appointed.

Each one dug a little hole for his bulb and put it in with care to get it right side up. Bulbs never grow so well when they are planted with their heads down. Then a Boy Scout with a water-pot gave it a drink, and the child covered it with loam and patted it down hard.

The kindergarten children planted tulips. Dora's class planted daffodils and Lucy's class did the jonquils. Every child in the public schools had a share in making the Victory Park.

Meanwhile the ladies had been getting lunch in the Town Hall. Some of the older men who had stiff knees and couldn't work out of doors, set up the long tables and brought settees and dishes. Promptly at twelve the fire whistle blew long and loud. It wasn't for a fire at all, but the signal that everybody was to stop working and go to lunch in the Town Hall.

The park looked like nothing at all, but it did look as though there might be hope for it by sunset.

Some of the men, especially those who wore stiff collars and went into Boston every day, thought they were much too dirty to go to lunch. They said they would go home and wash.

Mr. Harper took a megaphone and spoke through it. He asked the men not to go home. He told them to brush off the dust and loam and to wash their hands at the hydrant. Most of them laughed and did just as Mr. Harper said.

Very soon all the tables in the long hall were filled, and everybody was hungry. There is nothing like digging in the dirt to make people ready for dinner.

The good things the ladies had been cooking vanished like snow before the sun. There was cold meat of various kinds, a great many baked potatoes, string-beans, and beets, and squash. For dessert were doughnuts and pies and coffee and ice-cream.

Girls of Olive's age waited on the tables. Lucy and Dora wanted dreadfully to help, but that was one of the things they could not do until they were older. Five hundred people sat down together at lunch in the Westmore Town Hall.

When they had finished eating, Mr. Harper made another suggestion. He asked every person at the table to pick up the dishes he had used and to carry them into the kitchen on his way out of the hall.

At this everybody laughed and the waitresses clapped their hands. For them to clear those long tables would be a great deal of work, but to clear them in Mr. Harper's way would take hardly any time at all.

Everybody picked up all the dishes he could carry and left them in the kitchen. There were still salt-shakers and bread-and-butter plates and pickle dishes to remove, but that did not take very long. And then the old men took away the tables and put the settees in place. The hall was now ready for some other use, for a meeting or a lecture.

The children ate sandwiches made of the meat and bread which was left and they also finished the doughnuts and the ice-cream. Then people began to wash the dishes.

There were ten washers, and each had two girls to wipe for her, and it was amazing how fast those piles of dishes vanished. As soon as they were wiped, they were packed in baskets. Every church in town had loaned its crockery and silver for the Victory lunch.

By four o'clock the dishes were all washed and sorted. Each church had its own. There was one spoon which nobody claimed. And by that hour the chaos in the park was changing into order.

The patient people who were to make the gravel walks got a chance to do so. The centre of the meadow was now as smooth as a table. The land had been ploughed, harrowed, raked, fertilized, and planted with lawn seed. Then it had been rolled with a big iron roller drawn by two horses. Where rough, uneven sod had lain was now a smooth brown level.

The flower-beds were planted and raked within an inch of their lives. All the shrubs and clumps of perennials were in place. You could imagine how beautiful the curved beds were going to look. The bulbs didn't show, being tucked underground to sleep till Spring called them. Each flower-bed was outlined with turf, put in place and pounded down.

Everybody watched the gravel paths being made. They waited until the last man raked himself out of the park. The sun's rim was nearing the horizon. There were backs that ached and hands that showed blisters, for if you are used to sitting in an office, or writing for hours at a desk, it is not easy to spend a whole day digging dirt. Everybody was tired, but everybody was pleased and happy. The Victory Park was done!




Chapter XI

Hallowe'en


Before many days the winds finished what work Jack Frost didn't attend to himself. The leaves were neatly whisked from all the trees except the oaks and the evergreens. Oaks are cold trees. They keep most of their leaves on all winter and let them drop only when Spring sends word that she is on the way with a new gown for each. Such pretty secrets some of the trees revealed! Who suspected birds' nests until the boughs were bare?

In the gutters of the Westmore streets lay drifts of leaves through which the children loved to rustle on their way to school. The autumn air was full of the pleasant smell of their burning.

About the farms on the outskirts of town, cabbages were piled in green or purple heaps. Ears of corn dangled from barn rafters, drying for seed next year. In rows on the piazzas sat pumpkins.

Lucy and Dora greatly wanted pumpkins because in a few days it would be Hallowe'en. On that evening the Westmore children dressed up and pretended to be goblins and ghosts. Every respectable ghost lighted its way with a pumpkin lantern.

The children consulted Father. He asked Mother if the pumpkins could be made into pies after they had been lanterns. Mother thought a moment and said she could use them.

Father bought two small pumpkins. Lucy wanted to make her own lantern and so did Dora, but they found the shell much harder than they expected. Mother was so afraid they would cut themselves that she would not let them take the sharpest kitchen knife. When Father came home from work both little girls were glad to let him help them.

Father did not find it hard to cut off the top of each pumpkin, but Mother let him have a sharp knife. Lucy and Dora scooped out the soft part with the seeds, and Father cut eyes and a nose and a mouth in each lantern. Lucy's had teeth with sharp points, which made it look cross, but Dora's had a smooth, curved, smiling mouth.

Mother found a bit of candle for each, and they lighted them and turned down the gas to see how they were going to look. They looked decidedly spooky.

The last day of October was windy and cold, but when the sun went down the wind went with it. This was lucky, because if it had not stopped, the policemen would not let the children build bonfires.

Directly after supper Lucy and Dora began to dress as ghosts. Each wore an old pillow-case in which Mother said they might cut holes for eyes and noses and arms. Mother tied the points so they looked like ears. She also tied tapes around their necks to make the cases fit better. Then their eye-holes would not slide about.

"I declare!" she said when they were dressed. "I wouldn't like to meet you in the dark myself!"

Lucy and Dora jumped up and down with delight. If Mother felt that way, mere strangers would be terribly scared.

Father lighted the lanterns. He told them to be very careful not to set themselves on fire, and not to go near any burning leaves.

Mother told them not to go down into the square because big and rough boys might be out. She told them to keep in their own part of town and to ring door-bells only where they knew the people who lived in the houses.

The children said they would remember and skipped happily away. Underneath the pillow-cases they wore warm sweaters. First they rang the Bakers' bell and Marion rushed to the door. She stopped short when she saw the two white figures with their lanterns.

"It is Lucy and Dora!" she exclaimed. "I am almost ready to come out. Which way are you going?"

They told her and ran off to make another call. The grown people in Westmore were very patient with the children that evening. They opened their doors when the bells rang and spoke pleasantly to the little ghosts. Some of them pretended to be afraid and most of them admired the sweet smile of Dora's lantern. One gentleman gave them each a chocolate cream.

"Being a spook must be hungry work," he said. Lucy and Dora told him that it was.

Only a few houses kept their porch lights burning and wouldn't give the children the fun of having the door opened for them.

Lucy and Dora went to call at Miss Page's home on the hill. Miss Page seemed to be expecting visitors, for she came to the door herself, screamed loudly and then guessed that the ghosts were Alice and Grace. The ghosts giggled and shook their heads.

"Iris and Mary," suggested Miss Page, and she did not guess Lucy and Dora until she had named all the girls in her Sunday-school class. When the ghosts took little leaps she knew she had guessed correctly.

She gave them each a wee cake with pink icing and told them not to fall down the front steps and to be careful of their lanterns.

Next to Miss Page's home stood Mr. Harper's big house.

"Let us go in here," said Lucy when they had untied the tapes on each other's masks, eaten the little cakes, and then tied the tapes again.

"Alice will be out with the others," said Dora.

"I know it, but there are some people at home. I can see her father sitting by the fire in the room where the curtain is up."

Very softly the children crept on the porch and found the electric bell. In a minute they heard steps in the hall and the porch light came on.

They did not run but stood in silence, holding their grinning lanterns. Mr. Harper opened the door and when he saw them he looked for a second and then threw his arms up into the air.

"Help, Mamma!" he shouted. "Ghosts, Mamma! Come and save me!"

Lucy and Dora couldn't help giggling. They had not expected him to act like that. They didn't think Mrs. Harper would come, but she did.

"Goodness!" she said. "What shall we do, James? Ghosts! and not an inch of mosquito netting in the house!"

This was too much for Dora. She was so interested that she forgot she was a spook.

"Don't ghosts like mosquito netting?" she asked.

"No, indeed!" said Mr. Harper. "It gives them hay fever. Harriet," he said to his wife, "how could you let the mosquito netting run out?"

Lucy began to think Mr. Harper was crazy, but Dora knew he wasn't. Uncle Dan talked in just that way. She laughed and so did Mrs. Harper.

"Come in, won't you?" asked Mr. Harper, opening the door wider.

"No, thank you," said Lucy. "We have a great many other calls to make. But is Alice at home?"

"She is out being a goblin," said Mrs. Harper. "I think you will find her on School Street. Could you each eat a caramel?"

The ghosts needed no second invitation. They thanked Mrs. Harper. "Do you know us?" Dora asked as they were going.

Mrs. Harper smiled. "Yes, I know you, Dora," she said. "Mrs. Merrill's little girls are ladies even when they wear pillow-cases."

"What did she mean?" Dora asked Lucy as they went down the steps. Lucy didn't know, but when they asked Mother, she seemed to understand, though she didn't tell them.

After they had called on all the people they knew in that part of town they went to Olive's house, but she was out, having a Hallowe'en frolic herself.

Next, the children joined one of the groups in the street. It was holding hands and dancing around a bonfire. The fire was right in the centre where one street crossed another and the automobiles could not pass. The automobiles did not like it at all, but there stood Mr. Waterman, the tall policeman, and he made them all go around another block. This night belonged to the children.

Lucy and Dora danced for a time and then began to feel rather tired. The fire was dying down and Mr. Waterman yawned behind a veil of smoke.

Before they reached home they met Father, who seemed to be out for a walk. He did not say he was looking for them, but it was not usual for him to walk about the streets at night unless he were going to church or to a lecture or to his lodge-meeting.

Father offered to carry their lanterns and both were willing to let him. Even small pumpkins grow heavy when carried around for an hour and a half.

The front porch was peppered with beans which boys had blown through air-guns. Mother thought it wrong for them to waste food in that way.

"Did you have any callers while we were gone?" Lucy asked.

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill. "Ten different ghosts have called on me. I gave each an animal cracker and they went away at once. One ghost said that elephants didn't agree with him, so might he have a lion."

"Did you change it for him?" asked Dora.

"I did," said Mrs. Merrill.




Chapter XII

A Busy Saturday


When November came, an interesting thing happened to the Merrill children. There had been a number of letters from Miss Chandler. Mother and Father talked about them after the little girls were in bed. Father had taken the letters to show Mr. Thorne.

One afternoon Mother told Lucy and Dora that both were to have music lessons. Lucy was to learn to play the piano properly, not with two or three fingers the way she picked out tunes now, but with all ten fingers and according to rule. Miss Chandler and Miss Page and Mr. Thorne thought it would be nice for Dora to have a little violin.

Miss Chandler was sure that Dora could learn to play. She had a friend who had already chosen a fiddle for Dora. It wasn't full-sized, but was otherwise just what grown people used. Dora thought it was beautiful.

Alice Harper had a fiddle also, and when Mrs. Merrill spoke to Mrs. Harper about a teacher for Dora, Mrs. Harper asked Dora to come to her house every Saturday morning when Alice had her lesson, and take one from the same teacher.

Alice's teacher was a young man who came from Boston. He would be glad to have two pupils instead of one.

Lucy was to take piano lessons from Miss Ball, and also on Saturday. But Miss Ball had many pupils who wanted their lessons that day. Lucy would have to go at eight o'clock. This was a chilly hour for a music lesson, but Lucy said she did not mind. They both felt very important with music to carry about the streets.

"I shall expect you to practise every day," said Mother. "You must remember that the lessons cost money, and the money will be wasted if you don't try hard to learn."

Lucy and Dora felt sure they should never want to do something else instead of practising. Mrs. Merrill said she hoped they wouldn't.

After her first lesson Dora felt quite discouraged. She had expected that Mr. Irons would show her at once how to play. Instead, he spent all the time telling her how to hold her fingers and how to keep the bow in the proper position. He would not let her draw the bow across the strings unless her fingers were just as he wanted them.

Dora tried hard, but when Mr. Irons said she had worked long enough and might listen while Alice had her lesson, Dora decided that it would be some time before she could play that fiddle.

Alice could really play quite well, and Dora felt more cheerful when she remembered that there had been a time when Alice had to think about her fingers and the way she held the bow. If Alice could learn to do both without thinking much about it, she could learn, too. It is a long step toward learning how to do anything when one realizes that it must be done a little at a time.

When Dora reached home that Saturday, Mrs. Merrill was mixing bread and Lucy was perfectly determined to help mix it. She had washed her hands nicely and every time Mrs. Merrill looked the other way Lucy would make dabs at the bread dough.

"Lucy," said Mrs. Merrill, "next summer I will show you how to make bread, but you must leave this alone. You may make some gingerbread if you like."

Lucy flew for the cook-book. She knew which rule Mother used, only Mother never had to look at the book. She got out the bowl and a spoon and the flour and the molasses.

"You don't need to bring out the whole jug," said Mrs. Merrill. "Pour into a cup what the rule says."

Lucy hadn't thought of this. It was easier than carrying out the heavy jug. She did everything just as the rule said and didn't notice that Mother kept an eye on her mixing-bowl. When the gingerbread was put into a nicely buttered pan and safe in the oven, Lucy gave a sigh.

"Don't you wish you could make gingerbread?" she asked Dora, who was paring apples for Mother's pies. The Hallowe'en pumpkins were already changed into pies and eaten.

"I think I could make it," said Dora.

Lucy was surprised, for Dora didn't often say things like that. "Mother, could she?" she asked Mrs. Merrill.

"Anybody who can read can use a cook-book, and anybody with common sense can cook," said Mother.

Lucy was quite annoyed. Neither Dora nor Mother understood how choice that gingerbread was going to be. She at once told Dora that she was paring the apples too deep.

"It isn't good next to the skin," said Dora, and she went on paring the apples in just the same way.

"Don't be cross, children," said Mrs. Merrill. "You might help Dora with the apples, Lucy, if you think you can do them better. I want to get everything possible done before dinner because this afternoon I mean to take you over to the city to see about your winter coats."

"Both of us?" asked the children.

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill. "Saturday afternoon isn't a good time to go shopping, but now you are having music lessons in the morning, I can't manage it then. And I don't like to take you out of school to go."

"Are we both to have new coats?" asked Dora. She knew that Lucy was to have one, because she had outgrown her old one. It could not be buttoned without squeezing hard. Dora had expected to wear that coat herself, and she did not like its color. The color was brown.

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill. "Lucy's old coat will do for you to wear on stormy days, but it does not look very well. She has worn it three winters. We have decided to buy you a new one."

Dora was delighted. People in the little brown cottage thought twice before spending a dollar. Father had told the children that he was saving money so he could send them to school a long time, and was buying insurance. That meant if anything happened so Father could not work in the printing-press, there would still be money to take care of Mother and the little girls. Dora had not expected to have a new coat.

"Will it be blue, Mother?" she asked after a time. Lucy was paring apples now, and Dora didn't think it was quite fair for her to choose those with nice smooth skins and leave the specked ones for Dora to do. But she did not say anything.

"Will what be blue, child?" asked Mother. "Look at your gingerbread, Lucy."

"My coat," said Dora. Lucy dropped her knife and flew to the oven.

How good that gingerbread did smell! It had turned into a desirable brown cake.

"Is it done, Mother?" Lucy asked.

"Try it and see," said Mrs. Merrill. "We will look at the blue coats, Dora."

Lucy brought from the pantry one of the clean straws Mother kept to test cake. She stuck it into her gingerbread. When she drew it out the straw felt dry and smooth.

"It is done," she said.

Mother took the pan out of the oven. She tipped out the gingerbread and put it on a rack and covered it with a cloth. "It looks very well," she said.

The fragrance of that gingerbread filled the whole house. It even penetrated to the parlor where Timothy was sleeping on the couch. He had no business there and he got up and came into the kitchen. It was not because his conscience pricked him, however, but because of the gingerbread.

Lucy came back to the table where Dora was working. She was so proud of her cooking that she no longer felt cross. She took an apple which had a big speck on the side.

After dinner everybody hurried to get the dishes washed and then Mrs. Merrill and the children went to the city. There was no need to lock the house, for Mr. Merrill would be at home. The printing-press did not run on Saturday afternoons.

It was late before the shoppers came back. Dora did not wait to open the packages before telling Father that she had a pretty blue coat. Lucy had another brown one, not like her old coat, but a different shade of brown. To go with the coat was a round brown sailor hat with a ribbon hanging down the back. Dora's hat was just like it, only dark blue, with a blue ribbon. Then Dora asked Father if he had been lonesome.

Father said he had been too busy to be lonesome. Dora wondered what he had been doing. On the floor before the Franklin stove was spread a newspaper, with chips on it, as though Father had been whittling.

Mr. Merrill looked at the new coats and hats and thought them very pretty. After supper, when they were all in the parlor, he began to whittle again.

Lucy and Dora were learning their Sunday-school lesson. Mrs. Merrill had just found out that they had not even looked at it, and she said it must be learned at once. She should be much ashamed of them if they went to Sunday school without knowing the lesson.

Dora hurried as much as she could. She read the lesson and looked up the Bible references and tried to answer the questions. But all the time she wondered what Father was making. As soon as she finished she asked him.

"What do they look like?" inquired Father.

"Like little dolls, only in pieces," said Dora.

"That's just what they are," said Mr. Merrill, and then he smiled at her. Dora's eyes grew wide.

"Father!" she said. "Are you trying to make marionettes like those we saw in Boston? Are you really?"

"That's what I'm trying to do," said Mr. Merrill, and he fitted a little arm to one of his bodies. "These are just tiny ones but I thought we'd begin small and see how we come out."

"Is it to be Jack and the Beanstalk?" asked Dora eagerly. "Do let it be that, because we know how to play it."

"This is Jack I'm working on," said Mr. Merrill. "That's his mother there, not put together, but I don't know whether I can make a proper cow."

"Father!" exclaimed Lucy, "Dora had a toy cow once on wheels and the wheels were broken. Couldn't you use that cow? You could take it apart at the joints."

"I am a printer, not a butcher," said Mr. Merrill, "but I'll look at that cow, if Dora is willing we should use it."

Dora was willing. The cow belonged to her very little girlhood. She never played with it now.

Lucy ran up-stairs and found the cow. Mr. Merrill said it was the right size and would do nicely. He would try strings fastened to it in different places and perhaps they could make it walk without taking it apart or putting joints in its legs.

Dora began making plans. There could be a set of dolls for "Cinderella," and, of course, they would need rabbits for the rabbit play. She asked Father at once if he could make some.

Mr. Merrill said he would prefer to finish the marionettes for Jack before he began any more, but he thought he could manage the rabbits. "How about clothes?" he asked. "Can you and Mother 'tend to that part?"

When they asked her, Mother looked rather doubtful. "I can make dolls' clothes," she said, "but these dolls are very small. We will try. The clothes must fit exactly right so as not to interfere with the strings to work their arms and legs."

"Perhaps we could make paper clothes," suggested Dora; "paste the paper right on."

"That might answer," said Mother, "but we will try the cloth ones. How was Jack dressed?"

The children told her and Mrs. Merrill said she would see what she could do.

Father explained that the idea was really Uncle Dan's. Dan said it would be possible to make a little stage for the marionettes and that he would make one if Father would whittle the dolls. The back of the stage was to come up high enough so that Lucy and Dora could stand behind and not be seen while they were working the little puppets. All this was to be a Christmas present from Father and Uncle Dan.

Dora and Lucy thought it the nicest gift anybody could think of. They were perfectly sure no other little girls in Westmore would have a Christmas present like it. Mr. Merrill promised that if the first marionettes turned out well he would make the characters for another play.

Lucy and Dora planned at once to give an entertainment with the theatre and invite their Sunday-school class and Miss Page. Mrs. Merrill agreed that this would be pleasant, but she thought they would have to see how well the figures would work when they were finished, and that it might take both children a little time to learn how to pull the strings.

"I would not invite Miss Page just yet," she said.




Chapter XIII

Thanksgiving


Having helped make the Victory Park, all the Westmore children felt responsible for its welfare. Any dog who imprudently walked on its flower-beds, or ran in circles on the grass-sown level, was at once called off, scolded, and slapped. Before the middle of November most of the dogs understood that the park was no place for them to play, at least when the children saw them.

At that time of year nothing could be expected to grow, but the children felt it their duty to see that nothing was dug up nor disturbed. Every child remembered the place where his bulb was planted and kept an eye on it. When winter was gone and spring called to the flowers, those bulb beds would have frequent visitors.

All over New England November means Thanksgiving, and it did in Westmore. There were no cousins and no grandmother to come to the Merrill cottage, for Uncle John lived in far California.

Some time, Father said, when their ship came in, they would buy a little Ford, and a tent, and go to see Uncle John and Aunt Nell. But whenever Lucy and Dora asked whether the ship was coming, Father would smile and shake his head.

Still, there was to be company for dinner. Olive and her father were invited. Everybody wanted Olive, and it would not be polite to ask her without asking Mr. Gates. Olive would not come alone, because she kept house for her father. She would not go to the beach until she arranged for him to have his meals with the people next door.

"Mother," asked Dora on the Monday before Thanksgiving, "are we going to have a turkey?"

"Not at seventy-two cents a pound," said Mrs. Merrill. "Even if I could afford to pay that much, I would not. I don't think there is any need for them to cost so much."

"Will there be a chicken?" asked Dora.

"I think we may manage that," said Mrs. Merrill, "if they are at all reasonable in price, but we may have just a nice piece of pork or beef to roast. It isn't what we have to eat that makes the Thanksgiving dinner, child. It is the being thankful for it."

"Mr. Thorne said last Sunday that we must save all the pennies we can for the Christmas manger. Because there are children in Europe and Asia who haven't even bread to eat."

"I know it," said Mrs. Merrill, and she went on sewing Dora's school dress.

"I am not going to buy any more candy," said Dora. "Yesterday Uncle Dan gave me ten cents for caramels. Wouldn't you put it in your mite-box if you were I, Mother?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill. "Sometimes it chokes me to have enough to eat when I think about those children. If you and Lucy and Dan are willing, we will have pork for our Thanksgiving dinner. I will ask how much more the chicken would cost. Then we will put the difference into the fund for the hungry children."

"Lucy will want to," said Dora. "Uncle Dan may want things very nice because of Olive. Perhaps he would be disappointed not to have chicken. Will you ask him, Mother?"

"Ask him yourself, child. He'll do it for you if he will for anybody."

That evening Dora asked Uncle Dan. She did not need to coax him. Uncle Dan had heard about the hungry children.

"Sure thing," he said. "Roast pork is good enough for me."

When Mrs. Merrill went to market she inquired the price of a large chicken. A big one would be needed for a dinner for seven people. Then she bought the pork.

When she came home she took ninety-eight cents from her purse and gave it to the children. "You may divide it between your mite-boxes," she said.

Thanksgiving Day was cold and blustering, which made the warm house seem all the more pleasant. A cheerful fire blazed in the Franklin stove and Father was at home.

He helped make the dining-table larger. Mother put on the best table-cloth. The pattern woven into it was bunches of drooping lilacs and Lucy and Dora thought it very pretty. Mother smoothed out every wrinkle and then the children set the table.

In the centre they put a vase of dark red chrysanthemums, cold and fragrant from the garden. Dora loved their spicy smell. They were only about as big as buttons, but something in their odor made her think of ferns and brooks and pleasant things which would come with spring.

Never was table set more carefully. Each knife and fork was laid as though the proper spot were located with a foot-rule. Dora felt that Lucy was too particular. Lucy moved almost everything Dora put in place.

When Lucy's back was turned, Dora quietly put things as they were before. And the distance either moved them was so slight that when Lucy looked back she did not notice what Dora had done.

There was to be apple-sauce, as is the custom with roast pork, but Mother had also made cranberry sauce because Father and Uncle Dan were fond of it.

Everybody would want apple-sauce, so Lucy took a spoon and filled seven glass dishes. She placed one at each plate. The cranberry sauce was in a large dish. It was to go in front of Olive, with a spoon and more glass saucers. Dora brought the dish from the pantry, holding it carefully in both hands.

What possessed Timothy just then? He liked to weave himself in and about people's feet when he was hungry, but Timmy had eaten his dinner. If he had not been fed, there would be no peace for anybody in the Merrill kitchen. Timothy was not hungry and he should have been washing his face before the parlor fire, not walking in front of Dora.

Dora tripped over him. She held on to the dish, but spilled the cranberry on the table, all over Mother's clean Thanksgiving cloth!

"Now, see what you've done!" cried Lucy, perfectly horrified.

Poor Dora picked herself up. What cranberry wasn't on the table-cloth was on her pretty white dress.

What a dreadful thing to happen! But the worst was that Lucy spoke as though she thought Dora meant to do it. Would Mother think the same?

Mrs. Merrill came out of the pantry and for a moment she looked as though she didn't know what to do any more than the children. Dora stood with her lip quivering and her eyes full of tears.

"Well, that is too bad," said Mrs. Merrill. "Stop crying, Dora; it doesn't mend matters. Of course you didn't mean to do it."

Mrs. Merrill looked at the table-cloth. Then she looked at Dora and looked at the clock. She unbuttoned Dora's dress.

"Take this into the shed, Lucy," she said, "and put it in one of the tubs. Go and put on your blue gingham, Dora. Hurry, both of you, for we must take off the dishes and put on another cloth."

Trying not to cry, Dora went up-stairs.

"Dora was very careless, wasn't she?" asked Lucy, coming back from the shed and helping gather up the plates and silver.

"It was an accident," said Mother with a sigh. "It might have happened to you."

All the same, Lucy had not spilled the apple-sauce, and she felt virtuous.

"Put that cat out," said Mrs. Merrill. "I can't have him under foot a minute longer."

Lucy put the beloved pussy into the shed and when she came back she no longer felt proud because she had not spilled things.

"Mother," she said when the table was cleared, "I think I will put on my pink gingham."

Mrs. Merrill looked at her.

"Because," said Lucy, "Dora hasn't another white dress to wear."

"That is a good plan," said Mother, and she smiled at Lucy.

Dora came back, rather wet about the eyelashes. Lucy buttoned the blue dress and Dora settled the Chinese kitten in place. After all, Vega was enchanting against blue.

The stained table-cloth went into the tub with Dora's dress. There was no time to attend to them. Mother put on another cloth, not so fine nor so pretty, but just as white.

The children set the table again and this time neither was fussy about the way the other did things. Only at intervals Dora's lip quivered.

"Is there any more cranberry sauce?" she asked Mother.

Mrs. Merrill shook her head. "I bought only a quart of berries," she said.

"There won't be any for Father and Uncle Dan," said Dora.

"They never knew there was any," said Mrs. Merrill. "They won't miss it at all."

"Oh, Mother!" said Lucy, "something is wrong with the gas stove."

Mrs. Merrill hurried to the stove. Yes, the flame was turned too high and the macaroni was scorching.

"This dinner seems possessed," she sighed as she turned down the gas and took out the macaroni.

Just then Olive came running in with a gay greeting. She kissed the little girls and Mother, too, because it was Thanksgiving. She ran up-stairs and left her coat and hat in the children's room. Then she flew down.

"What shall I do?" she asked. "Mash these potatoes?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill. "Unless you'd rather make the gravy."

"Your gravy is better than mine," said Olive and she stuck a fork into the potatoes. They were done and she whisked them off the stove.

With Olive's coming, ill-luck went away. Nobody upset anything more, and nothing burned.

Father, Uncle Dan, and Mr. Gates came in together and Mother sent them directly into the parlor. She said it was bad enough to have a cat getting underfoot; she could not stand three men.

When they sat down to dinner, nobody could have guessed that the table had twice been completely set. If Olive noticed that this was not the best table-cloth, she didn't say anything, but of course, nobody would be so rude as to speak of a thing like that.

The roast pork was done to a turn. Everybody enjoyed it and was glad that it wasn't chicken. Forty-nine cents apiece, in two mite-boxes, would be quite an addition to the Christmas manger.

They sat a long time at the table, talking and enjoying the early twilight. Indeed, it was really dark when the last piece of pie was eaten and the last nut cracked.

"Now, we will do the dishes," said Mr. Merrill. "Wash or wipe, Dan?"

Mother Merrill gave a gasp and the children laughed. Sometimes, Father wiped dishes, but neither he nor Uncle Dan was ever trusted to wash them.

Uncle Dan was game. He took Mother's apron from behind the door and put it on. He got out the dish-pan.

"Dan, you will never get those kettles clean," said Mrs. Merrill, but she did not speak as though she meant him to stop. Mother was tired. She had cooked dinner and still had Dora's dress and the table-cloth to wash.

"I shall wash," said Olive, grabbing another apron. "Dan and Dad shall wipe. Molly Merrill, you may gather up the food and put it away. Mr. Merrill may scrape the dishes."

Everybody did what Olive said. In half an hour all the kettles and dishes were clean and in place. The dish-wipers were rinsed and hung to dry and the kitchen was tidy and cosy. There was nothing to do but enjoy themselves.

Olive and Uncle Dan went out to walk. They said they needed exercise. The rest went into the parlor and sat before the open fire. Mr. Merrill got out the marionettes and began to whittle.

Mr. Gates was much interested. He took a piece of wood and opened his own knife. He said he used to do something in that line himself.

On the edge of the open stove the children put some chestnuts to roast. Father had brought them purposely for the evening. Each nut had slits cut on one side. If this were not done, the heated nut would sometimes shoot across the room or even explode. Lucy and Dora had learned that it was best to cut the slit.

Mother brought her knitting and the children sat on the floor and watched the chestnuts and Mr. Merrill and Mr. Gates whittling.

"It is a good plan," said Mr. Merrill, "to put into words sometimes how much we have to be thankful for. Now I am glad I have a home and a family and a paying job. What are you thankful for, Mother?"

"For my home and my family, and yes -- for my job, too," said Mother with a little laugh. "That my husband never drinks and that Dan is a good lad."

"I am thankful for my daughter," said Mr. Gates, "even though I expect to go shares in her some day."

"Your turn, Lucy," said Mr. Merrill, smiling.

"I am thankful for the marionettes you are making and for my new coat," said Lucy, after thinking half a minute.

"How about Dora?" asked Mr. Merrill.

"I am thankful for my Chinese kitten and that I had Arcturus once," said little Dora. "That I have enough to eat, not like the poor children across the sea. And that Mother doesn't scold when I spill the cranberry sauce."




Chapter XIV

Christmas


Every day in the year has the same number of hours, but some days skim past like an automobile and some creep like a snail at a gallop. The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas are of the motor-car variety. There is so much to do, and to think of, that people can scarcely believe the clock. Lucy and Dora were as busy with their plans as were the grown people.

Dora made several pretty calendars for gifts. She hemmed a duster for Miss Chandler and another for Mother. She thought Miss Chandler would find use for a duster in her three rooms, especially a cream-white one, feather-stitched all around in blue.

Mrs. Merrill suggested this gift and she thought Dora took a good while to make it. She did not know that Dora made a second one, precisely like the first. She made it under Mother's very nose, and Mother never saw it. Lucy and Dora both thought this was very funny, and could not help laughing, but it never occurred to Mrs. Merrill that the duster Dora was working on was not always the same one.

On Christmas eve there was a church service. Miss Page asked her class to come early. This was an important occasion because the mite-boxes for the hungry children in other countries were to be collected.

Mr. and Mrs. Merrill were going with the children, but they would sit in the back of the church. Lucy and Dora were to sit with their class. The class was to sit in pew twenty-eight.

There had been many things to do that afternoon, and nobody looked out until they started for church. When the door shut behind the Merrill family, everybody was surprised.

Christmas came on a moonlight night that year, but in addition to the moon, at almost every house the porch light was shining, and the ordinary electric bulbs had been unscrewed and red ones substituted. All up and down the streets shone the pretty red lights.

"Oh, Mother!" said Lucy. "I wish our house had one. But it is only gas, and none at all on the porch."

Mrs. Merrill thought a minute. The red lights did look pretty. In the front windows of the brown cottage hung Christmas wreaths but there was no light behind them.

"Wait for me a bit," she said, and she went back into the cottage.

Lucy and Dora wondered what she was going to do. A group of young people went by. They were singing softly and Father began to sing with them. When Father was a young man, he used to belong to the choir.

"It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, Of angels bending near the earth, To touch their harps of gold."

What was Mother doing? She had lighted the lamp on the parlor table, but what was keeping her now?

"Still through the cloven skies they come, With peaceful wings unfurled: And still their heavenly music floats O'er all the weary world."

Dora looked up at the sky. The moon was so bright that only the largest stars could show to-night. There was Orion with his flaming belt and sword. Dora knew several star-groups now. She and Uncle Dan and Olive had gone out one night with a flash-light and the star-book from the Public Library and traced them. Still, Mrs. Merrill did not come.

"Father," asked Dora, "do you think angels come down to earth now?"

"If they ever come, it is at Christmas," said Father, and he went on humming the words which were now faint in the distance.

"O rest beside the weary road, And hear the angels sing."

Suddenly the windows of the Merrill parlor turned a warm crimson. From them streamed a soft red light.

"Oh, look, Father! Look, Dora!" exclaimed Lucy. "Now, we have a red light, too!"

"I thought Mother would fix it somehow," said Mr. Merrill.

Mrs. Merrill came out while the children were still exclaiming. "How did you do it?" Dora asked.

"With Dan's red silk scarf," said Mrs. Merrill, pulling on her gloves again, and looking back at the pretty light.

"Safe against fire, Molly?" asked Mr. Merrill. "We wouldn't like to go to church and come home to find the house burned."

"It can't take fire," said Mrs. Merrill.

The minute they entered the vestibule, spicy smells of spruce and evergreen greeted them. The church was warm and all the rafters were draped with festoons of green. The only light was in the chancel and what came from two big Christmas trees on either side of the chancel arch. They were strung with wee red bulbs, and at the top of each tree shone a star. Between the trees stood the manger for the gifts.

When the choir came, in place of their usual white cottas, they wore bright red ones. How Christmas-y the church did seem!

There were carols and Christmas hymns and then one by one, the classes took up their mite-boxes and placed them in the manger. People had brought other gifts for the poor. All the children looked over their toys and selected something to go to the Children's Hospital.

Lucy chose a doll of which she was not very fond. Dora brought a set of blocks, which she liked very much. She did not often play with them now, but because she had enjoyed them so much herself, she thought children who were not very sick -- just beginning to get better -- might care for them.

The Christmas eve service did not last long, but it left everybody with a pleasant and peaceful feeling.

All the red lights were yet burning and almost every house had wreaths in the front windows. The children were pleased as they came near the brown cottage to hear people speak of how pretty the red lamp looked.

"You'll let it burn a long time, won't you, Mother?" begged Dora.

"It may burn until Father and I go to bed," said Mrs. Merrill. "You children had better be off early, so as to give Santa Claus a chance."

"There is to be a surprise for you, to-morrow," said Dora, and she and Lucy both giggled.

"There will be surprises for everybody," said Mrs. Merrill, "but I think the biggest one will be for Dora."

When Mother said this Dora almost flew up in the air. On any time but Christmas eve, she could not have borne the suspense. But she would know early in the morning.

Mr. Merrill unlocked the door and they all went into the cosy house. And there, on a table near the parlor door, stood a fairy Christmas tree!

It was only about eighteen inches high, planted in a flower-pot full of sand. At the top shone a silvery star, and from the star dropped webs that looked as though very large spiders had been spinning silver lace. Through the shimmery mist showed the green branches.

The tree had not been there when they went to church! The children stared in surprise and danced about the room. It was not until they had jumped around for a minute or two that they saw Mother was as surprised as anybody. She looked at the lovely tree and then at Father.

"I didn't do it, Molly," he said smiling.

"But you know who did," said Mrs. Merrill.

"Cross my heart, I don't," declared Father.

How Lucy and Dora laughed to hear him say this. They looked again at the wee tree. Red candies were tied to its branches with silver cord, and white sugar-plums with red string. That was all the fruit it bore.

"Now, didn't you put it there yourself, Mother?" asked Mr. Merrill. "When you went back to light the lamp?"

"I didn't," said Mrs. Merrill. "It wasn't there then and I never saw it before, and the house has been locked all the time we were at church."

"It is odd how a Christmas tree could get into a locked house," agreed Mr. Merrill. "Had we better report it to the police?"

"I wouldn't go so far as that," said Mrs. Merrill. "Here's Dan. He may know."

"I was at church," protested Dan. "Didn't you see me singing in the choir in a very fancy rig?"

"Uncle Dan," said Dora, "did you ever see that tree before?"

"How can I tell?" said Dan. "There have been several hundred Christmas trees in the square this past week. I don't know one from another."

Dora held him firmly. "Did you put that tree in here?" she asked.

"I did not," said Dan.

"Did you unlock the door so somebody could bring it in?" Lucy asked.

"I did not," said Dan.

The children looked at each other. Then Dora had a bright idea.

"Uncle Dan," she demanded, "did you lend your key to somebody while you went to church?"

"I have answered three questions and that is enough!" said Dan. And he never did answer that one.

All the family hung up their stockings. Lucy and Dora put theirs on the brass knobs either side of the open stove. Mr. and Mrs. Merrill fastened theirs to the ends of the sofa. Uncle Dan went out again, but Dora hung his sock to the back of Mother's rocking-chair. She and Lucy took one last look at the fairy tree and went to bed.

They didn't talk and giggle more than any little sisters do on Christmas eve and they went to sleep before Mrs. Merrill expected. In less than an hour she put out the red lamp.

It was still dark when Dora woke but a great star was looking through the open window. It was so big and so bright that it seemed like the real star of Bethlehem, shining to guide the shepherds to where the little Jesus lay.

The star was so beautiful that Dora looked at it instead of wondering about her stocking. That could wait, but the star would fade with the dawn. She watched it a long time and saw the sky gradually grow lighter and the star less distinct.

Just as she was having hard work to see the star, Lucy woke. "Merry Christmas, Dora!" she exclaimed. "Let's get up and look at our stockings."

Lucy hustled down the steep stairs, but Dora opened the door of Uncle Dan's room and looked in. Only his black head showed above the blankets. The window was wide open and the room freezing cold, but Dora ran in, kissed Uncle Dan's cheek and whispered "Merry Christmas!" in his ear.

Dan woke and looked at her. "Get back to bed," he said. "You'll catch your death." And then he said, "Merry Christmas, Dora!"

When Dora reached the foot of the stairs, Mr. Merrill jumped out from behind the door to his room and gave her a big hug and a Christmas greeting.

Father came into the parlor, he said to make the fire burn better for the children, but Mother came the next moment, and she didn't give any excuse for coming. Most mothers and fathers like to see the Christmas stockings opened.

The stockings were knobby and puffed and would be most uncomfortable to wear if they should stay that shape. Some packages were too big even to go in. These were on the floor under the stockings.

Lucy and Dora began to open the gifts, and everything they opened they liked very much.

From Mother there was a pretty woolen cap and muffler, a brown set for Lucy and a blue one for Dora. Both were much pleased, because all the girls were wearing them.

Olive gave Lucy a box of pretty handkerchiefs and Dora some writing paper with a blue M at the top. It was like some which Olive had at the beach and which Dora admired. Olive's paper was marked G.

Miss Page gave each a little New Testament. There was also from Miss Page a cunning bouquet. At a distance it looked like a bunch of flowers, but each flower was a bit of candy wrapped in oiled paper. About the bouquet was some paper lace. Both Lucy and Dora were delighted.

Lucy liked her pincushion very much. She had made for Dora a little silk bag in which to carry a purse or a handkerchief.

Uncle Dan gave each a box of candy, besides making the stage for the marionettes. The stage was finished and painted. It stood back against the parlor wall.

And as though Father were not making them a big present by whittling the puppets for the theatre, he gave them each a book. Lucy's was "When Mother Lets Us Cook."

Only the fact that she was not dressed kept Lucy from rushing into the kitchen and trying a receipt. Besides, Mother said quite emphatically that she wasn't doing any "letting" at that hour in the morning. Later in the day, she would see about it.

What do you think was the name of Dora's book? She could scarcely believe her eyes. When she did believe them, she could not speak, only look at Father and then hug him hard.

Father had gone to the Public Library and asked Miss Perkins which book Dora liked best. Miss Perkins remembered. Indeed, it would be strange if she did not know, for Dora had borrowed the book five times since September. Father had bought her the "Story of Doctor Dolittle."

"It was the biggest surprise, Mother!" Dora said, when she had thanked Father again and again and looked at the pictures for about the fortieth time.

"Oh, that isn't the surprise," said Mrs. Merrill.

"It isn't!" said Dora. "What can it be?"

She got down from Father's knee and took her limp stocking from the knob. In the toe was still a small package.

In the toe of hers, Lucy had just found the white Chinese kitten and was speechless with pleasure. She liked it better than Dora's blue one.

"Because there really are white kittens," she said.

"There are blue ones, too," said Dora. "Aunt Margaret told me so. Blue Persian cats."

"I don't think they are just like yours," said Lucy.

Dora had never seen a Persian blue, so she did not say anything. Besides, she was wondering what Miss Chandler had given her.

It was a little gold ring set with a blue stone which Mr. Merrill thought was an aquamarine.

Dora didn't care about the name, but she liked the ring exceedingly. She slipped it on her finger. It just fitted.

"This must be the big surprise," she said to Mother.

"The ring is a surprise to me," said Mrs. Merrill, "for I didn't know what was in that package. But it is not the surprise I mean."

Dora again felt her stocking and discovered a tiny wad of tissue paper. She untwisted it and her eyes and mouth both opened.

"Mother!" she exclaimed after a second, "oh, Mother! Mother! is it really Arcturus, my Arcturus? Where did he come from? Oh, Mother, my bear, my own little silver bear!"

"You can never guess where we found him," said Mrs. Merrill.

"Did somebody find him at the beach? Did Uncle Dan go over again?" asked Lucy, as excited as Dora.

"Arcturus came home from the beach when we did," said Mrs. Merrill. "He has been in Westmore all the time, though not in our house."

"Where was he?" Dora asked eagerly.

"He was found last week," said Mrs. Merrill, "but I thought since it was so near Christmas he might as well come back in your stocking. You remember that I went to the church to help pack a missionary barrel?"

The children remembered perfectly. They had carried some shoes to the church to go in that barrel.

"When we came to pack the things," said Mrs. Merrill, "there was that straw hat of Olive's, the one with the pink roses. The flowers were faded, but the hat was really too good for Olive to give away, and I told her so."

"While we were turning the hat about and looking at it," Mrs. Merrill went on, "Dora's silver bear dropped out of a fold of velvet. I can't account for his getting into it, but that is where he was."

The children knew how he got there. Lucy remembered picking up Olive's hat from the sand the very morning Arcturus ran away. All the time he was hiding in the velvet, so the sifting of the sand didn't make him appear.

"Arcturus has come home!" said Dora happily. "How nice that he came on Christmas morning. I felt dreadfully when he ran away, but if he hadn't, probably I would never have had the Chinese kitten. I hope Arcturus won't be jealous of Vega."

"Mother," said Lucy, "it's your turn now. You and Father open your presents."

"Not until I am dressed," said Mrs. Merrill. "This sitting about in a kimono is chilly work."

"My feet are cold," Lucy admitted.

"You and Dora run and get into your clothes," said Mrs. Merrill. "Come, Father."

Dora made no motion to start. "My feet are cold, too," she said. "Father, do you think if a person had only one foot, it could possibly be so cold as two?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Mr. Merrill.

"I will ask Uncle Dan," said Dora. "And I must tell him that Arcturus has come home. How surprised he will be! I can't see how Uncle Dan can sleep on Christmas morning. I woke him once, but he must have gone to sleep again. Father, did you know that the star of Bethlehem was shining this morning?"

"Over in the east?" asked Father Merrill. "Yes, Dora, I saw it."

<eob>

Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman

By

Pauline Lester



Chapter I

The Parting Of The Ways


"What am I going to do without you, Marjorie?" Mary Raymond's blue eyes looked suspiciously misty as she solemnly regarded her chum.

"What am I going to do without you, you mean," corrected Marjorie Dean, with a wistful smile. "Please, please don't let's talk of it. I simply can't bear it."

"One, two -- only two more weeks now," sighed Mary. "You'll surely write to me, Marjorie?"

"Of course, silly girl," returned Marjorie, patting her friend's arm affectionately. "I'll write at least once a week."

Marjorie Dean's merry face looked unusually sober as she walked down the corridor beside Mary and into the locker room of the Franklin High School. The two friends put on their wraps almost in silence. The majority of the girl students of the big city high school had passed out some little time before. Marjorie had lingered for a last talk with Miss Fielding, who taught English and was the idol of the school, while Mary had hung about outside the classroom to wait for her chum. It seemed to Mary that the greatest sorrow of her sixteen years had come. Marjorie, her sworn ally and confidante, was going away for good and all.

When, six years before, a brown-eyed little girl of nine, with long golden-brown curls, had moved into the house next door to the Raymonds, Mary had lost no time in making her acquaintance. They had begun with shy little nods and smiles, which soon developed into doorstep confidences. Within two weeks Mary, whose eyes were very blue, and whose short yellow curls reminded one of the golden petals of a daffodil, had become Marjorie's adorer and slave. She it was who had escorted Marjorie to the Lincoln Grammar School and seen her triumphantly through her first week there. She had thrilled with unselfish pride to see how quickly the other little girls of the school had succumbed to Marjorie's charm. She had felt a most delightful sense of pardonable vanity when, as the year progressed, Marjorie had preferred her above all the others. She had clung to Mary, even though Alice Lawton, who rode to school every day in a shining limousine, had tried her utmost to be best friends with the brown-eyed little girl whose pretty face and lovable personality had soon made her the pet of the school.

Year after year Mary and Marjorie had lived side by side and kept their childish faith. But now, here they were, just beginning their freshman year in Franklin High School, to which they had so long looked forward, and about to be separated; for Marjorie's father had been made manager of the northern branch of his employer's business and Marjorie was going to live in the little city of Sanford. Instead of being a freshman in dear old Franklin, she was to enter the freshman class in Sanford High School, where she didn't know a solitary girl, and where she was sure she would be too unhappy for words.

During the first days which had followed the dismaying news that Marjorie Dean was going to leave Franklin High School and go hundreds of miles away, the two friends had talked of little else. There was so much to be said, yet now that their parting was but two weeks off they felt the weight of the coming separation bearing heavily upon them. Both young faces wore expressions of deepest gloom as they walked slowly down the steps of the school building and traversed the short space of stone walk that led to the street.

It was Marjorie who broke the silence.

"No other girl can ever be as dear to me as you are. You know that, don't you, Mary?"

Mary nodded mutely. Her blue eyes had filled with a sudden rush of hot tears.

"But it won't do any good," continued Marjorie, slowly, "for us to mourn over being separated. We know how we feel about each other, and that's going to be a whole lot of comfort to us after -- I'm gone." Her girlish treble faltered slightly. Then she threw her arm across Mary's shoulder and said with forced steadiness of tone: "I'm not going to be a silly and cry. This is one of those 'vicissitudes' of life that Professor Taylor was talking about in chapel yesterday. We must be very brave. We'll write lots of letters and visit each other during vacation, and perhaps, some day I'll come back here to live."

"Of course you will. You must come back," nodded Mary, her face brightening at the prospect of a future reunion, even though remote.

"Can't you come with me to dinner?" coaxed Marjorie, as they paused at the corner where they were accustomed to wait for their respective street cars. "You know, you are one of mother's exceptions. I never have to give notice before bringing you home."

"Not to-night. I'm going out this evening," returned Mary, vaguely. "I must hurry home."

"Where are you going?" asked Marjorie, curiously. "You never said a word about it this morning."

"Oh, didn't I? Well, I'm going out with --  -- Here comes your car, Marjorie. You'd better hurry home, too."

"Why?" Marjorie's brown eyes looked their reproach. "Do you want to get rid of me, Mary? I've oceans of time before dinner. You know we never have it until half-past six. Never mind, I'll take this car. Good-bye."

With a proud little nod of her head, Marjorie climbed the steps of the car which had now stopped at their corner, without giving her friend an opportunity for reply. Mary looked after the moving car with a rueful smile that changed to one of glee. Her eyes danced. "She hasn't the least idea of what's going to happen," thought the little fluffy-haired girl. "Won't she be surprised? Now that she's gone, Clark and Ethel and Seldon ought to be here."

A shrill whistle farther up the street caused her to glance quickly in the direction of the sound. Two young men were hurrying toward her, their boyish faces alight with enthusiasm and good nature.

"It's all O.K., Mary," called the taller of the two, his black eyes glowing. "Every last thing has been thought of. Ethel has the pin. She'll be along in a minute."

"It's a peach!" shouted the smaller lad, waving his cap, then jamming it down on his thick, fair hair. "We've been waiting up the street for Marjorie to take her car. Thought she'd never start."

"I am afraid I hurt her feelings," deplored Mary. "I forgot myself and told her she'd better hurry home. She looked at me in the most reproachful way."

"Cheer up," laughed Clark Grayson, the black-eyed youth. "To-night'll fix things. All the fellows are coming."

"So are all the girls," returned Mary, happily. "I do wish Ethel would hurry. I'm so anxious to see the pin. I know Marjorie will love it. Oh, here comes Ethel now."

Ethel Duval, a tall, slender girl of sixteen, with earnest, gray-blue eyes and wavy, flaxen hair, joined the trio with: "I'm so glad we waited. I wanted you to see the pin, Mary." She was fumbling busily in her shopping bag as she spoke. "Here it is." She held up a small, square package, which, when divested of its white paper wrapping, disclosed a blue plush box. A second later Mary was exclaiming over the dainty beauty of the bit of jewelry lying securely on its white satin bed. The pin was fashioned in the form of a golden butterfly, the body of which was set with tiny pearls.

"Oh-h-h!" breathed Mary. "Isn't it wonderful! But do you suppose her mother will allow her to accept such an expensive gift? It must have cost a lot of money."

"Fifteen dollars," announced Clark, cheerfully, "but it was a case of only fifty cents apiece, and besides, it's for Marjorie. Fifteen times fifteen dollars wouldn't be too much for her. Every fellow and girl that was invited accepted the invitation and handed over the tax. To make things sure, Ethel went round to see Marjorie's mother about it and won her over to our side. So that's settled."

"It's perfectly lovely," sighed Mary in rapture, "and you boys have worked so hard to make the whole affair a gorgeous success. I'm afraid we had better be moving on, though. It won't be long now until half-past seven. I do hope everyone will be on time."

"They've all been warned," declared Seldon Ames. "Good-bye, then, until to-night." The two boys raised their caps and swung down the street, while Mary and Ethel stopped for one more look at the precious pin that in later days was to mean far more to their schoolmate, Marjorie Dean, than they had ever dreamed.



Chapter II

Good-Bye, Marjorie Dean


"Whatever you do, don't laugh, or speak above a whisper, or fall up the steps, or do anything else that will give us away before we're ready," lectured Clark Grayson to the little crowd of happy-faced boys and girls who were gathered round him on the corner above Marjorie Dean's home. "We'd better advance by fives. Seldon, you go with the first lot. When I give the signal, this way," Clark puckered his lips and emitted a soft whistle, "ring the bell."

"Right-o," softly retorted three or four boyish voices.

Clark rapidly divided his little squad of thirty into fives, and moved toward the house with the first division. Two minutes later the next five conspirators began to move, and in an incredibly short space of time the surprise party was overflowing the Dean veranda and front steps. The boy who had been appointed bell ringer pressed his finger firmly against the electric bell. There came the sound of a quick footstep, then Marjorie herself opened the door, to be greeted with a merry shout of "Surprise! Surprise!"

"Why -- what -- who!" she gasped.

"Just exactly," agreed Clark Grayson. "Why -- what -- who -- and enough others to make thirty. Of course, if you don't want us --  -- "

"Stop teasing me, Clark, until I get over my surprise, at least," begged Marjorie. "No, I never suspected a single thing," she said, in answer to Ethel Duval's question. "Here are mother and father. They know more about all this than they'll say. They made me believe they were going to a party."

"And so we are," declared her father, as he and Mrs. Dean came forward to welcome their young guests, with the cordiality and graciousness for which they were noted among Marjorie's friends.

"Come this way, girls," invited Marjorie's mother, who, in an evening frock of white silk, looked almost as young as the bevy of pretty girls that followed her. "Mr. Dean will look after you, boys."

Once she had helped her mother usher the girls into the upstairs sleeping room set aside for their use, Marjorie lost no time in slipping over to the dressing table where Mary stood, patting her fluffy hair and lamenting because it would not stay smooth.

"You dear thing," whispered Marjorie, slipping her arm about her chum. "I'll forgive you for not telling me where you were going. I was terribly hurt for a minute, though. You know we've never had secrets from each other."

"And we never will," declared Mary, firmly. "Promise me, Marjorie, that you'll always tell me things; that is, when they're not someone else's secrets."

"I will," promised Marjorie, solemnly. "We'll write our secrets to each other instead of telling them. Now I must leave you for a minute and see if everyone is having a good time. We'll have another comfy old talk later."

To Mary Raymond fell the altogether agreeable task of keeping Marjorie away from the dining-room, where Mrs. Dean, Ethel Duval and two of her classmates busied themselves with the decorating of the two long tables. By ten o'clock all was ready for the guests. In the middle of each table, rising from a centerpiece of ferns, was a green silk pennant, bearing the figures 19 --  embroidered in scarlet. The staffs of the two pennants were wound with green and scarlet ribazine which extended in long streamers to each place, and was tied to dainty hand-painted pennant-shaped cards, on which appeared the names of the guests. Laid beside the place cards were funny little favors, which had been gleefully chosen with a sly view toward exploiting every one's pet hobby, while at either end of each table were tall vases of red roses, which seemed to nod their fragrant approval of the merry-making.

"It's quite perfect, isn't it?" sighed Ethel, with deep satisfaction, gently touching one of the red roses. "The very nicest part of it all is that you've been just as enthusiastic as we over the party." She turned affectionate eyes upon Mrs. Dean.

"It could hardly be otherwise, my dear," returned Mrs. Dean. "Remember, it is for my little girl that you have planned all this happiness. Nothing can please me more than the thought that Marjorie has so many friends. I only hope she will be equally fortunate in her new home, though, I am sure, she will never forget her Franklin High School chums."

"We won't give her that chance," nodded Ethel, emphatically. "There, I think we are ready. Clark wants to be your partner, Mrs. Dean, and Seldon is to escort Marjorie to her place. We aren't going to give her the pin until we are ready to drink the toasts. Robert Barrett is to be toastmaster. Will you go first and announce supper?"

There was a buzz of delight and admiration from the guests, as headed by Marjorie and Seldon, the little procession marched into the dining-room. For a moment the very sight of the gayly decked table with its weight of goodies and wonderful red roses caused Marjorie's brown eyes to blur. Then, as Seldon bowed her to the head of one of the tables, she winked back her tears, and nodding gayly to the eager faces turned toward her and said with her prettiest smile: "It's the very nicest surprise that ever happened to me, and I hope you will all have a perfectly splendid time to-night."

"Three cheers for Marjorie Dean! May we give them, Mrs. Dean?" called Robert Barrett.

Mrs. Dean's smiling assent was lost in the volume of sound that went up from thirty lusty young throats.

"Now, Franklin High," proposed Mary Hammond, and the Franklin yell was given by the girls. The boys, who were nearly all students at the La Fayette High School, just around the corner from Franklin, responded with their yell, and the merry little company began hunting their places and seating themselves at the tables.

Marjorie was far too much excited to eat. Her glances strayed continually down the long tables to the cheery faces of her schoolmates. It seemed almost too wonderful that her friends should care so much about her.

"Marjorie Dean, stop dreaming and eat your supper," commanded Mary, who had been covertly watching her friend. "Clark, you are sitting next to her. Make her eat her chicken salad. It's perfectly delicious."

"Will you eat your salad or must I exercise my stern authority?" began Clark, drawing down his face until he exactly resembled a certain roundly disliked teacher of mathematics in the boys' high school. There was a laugh of recognition from the boys sitting nearest to Clark. He continued to eye Marjorie severely.

"Of course, I'm going to eat my salad," declared Marjorie, stoutly. "You must give me time, though. I'm still too surprised to be hungry."

But the greatest surprise was still in store for her. When everyone had finished eating, Robert Barrett began his duties as toastmaster. Ethel Duval came first with "What Friendships Mean to a Schoolgirl," and Seldon Ames followed with a ridiculously funny little toast to "The High School Fellows." Then Mr. and Mrs. Dean were toasted, and Lillian Hale, a next-door neighbor and the only upper-class girl invited, gave solemn counsel and advice to the "freshman babies."

As Marjorie's dearest friend, to Mary had been accorded the honor of giving the farewell toast, "Aufwiedersehen," and the presentation of the pin. Mary's clear voice trembled slightly as she began the little speech which she had composed and learned for the occasion. Then her faltering tones gathered strength, and before she realized that she was actually making a speech, she had reached the most important part of it and was saying, "We wish you to keep and wear this remembrance of our good will throughout your school life in Sanford. We hope you will make new friends, and we ask only that you won't forget the old."

"I can't begin to tell you how much I thank you all," Marjorie responded, her tones not quite steady, her face lighted with a fond pride that lay very near to tears. "I shall love my butterfly all my life, and never forget that you gave it to me. I am going to call it my talisman, and I am sure it will bring me good luck."

But neither the givers nor Marjorie Dean could possibly guess that, in the days to come, the beautiful golden butterfly was to prove anything but a talisman to the popular little freshman.



Chapter III

The Girl Who Looked Like Mary


"It's rather nice to have so much room, but I know I shall never feel quite at home here," murmured Marjorie Dean, under her breath, as she came slowly down the steps of her new home and paused for a moment in the middle of the stone walk which led to the street. Her wistful glance strayed over the stretch of lawn, still green, then turned to rest on the house, a comfortable three-story structure of wood, painted dark green, with lighter green trimmings. Her mother's sudden appearance at the window caused Marjorie to retrace her steps. Luncheon was ready.

"Everything is so different," she sighed, as she climbed the steps she had so lately descended. "I've been here a week, and I haven't met a single girl. I don't believe there are any girls in this neighborhood. I should feel a good deal worse, too, if the Franklin girls hadn't been such dears!" Marjorie's last comment, spoken half aloud, referred to the numerous letters she had received since her arrival in the town of Sanford from her Franklin High School friends, now so many miles away. Mary Raymond had not only fulfilled her promise to write one long letter every week, but had mailed Marjorie, almost daily, hurriedly-written little notes full of the news of what went on among the boys and girls she had left behind.

It had been a busy, yet a very long week for Marjorie. The unpacking of the Deans' furniture, which had been shipped to Sanford a week before their arrival there, and the setting to rights of her new home had so occupied the attention of Mrs. Dean and Nora, her faithful maid-of-all-work, that Marjorie, aside from certain tasks allotted to her to perform, was left for the most part to her own devices. As they had arrived in Sanford on Monday, Marjorie's mother had decided to give her daughter an opportunity to accustom herself to her new home and surroundings before allowing her to enter the high school. So the day for Marjorie's initial appearance in "The Sanford High School for Girls" had been set for the following Monday.

It was now Friday afternoon. Marjorie had spent the morning in writing a fifteen-page letter to Mary, the minor refrain of which was: "I can't tell you how much I miss you, Mary," and which contained views regarding her future high school career that were far from being optimistic. She had not finished her letter. She decided to leave it open until after luncheon and, laying it aside for the time, she had tripped down stairs and out doors.

"What are you going to do this afternoon, dear?" asked her mother as Marjorie slipped into place at the luncheon table.

"I don't know, Mother," was the almost doleful reply. "I thought I might take a walk up Orchard street as far as Sargent's, that cunning little confectioner's shop on the corner. Perhaps, if I go, I may see something interesting to tell Mary. I haven't finished my letter."

Marjorie did not add that her walk would include a last stroll past the towering gray walls of a certain stone building on Lincoln avenue, which bore over its massive oak doors the inscription, "The Sanford High School for Girls." Almost every day since her arrival, she had visited it, viewing it speculatively and with a curious kind of apprehension. She was not afraid to plunge into her new school life, but deep down in her heart she felt some little misgiving. What if the new girls proved to be neither likable nor companionable? What if she liked them but they did not like her? She had just begun the same apprehensive train of thought that had been disturbing her peace of mind for the last four days when her mother's voice broke the spell.

"If you are going that far I wish you would go on to Parke & Whitfield's for me. I should like you to match this embroidery silk. I have not enough of it to finish this collar and cuff set I am making for you."

"I'll be your faithful servant and execute all your commissions, mum," declared Marjorie with a little obeisance, her spirits rising a little at the prospect of actual errands to perform. She was already tired of aimlessly wandering along the wide, well-kept streets of Sanford, feeling herself to be quite out of things. Even errands were actual blessings sometimes, she decided, as a little later, she ran upstairs to dress.

"May I wear my best suit and hat, Mother?" she called anxiously down from the head of the stairs. "It's such a lovely day, I'm sure it won't rain, snow, hail or do anything else to spoil them."

"Very well," answered Mrs. Dean, placidly.

With a gurgle of delight Marjorie hurried into her room to put on her new brown suit, which had the mark of a well-known tailor in the coat, and her best hat, on which all the Franklin High girls had set their seal of approval. She had shoes and gloves to match her suit, too, and her dancing brown eyes and fluffy brown hair were the last touches needed to complete the dainty little study in brown.

"Don't I look nice in this suit?" she asked her mother saucily, turning slowly around before the living-room mirror. "Aren't you and father perfect dears to let me have it, though?" She whirled and descended upon her mother with outstretched arms, enveloping her in an ecstatic hug that sadly disturbed the proper angle of her brown velvet hat.

"Don't be gone too long," reminded her mother. "You know father has promised us tickets for the theatre to-night. We shall have an early dinner."

"All right, I'll remember, Captain." With a brisk touching of her hand to her hat brim in salute Marjorie vanished through the door, to reappear a moment later at the living-room window, flash a merry smile at her mother, about face and march down the walk in true military style.

Long before when Marjorie was a tiny girl she had shown an unusual preference for soldiers. She had owned enough wooden soldiers to make a regiment and was never at a loss to invent war games in which they figured. Sometimes, when she tired of her stiff, silent armies, which could only move as she willed, she inveigled her father or mother into being the hero, the enemy, the traitor or whatever her active imagination chose to suggest. Her parents, amused at her boyish love of military things, encouraged her in her play and entered into it with as much spirit as the child herself. Her father, who had once been an officer in the National Guard, taught her the manual of arms and she had learned it with a will.

Marjorie's military enthusiasm had been at its height when she met Mary Raymond, who soon became equally fascinated with the stirring play. In time other interests crowded their lives. The hard-worked armies were laid peacefully on their wooden backs to enjoy a long, undisturbed rest, while Marjorie and Mary became soldiers instead, addressing Mr. Dean as "General," Mrs. Dean as "Captain," and bestowing upon themselves the rank of ordinary enlisted soldiers who must earn their promotion by loyal and faithful service.

Mr. Dean had been rather chary of promotions, frequently reminding his little detachment that it is a far cry from the ranks of a private to that of a commissioned officer. So when their parting came, Mary and Marjorie had just received their commissions as second lieutenants, their awards of faithful service in the grammar school.

Lieutenant Marjorie smiled, then sighed, as she started on her walk. The salute she had just given brought a flood of memories of Mary. She felt she would not mind exploring this strange, new, high school territory if Mary were with her. She was sure no girl in Sanford could understand her as Mary had. On two different afternoons she had stood across the street from the school at the time of dismissal. She had eagerly watched the great oak doors open wide and the long lines of girls file out, waking the still October air with their merry voices. She had been particularly attracted toward one tall, lithe, graceful girl whose golden hair and brown eyes made her unusually lovely. At first sight of her, lonely, imaginative Marjorie had named her "The Picture Girl," and had decided that she was a darling. She had noticed that the pretty girl was always the center of a group and she had also noted that one small, black-haired girl with an elfish face, who wore the most exquisite clothes invariably walked at the tall girl's side. There was a pink-cheeked girl, too, with laughing blue eyes and dimples, and a fair-haired, serious-faced girl, who reminded Marjorie of Alice Duval. They usually formed part of the group about the tall girl and her dark companion, and there was also a very short, stout girl who puffed along anxiously in the rear of the group as though never quite able to catch up.

Marjorie had already imagined much concerning this particular knot of girls, and her desire to see them again before entering school was responsible for her walk down Lincoln avenue that sunny fall afternoon. She would do her errands first, she decided, then, returning by the way of the school, pass there just at the time that the afternoon session was dismissed. She went about her far-from-arduous commissions in leisurely fashion, now and then glancing at her châtelaine watch to make sure of the time. Three o'clock saw the daily procession of girls down the high school steps, and released from classes for the day. She did not intend to miss them.

It was twenty minutes to three when Marjorie finished a remarkable concoction of nuts, chocolate syrup and ice cream, a kind of glorified nut sundae, rejoicing in the name of "Sargent Nectar," and left the smart little confectioner's shop. As she neared the school building her eyes suddenly became riveted upon a slim, blue-clad figure that hesitated for on instant at the top of the high steps then ran lightly down and came hurrying toward where she stood.

"The advance guard," declared Marjorie half aloud. Then, as her eyes sought the approaching girl: "Why, she looks like Mary! And she's been crying! I'm going to speak to her." She took an impulsive step forward as the stranger came abreast of her and began:

"Won't you --  -- "

Marjorie's speech ended abruptly. The weeping girl cast one startled glance toward her from a pair of wet blue eyes, lunged by her without speaking and, breaking into a run, turned the corner and disappeared from view. Marjorie surveyed the back of the rapidly vanishing yellow head with rueful surprise. Then she gave a short laugh.

"I should have known better," she reflected. "Of course, she'd hardly care to tell her personal affairs to the first one who asks her. But she made me think of Mary. Oh, dear, I'm so homesick. Not even my new suit and hat can make me forget that. I wouldn't have mother know it for the world. I believe she is a wee bit homesick, too."

Marjorie paused for an instant at her accustomed place on the opposite side of the street, undecided whether to loiter there and once more watch her future companions pass out of school or to go on about her business. Suddenly the school doors swung wide and the pupils began flocking out. The little stranger yielded to the temptation to linger long enough to watch the five girls pass in whom she had become interested. They were among the last to emerge and, the moment they reached the steps, their voices rose in a confused babble, each one determined to make herself heard above the others.

"I knew she wouldn't do it," shrilled the stout girl, as they neared Marjorie. "She's too stingy for words. That's the third time she's refused to go into things with the rest of us."

"Be still," reminded the Picture Girl; "she might have very good reasons --  -- "

"Good reasons," scornfully mimicked the little dark girl, her black eyes glittering angrily. "It was only because the plan was mine. She hates me, and you all know why. I don't think you ought to stand up for her, Muriel. You know how deceitful she is and what unkind things she said about me."

"I'm not standing up for her," contradicted Muriel, but her tones lacked force. "I only felt a little bit sorry for her. She looked ready to cry all the afternoon. I think she went home early to avoid meeting us."

"That proves she is a coward," was the triumphant retort. "Remember --  -- " With a sudden swift movement she rose on tiptoe and, drawing the Picture Girl's head to the level of her mouth, whispered something to her. The fair-haired girl looked annoyed, the fat girl openly sulky and the dimpled girl disapproving. Exchanging significant glances, they walked on ahead of the other two.

Without the slightest intention of being an eavesdropper, Marjorie had heard every word of the loud-spoken conversation. Her eyes were fixed in fascination upon the dark, sharp-featured face so close to the fair, beautiful one. She suddenly recalled a picture she had once seen called "The Evil Genius," in which a dark, mocking face peered over the shoulder of a young man who sat at a table as though in deep thought. This girl's vivid face bore a slight resemblance to that of the Evil Genius, and it was not until the end of Marjorie's junior year in Sanford that this sinister impression faded and disappeared forever.

When the little company had passed on down the street, Marjorie turned and followed them from a distance. For several blocks her way lay in the same direction, but as she turned into her own street she swept a last glance toward the five girls. She wondered whom they had been discussing so freely. She was vaguely disappointed in the Picture Girl, who seemed to her independent mind too easily influenced by the Evil Genius. Marjorie had already begun to think of the small, dark girl as that. She was glad not to be the girl they had discussed. Then, her thought changing, a vision of two wet blue eyes and a tear-stained face set in fluffy yellow curls came to her, and Marjorie knew that she had seen the object of their discussion. A wave of sympathy for the offender swept over her. "I don't believe she could do anything deceitful or horrid," she reflected stoutly. "Her eyes are as true and as blue as Mary's. I'm going to like her and be her friend, if she'll let me, for she certainly seems to need one. I did so want to be friends with the Picture Girl, but I can't help wishing she had been just a little bit braver."

While Marjorie strolled thoughtfully home, deep in her own cogitations, the five girls, having joined forces again, were discussing her.

"Did you see that pretty girl standing across from the school as we came out?" asked Susan Atwell, the girl with the dimples.

"Yes," returned Irma Linton. "I noticed her there the other day, too. I wonder who she can be."

"I don't know," said Muriel Harding. "She is awfully sweet though, and dresses beautifully. She --  -- "

"I know all about her," interrupted Geraldine Macy. "Her father is the new manager for Preston & Haines. They only moved here from the city last week. Her name is Dean. That is, her last name. I don't know her other name."

"I am surprised that you don't know that," was the sarcastic comment of Mignon La Salle, the little dark girl.

"You needn't be," flung back the stout girl. "There are lots of things I don't know that I'd like to know. For instance --  -- "

"Don't be cross, Jerry," interrupted Mignon, hastily. "I was only teasing you." She cast a peculiar glance at the ruffled Jerry from under her heavy lashes which the young woman failed to catch. "Tell us some more about this new girl. I really didn't pay hardly any attention to her to-day."

"There isn't anything more to tell that I know of," muttered Jerry, sulkily, her desire to distribute news quite gone. "Wait until Monday and see. I know she's going to enter Sanford High and that she's a freshman."

"Then as freshmen it's our solemn duty to be nice to her and make her feel at home," stated Muriel, seriously.

Mignon La Salle shrugged her thin shoulders. "Perhaps," she said, without enthusiasm. "I shall wait until I see her before I decide that."

Meanwhile, Marjorie had reached home, and, seated before the library table, was writing for dear life on the letter she had begun to Mary. So far she had had nothing to tell her chum regarding the young women who were to be her classmates. To be sure, what she had seen and heard that afternoon had amounted to nothing, but the girl who looked like Mary had set her to longing all over again to be able, just for one afternoon, to sit side by side on the front steps with her childhood's friend and talk things over.

"You can't imagine, Mary," she wrote, "how sorry I felt when I saw that poor girl crying with your eyes. They were just like yours. I forgot everything except that she looked like you, and asked her what the trouble was. Of course, she didn't answer me, but actually ran down the street. I should have known better, but I felt so terribly sympathetic. 'Terribly' is the only word that expresses it. Right after she had gone the others began to come out of school, and at last the five girls I told you about came out. They were all talking at once, but I heard the horrid, sharp-faced, dark girl say that someone was stingy and deceitful and a lot of other unpleasant things. I thought the Picture Girl was going to stand up for the person, but that mean little Evil Genius wouldn't let her. Then all at once it came to me that it was this Mary girl they were talking about. It was really this one dark girl who said most of the mean things. The others just listened to her. At any rate, I'm going to find out who the Mary girl is and try to be a friend to her just because she looks like you. Don't imagine I could ever like her better than you, because you know I couldn't. But it's a true soldier's duty to stand by his comrades on the firing line, you know, and I am going to be this girl's freshman comrade, and, if she's one-half as nice as you, I'll be ready to help her fight her battles.

"Monday is the great day. I dread it, and yet I am looking forward to it. I like the outside of the school, but will I like the inside? Mother is going to the principal's office with me. I hope I sha'n't have to try a lot of tiresome examinations. I have forgotten everything I ever knew, and the weather has been too pleasant to study. This is such a pretty town, with plenty of nice walks. If only you were here it would be quite perfect. I do hope you can come and visit me at Easter. Must stop now, as I hear mother calling me. We are going to walk down to meet father. With my dearest love. Write soon.

"Yours always,

"Marjorie."

Marjorie folded, addressed and stamped her letter, then catching her hat from the hallrack ran out the front door to overtake her mother who had walked on ahead.

"I finished my letter to Mary," she held it up for inspection, "and I've something to report, Captain."

"I am ready to hear you," smiled her mother, as they walked on arm in arm.

For the second time Marjorie related her little adventure, ending with her resolve to learn to know and befriend, if necessary, the girl who looked like Mary. Nor did she have the slightest premonition of how much this readily-avowed championing of a stranger was to cost her.



Chapter IV

Sanford's Latest Freshman


"Will you tell me the way to the principal's office, please?"

A clear voice broke in upon the conversation of two girls who had paused before the broad stairway leading to the second floor of the Sanford High School for a last word before separating for their morning recitations.

At the sound of the soft, interrupting voice, which contained a touch of perplexity in its tones, both girls turned quickly to regard the owner. They saw an attractive little figure, wearing a dainty blue cloth gown, which was set off by hand-embroidered cuffs and an open rolling collar of sheerest white. From under a smart blue hat escaped a wealth of soft, brown curls, while two brown eyes looked into theirs with an expression of appeal that brought forth instant reply.

"Miss Archer's office is the last room on the east side of the second-floor corridor. I am going there now and shall be glad to show you the way," was the quick response of the taller of the two girls, accompanied by a cheery smile that warmed Marjorie Dean's heart and made her feel the least bit less of a stranger in this strange land which she was about to explore.

"Thank you," she returned gratefully, trying to smile in an equally friendly manner.

Marjorie's first day of school had begun far from propitiously. She had not reckoned on making her initial appearance in Sanford High School alone. It had been planned that her mother should accompany her, but when Monday morning came, her beloved captain had awakened with a racking headache, which meant nothing less than lying in bed for a long, pain-filled day in a darkened room.

Torn between sympathy for her mother and her own disappointment, Marjorie had experienced a desire to go to her captain's room and cry her eyes out, but being fashioned of sturdier stuff, she made a desperate effort to brace up and be a good soldier. This was just another of those miserable "vicissitudes" that no one could foresee. She must face it without grumbling. Her father had already telephoned for a physician when she entered her mother's room, and Marjorie put on her sweetest smile as she kissed her mother and assured her that she didn't in the least mind going to school alone.

As she followed the young woman up the stairs and down the long corridor Marjorie felt her heart beat a little faster. Her low spirits of the early morning began to rise. How good it seemed actually to be in school again! And what a beautiful school it was! Even Franklin would appear dingy beside it. She gazed appreciatively at the high ceiling and the shining oak wainscotings of the wide corridor through which she was passing. When her guide, who was tall, thin and plain of face, opened the last door on the right and ushered her into a beautiful sunshiny office which seemed more like a living-room than a place wherein business was transacted, Marjorie uttered an involuntary, "Oh, how lovely!"

"Yes, isn't it though," returned the tall girl. "This is Miss Archer's own idea, and, so far, it's proving a brilliant success. That is, we all think so. Is Miss Archer in her private office?" she asked the young woman who had risen from her desk near the door and came forward to receive them.

Marjorie would have liked to ask her new acquaintance what she meant, but at that moment a door at the farther end of the room opened and a stately, black-haired woman, with just a suspicion of gray at her temples, emerged. She turned a pair of grave, deep-set eyes upon the tall girl and said, pleasantly: "Well, Ellen, what can I do for you this morning?"

"Oh, Miss Archer!" exclaimed the tall girl, eagerly, with an impulsive step forward, "you haven't forbidden basketball this year, have you? Stella and I couldn't believe our ears when we heard it this morning!" It was evident that the impetuous Ellen was on the best possible terms with her principal.

"I don't remember having issued an order to that effect," smiled Miss Archer. "Where did you hear that bit of news?"

Ellen Seymour's plain face flushed, then paled. "It was just a rumor," she replied with reluctance. "I'd rather not mention names. Still, when I heard it, I could not rest until I had asked you. The sophomores hope to do something wonderful this year. We couldn't bear to believe for a minute that there would be no basketball. We had planned to have a tryout some day this week, after school. I'm so glad," she added fervently. "Thank you, Miss Archer. Oh, pardon me," she turned to Marjorie, "this is Miss Archer, our principal. Miss Archer, this young lady wishes to see you. I met her in the corridor downstairs and volunteered my services as guide."

With a courteous nod to Marjorie, the tall girl left the room and the principal turned her attention toward the prospective freshman.

At the calm, kindly inquiry of the gray eyes Marjorie's feeling of shyness vanished, and she said in her most soldierly manner, as though speaking to her mother: "Miss Archer, my name is Marjorie Dean, and I wish to enter the freshman class of Sanford High School. We moved to Sanford from the city of B --  -- . We have been here just a week. I was a freshman in Franklin High School at B --  -- ."

Miss Archer took the young girl's hand in hers. Her rather stern face was lighted with a welcoming smile. Marjorie's direct speech and frank, honest eyes had pleased the older woman.

"I am glad to know that we are to have a new pupil," she said cordially. "The freshman class is smaller than usual this year. So many girls leave school when their grammar school course is finished. I wish we could persuade these mothers and fathers to let their daughters have at least a year of high school. It would help them so much in whatever kind of work they elected to do later."

"That is what mother says," returned Marjorie, quickly. "My mother intended to come with me to-day, but was unable to do so." She did not go into details. Young as she was, Marjorie had a horror of discussing her personal affairs with a stranger. "She will call upon you later."

"I shall be pleased to meet your mother," Miss Archer made courteous answer. "The first and most important matter to be considered this morning is your class standing. Let me see. B --  --  is in the same state as the town of Sanford. I believe the system of credits is the same in all the high schools throughout this state, as the examinations come from the state board at the capital. What studies had you begun at B --  -- ?"

"English composition, algebra, physiology, American history and French," recited Marjorie, dutifully.

Miss Archer raised her eyebrows. "You are ambitious. We usually allow our pupils to carry only four subjects."

"But these are quite easy subjects," pleaded Marjorie; "that is, all except algebra. I am not especially clever in mathematics. I am obliged to study very hard to make good recitations. Still, I should like to continue with the subjects I have begun. Won't you try me until the end of the first term?" she added, a coaxing note in her voice.

"I will at least try you for a week or two. Then if I find that you are not overtaxing your strength you may go on with them."

"Thank you." Marjorie's relieved tone caused the principal to smile again. It was not usual for a pupil to show concern over the prospect of losing a subject. Many of the students rebelled at having to carry four subjects.

"Have you your grammar school certificate with you?" asked Miss Archer, the smile giving way to a businesslike expression.

Marjorie handed the principal the large envelope she had been carrying. Miss Archer drew forth a square of thick white paper, ornamented with the red seal by which the state board of school commissioners had signified their approval of Marjorie Dean and her work in the grammar school.

The older woman read it carefully. "Yes, this is, as I thought the same form of certificate. From this moment on you are a freshman in Sanford High School, Miss Dean. I trust that you will be happy here. Sanford has the reputation of being one of the finest schools in the state. I am going to assign you to a seat in the study hall at once. Miss Merton is in charge there. She will give you a printed form of our curriculum of study. School opens at nine o'clock in the morning. The morning session lasts until twelve o'clock. We have an hour and a quarter for luncheon, and our last recitation for the day is over at half past three o'clock. We have devotional exercises in the chapel on Monday and Friday mornings, and the course in gymnastics is optional. There are, of course, many other things regarding the regulations of the school which you will gradually come to know."

"Miss Arnold," the thin-faced, sharp-eyed young woman, who had been covertly appraising Marjorie during her talk with Miss Archer, came languidly forward. "This is Miss Dean." The two girls bowed rather distantly. Marjorie had conceived an instant and violent dislike for this lynx-eyed stranger. "Take Miss Dean to the locker room, then to Miss Merton. Say to Miss Merton that Miss Dean is a freshman, and that I wish her assigned to a desk in the freshman section."

With a last glance of pleasant approval, which Marjorie's pretty face, dainty attire and frank, yet modest bearing had evoked, the principal retired to her inner office, and Marjorie obediently followed her guide, who, without speaking, set off down the corridor at almost unnecessary speed. "This way," she directed curtly as they reached the main corridor. They passed down the corridor, descended a second stairway and brought up directly in front of long rows of lockers. Within five minutes Marjorie's hat had been put away, and she had received a locker key. This done, her companion hurried her upstairs and down the wide corridor through which they had first come.

Then she suddenly opened a door, and Marjorie found herself in an enormous square room, which contained row upon row of shining oak desks, occupied by what seemed to her hundreds of pupils. In reality there were not more than two hundred and forty persons in the room, but in the eyes of the little stranger everything was quadrupled. How different it was from Franklin! So this was the study hall, one of the things on which the school prided itself. In front of the rows of desks was one large desk on a small raised platform, reminding Marjorie of an island in the midst of a sea. At the desk sat a small, gray-haired woman, who peered suspiciously over her glasses at Marjorie as she was lifelessly introduced by Miss Arnold.

"I don't like her at all," was the young girl's inward comment as she walked behind the stiff, uncompromising, black-clothed back to a desk almost in the middle of the last row of seats on the east side. But Marjorie experienced a little shiver of delight as she seated herself, for directly in front of her, and gazing at her with reassuring, smiling eyes, was the Picture Girl.



Chapter V

Getting Acquainted With The Picture Girl


"Welcome to Sanford," whispered the girl, "and to the freshman class. I was sure when I saw you the other day you couldn't be anything other than a freshman."

Marjorie flushed, then smiled faintly. "I didn't think any of the girls would remember me," she confessed.

"Oh, I remember you perfectly. You were across the street from school on three different days, weren't you?"

Marjorie nodded. "I just had to come down and get acquainted with the outside of the school. I was awfully curious about it."

"Miss Harding," a cold voice at their elbows caused both girls to start. So intent had they been on their conversation that they had not noticed Miss Merton's approach, "you may answer any questions Miss Dean wishes to ask regarding our course of study here as set forth in our curriculum." She laid a closely printed sheet of paper before Marjorie. "This does not mean, however, the personal conversation in which, I am sorry to say, you appeared to be engrossed when I approached. Remember, Miss Dean, that personal conversation will neither be excused nor tolerated in the study hall. I trust I shall not have to remind you of this again."

Marjorie watched with unseeing eyes the angular form of the teacher as she retreated to her platform. If Miss Merton had dealt her a blow on her upturned face, it could have hurt no more severely than had this unlooked-for reprimand. She was filled with a choking sense of shame that threatened to end in a burst of angry sobs. The deep blush that had risen to her face receded, leaving her very white. Those students sitting in her immediate vicinity had, of course, heard Miss Merton. She glanced quickly about to encounter two pairs of eyes. One pair was blue and, it seemed to the embarrassed newcomer, sympathetic. Their owner was the "Mary" girl, who sat two seats behind her in the next aisle. The other pair was cruelly mocking, and they belonged to the girl that Marjorie had mentally styled the Evil Genius. Something in their taunting depths stirred an hitherto unawakened chord in gentle Marjorie Dean. She returned the insolent gaze with one so full of steady strength and defiance that the girl's eyes dropped before it and she devoted herself assiduously to the open book which she held in her hand.

"Don't mind Miss Merton," whispered Muriel, comfortingly. "She is the worst crank I ever saw. No one likes her. I don't believe even Miss Archer does. She's been here for ages, so the Board of Education thinks that Sanford High can't run without her, I guess."

"I'm so mortified and ashamed," murmured Marjorie. "On my first day, too."

"Don't think about it," soothed Muriel. "What studies are you going to take? I hope you will recite in some of my classes. Wait a moment. I'll come back there and sit with you; then we'll make less noise. Miss Merton told me to help you, you know," she reminded, with a soft chuckle.

The fair head and the dark one bent earnestly over the printed sheet. Marjorie whispered her list of subjects to her new friend, who jotted them down on the margin of the program.

"How about 9.15 English Comp?" she asked. "That's my section."

Marjorie nodded her approval.

"Then you can recite algebra with me at 10.05, and there's a first-year French class at 11.10. That brings three subjects in the morning. Now, let me see about your history. If you can make your history and physiology come the first two periods in the afternoon, you will be through by three o'clock and can have that last half hour for study or gym, or whatever you like. I am carrying only four subjects, so I have nothing but physical geography in the afternoon. I am through reciting every day by 2 o'clock, so I learn most of my lessons in school and hardly ever take my books home. If I were you, I'd drop one subject -- American History, for instance. You can study it later. The freshman class is planning a lot of good times for this winter, and, of course, you want to be in them, too, don't you?"

"I should say so," beamed Marjorie. "Still," her face sobering, "I think I won't drop history. It's easy, and I love it."

"Well, I don't," emphasized Muriel. "By the way, do you play basketball?"

"I played left guard on our team last year, and I had just been chosen for center on the freshman team, at Franklin High, when I left there," was the whispered reply.

"That's encouraging," declared Muriel. "We haven't chosen our team yet. We are to have a tryout at four o'clock on Friday afternoon in the gymnasium. You can go to the meeting with me, although you will have met most of the freshman class before Friday. Oh, yes, did Miss Archer tell you that we report in the study hall at half-past eight o'clock on Monday and Friday mornings? We have chapel exercises, and woe be unto you if you are late. It's an unforgivable offense in Miss Merton's eyes to walk into chapel after the service has begun. If you are late, you take particular pains to linger around the corridor until the line comes out of chapel, then you slide into your section and march into the study hall as boldly as though you'd never been late in your life," ended Muriel with a giggle, which she promptly smothered.

"But what if Miss Merton sees one?"

Muriel made a little resigned gesture. "Try it some day and see. There's the 9.15 bell. Come along. If we hurry we'll have a minute with the girls before class begins. All of my chums recite English this first hour. You needn't stop at Miss Merton's desk. It'll be all right."

Marjorie walked down the aisle behind Muriel, looking rather worried. Then she touched Muriel's arm. "I think I'd rather stop and speak to Miss Merton," she said with soft decision.

"All right," the response came indifferently as Muriel, a bored look on her youthful face, walked on ahead.

Marjorie walked bravely up to the teacher. "Miss Merton, I have arranged my studies and recitation hours. Miss Harding is going to show me the way to the English composition class."

Miss Merton stared coldly at the girl's vivid, colorless face, framed in its soft brown curls. Her own youth had been prim and narrow, and she felt that she almost hated this girl whose expressive features gave promise of remarkable personality and abundant joy of living.

"Very well." The disagreeable note of dismissal in the teacher's voice angered Marjorie.

"I'll never again speak to her unless it's positively necessary," she resolved resentfully. "I wish I'd taken Miss Harding's advice."

"Well, did she snap your head off?" inquired Muriel as Marjorie joined her.

"No," was the brief answer.

"It's a wonder. There goes the third bell. It's on to English comp for us. I won't have time to introduce you to the girls. We'll have to wait until noon. Miss Flint teaches English. She's a dear, and everyone likes her."

Muriel's voice dropped on her last speech, for they were now entering the classroom. At the first flat-topped desk in one corner of the room sat a small, fair woman with a sweet, sunshiny face that quite won Marjorie to her.

"Miss Flint, this is Miss Dean," began Muriel, as they stopped before the desk. "She is a freshman and has just been registered in the study hall by Miss Merton."

A long, earnest glance passed between teacher and pupil, then Marjorie felt her hand taken between two small, warm palms. "I am sure Miss Dean and I are going to be friends," said a sweet, reassuring voice that amply made up for Miss Merton's stiffness. "Are you a stranger in Sanford, my dear? I am sure I have never seen you before."

"We have lived here a week," smiled Marjorie. "We moved here from B --  -- ."

"How interesting. Were you a student of Franklin High School? I have a dear friend who teaches English there."

"Oh!" exclaimed Marjorie, her eyes sparkling, "do you mean Miss Fielding?"

"Yes," returned Miss Flint. "We were best friends during our college days, too. Hampton College is our alma mater."

"That is where I hope to go when I finish high school. Miss Fielding has told me so many nice things about Hampton," was Marjorie's eager reply. Then she added impetuously, "I'm going to like Sanford, too. I'm quite sure of it."

"That is the right spirit in which to begin your work here," was the instant response. "I will assign you to that last seat in the third row. We do not change seats. Each girl is given her own place for the year."

Marjorie thanked Miss Flint, and made her way to the seat indicated. The sound of footsteps in the corridor had ceased. A tall girl in the front row of desks slipped from her seat and closed the door. Miss Flint rose, faced her class, and the recitation began.

After the class was dismissed Miss Flint detained Marjorie for a moment to ask a few questions regarding her text and note books. Muriel waited in the corridor. Her face wore an expression of extreme satisfaction. It looked as though the new freshman might be a distinct addition to the critical little company of girls who had set themselves as rulers and arbiters of the freshman class. She was pretty, wore lovely clothes, lived in a big house in a select neighborhood, had played center on a city basketball team, and was the friend of Miss Flint's friend. To be sure, Mignon La Salle might raise some objection to the newcomer. Mignon was so unreasonably jealous. But for all her money, Mignon must not be allowed always to have her own way. Muriel was sure the rest of the girls would be quite in favor of adding Marjorie Dean to their number. They needed one more girl to complete their sextette. To Marjorie should fall the honor.

"I'll introduce her to the girls this noon, and let them look her over. Then I'll have a talk with them to-night and see what they think," planned Muriel as she went back to the study hall at Marjorie's side.

There was a hurried exchange of books, then Marjorie was rushed off to her algebra recitation. Here she found herself at least two weeks ahead of the others, and was able to solve a problem at the blackboard that had puzzled several members of the class, thereby winning a reputation for herself as a mathematician to which it afterward proved anything but easy to live up to.

While in both her English and algebra classes Marjorie had searched the room with alert eyes for the girl who looked like Mary. She felt vaguely disappointed. She had hoped to come into closer contact with her. She liked Muriel, she decided, but she did not altogether understand her half-cordial, half-joking manner. She was rather glad that she was to go to her French class alone. She had told Muriel not to bother. She could find the classroom by herself.

As she clicked down the short, left-hand, third floor corridor, she saw just ahead of her a little blue-clad figure passing through the very doorway for which she was making. An instant and she too had entered the room. She stared about her, then walked to a seat directly opposite to the one now occupied by the girl that looked like Mary. For a brief moment the girl eyed Marjorie indifferently, then something in the scrutiny of the other girl evidently annoyed her. She drew her straight dark brows together in a displeased frown, and deliberately turned her face away.

By this time perhaps a dozen girls had entered, and, as the clang of the third bell echoed through the school, an alert little man with a thin, sensitive face and timid brown eyes, bustled into the room and carefully closed the door. Hardly had he taken his hand from the knob when the door was flung open, this time to admit a sharp-featured girl with bright, dark eyes and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth. Smiling maliciously, she swung the door shut with an echoing bang. The meek little professor looked reproachfully at the offender, who did not even appear to see him.

"The Evil Genius," recognized Marjorie. Her eyes strayed furtively toward the Mary girl, who had not paid the slightest attention to this late arrival. "What a hateful person that black-eyed girl is," ran on Marjorie's thoughts. "I know it was she who made that nice girl cry the other day. I wish she wasn't quite so distant. The nice girl, I mean. Oh, dear. I forgot to go up to the professor's desk and register. That's his fault. He came in late. He'll see me in a minute and ask who I am."

To her extreme surprise, the little man paid no particular attention to her, but, opening his grammar, began the giving out of the next day's lesson. This he explained volubly and with many gestures. Marjorie's lips curved into a half smile as she compared this rather noisy instructor with Professor Rousseau, of Franklin. Later, when he called upon his pupils to recite, however, he was a different being. His politely sarcastic arraignment of those who floundered through the lessons, accompanied by certain ominous marks he placed after their names in a fat black book that lay on his desk, plainly showed that, despite his mild appearance, he was a force yet to be reckoned with.

"I hope he doesn't notice me until class is over," fidgeted Marjorie. "It surely must be time for that bell to ring." She began nervously to count those who were due to recite before her turn came. It would be so embarrassing to do her explaining before this group of strange girls, particularly before the Evil Genius. Ah, she had begun to read! And how beautifully she read French! The critical professor was listening to the smooth flow of words that tripped from her tongue with approbation written on every feature. "She must have studied French before," speculated Marjorie, as the professor directed the next girl to go on with the exercise; "or else she is French. I believe she is. Oh, dear, only two more girls."

Clang! sounded the bell.

"Thank goodness," breathed the relieved freshman.

There was a general closing of books. "To-morrow I shall geev you a wreetten test," warned Professor Fontaine. Then the second bell rang, and the class filed out of the room.

"Eet ees not strange that I haf overlooked you, Mademoiselle," explained Professor Fontaine five minutes later, after listening to Marjorie's apology for not presenting herself to him before class. "The freshmen like to make so many alterations in their programs. They haf soch good excuses for changeeng classes, but, sometimes, too, they do not tell me. Eet maks exasperation." He waved his hands comprehensively. "I am pleased," he added, with true French courtesy, "to haf another pupil. Ees eet that you like the French, Mademoiselle Dean?"

"It is a beautiful language, Professor Fontaine," Marjorie assured him. "I have only begun learning it, but I like it so much."

"C'est vrai," murmured the delighted professor. "La Francais est une belle langue. If, then, you like it, you weel study your lessons, n'est pas?"

"I'll try very hard to make good recitations. I will bring my books to-morrow. We used the same grammar at Franklin High School."

Marjorie hastened back to the study hall to find it empty. The clock on the north wall pointed significant hands to ten minutes past twelve. The Picture Girl had said that she wished Marjorie to meet her friends, but she was not waiting. It was disappointing, but her own fault, thought the lonely freshman as she left the study hall and went slowly downstairs to the locker room. She gave an impatient sigh as she pinned on her hat. Exploring new territory wasn't half so interesting as she could wish. Then a light footstep sounded at her side. A dignified little voice said, stiffly, "Will you please allow me to get my hat?"

Marjorie whirled about in amazement. Could she believe her eyes? The voice belonged to the Mary girl; they were to share the same locker.



Chapter VI

The Pledge


"Oh, I am so glad we are to have a locker together!" exclaimed Marjorie, impulsively. "I've been very anxious to know you. I really owe you an apology. I spoke to you in the street the other day. I don't know what you thought of me, but you look so much like my dearest chum in B --  --  that I called to you before I realized what I was doing."

The other girl regarded Marjorie with the suspicious, uneasy eyes of a cornered animal. Then, without answering, she reached for her hat and was about to go silently on her way, when something in Marjorie's gracious words seemed to touch her and she said, grudgingly, "I remember you."

"That's nice," beamed Marjorie. "I was afraid you wouldn't. Let me tell you about my chum." She launched forth in an enthusiastic description of Mary Raymond and of their long friendship. "I wrote Mary about having seen a girl that looked like her. She will be very curious to see you. She's coming to visit me some time during the year. So I hope you and I will be friends. But I haven't even told you who I am. My name is Marjorie Dean. Won't you please tell me yours?" She offered her hand winningly, but the strange, self-contained young girl ignored it.

"My name is Constance Stevens." Her voice was coldly reluctant, carrying with it an unmistakable rebuff.

Marjorie drew back, puzzled and hurt. She was not used to having her friendly overtures rejected. The blue-eyed girl saw the shrinking movement, and, stirred by some hitherto unknown impulse, stretched forth her hand. "Please forgive me for being so rude," she said contritely. "It is awfully sweet in you to tell me about your chum and to say that you wish to be my friend. You are the first girl, who has been so nice with me since I came to Sanford. How I hate them!" Her expressive face darkened and her blue eyes became filled with brooding, sullen anger.

"Are you going home to luncheon now?" asked Marjorie, with a view toward keeping away from disagreeable subjects.

The other girl nodded, then, pinning on her hat, the two left the building. Marjorie wished to ask questions, but she did not know how to begin with this strange, moody girl. There were so many things to say. "Do you play basketball?" she asked, almost timidly, when they had traversed three blocks in silence.

Constance shook her head. "I don't even know the game, let alone trying to play it. Do you play?"

"Yes. I have played every position on the team. I was chosen for center of the freshman team at Franklin High just before I came here. One of the freshmen has asked me to go to the tryout on Friday."

The Mary girl looked wistfully at Marjorie. "I'm going to tell you something," she announced with finality. "Truly, it's for your own good. You mustn't try to be friends with me. If you do, you'll be sorry. We, my father and I, are nobodies in this town. Father's a broken-down musician who teaches the violin for a living. I've a little lame brother, and we take care of a poor old musician, who, people say, is crazy. He isn't, though. He's merely childish.

"People call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds. They don't understand that our greatest crime is just being poor. The girls in the freshman class make fun of me and call me a tramp and a beggar behind my back. One girl did try to be the least bit pleasant with me, but she soon stopped. We've been in Sanford only two months, but it seems like a hundred years. At first I was glad to think I was going to high school. How I hate it now! But they sha'n't drive me away. I'll get my education in spite of everything." Her lips drew together with resolute purpose.

"So, you see," her voice grew gentle, "you mustn't waste your time upon me. The girls won't like you if you do, and you don't know how dreadful it is to be left out of everything. Of course, you can speak to me, but --  -- " She paused and looked eloquent meaning at Marjorie. Her late aloofness had quite vanished. Her small face was now soft and friendly, making the resemblance to happy-go-lucky Mary Raymond more apparent.

Marjorie laughed. Those who knew her best would have understood that her laughter meant defiance. "I don't choose my friends because they are rich or because others like them. I choose them because I want them myself," she declared with a proud lift of her head. "I knew that someone had been horrid to you the first day I ever saw you. I heard several girls talking of you afterward. At least, I think they were talking of you. I said to myself then that they had misjudged you. So I went home and wrote my letter to Mary. I told mother all about you, too, and that I was going to be your friend, if you would let me. I want you to come and see me and meet mother and father. As for the girls in the freshman class, I'd like to be friends with them, too, but I couldn't do anything so contemptible and unfair as to dislike a girl just because they thought they did. Now, you know what I think about it. Are we going to share our locker and our troubles and our pleasures?"

The tears flashed across Constance Stevens' eyes. Her hand slid into Marjorie's, and thus began a friendship between the two freshmen that was to defy time and change.

They separated on the next corner and, throwing dignity to the winds, Marjorie raced up the long walk and into the house to see if her captain was better.

"I came to report, Captain," she said gently as she tiptoed up to her mother's bed. "How are you, dear?"

"Better, Lieutenant," returned her mother, kissing the pretty, flushed face. "Now for the report."

"You are sure I won't make your head ache with my chatter?"

"No, dear; it is ever so much better now."

Marjorie went faithfully through with the events of the morning. "I had to stand by my colors, Captain. I wouldn't be fit to be a soldier if I didn't know how to stand fast. Just as though it makes any difference whether a girl is rich or poor if she's a dear and one likes her. How can some girls be so silly? They wouldn't be if they had Mary's and my military training. When in doubt ask your captain."

She laughed gaily, then her merry glance changed to one of dismay. "Good gracious! It's fifteen minutes to one. I'll have to eat my luncheon in a hurry." With a hasty kiss Marjorie flitted from the room and down the stairs to the dining-room.

After luncheon she lingered for a brief moment with her mother, then set off for the afternoon session of school. But she could not help wondering as she walked just how it would seem to be in the freshman class but not of it.



Chapter VII

The Warning


The afternoon session of school passed uneventfully for Marjorie. She had returned too late from luncheon to hold more than a few words of conversation with the Picture Girl. In spite of the watchful espionage of Miss Merton, whose eyes seemed riveted to her side of the room, Muriel managed to convey to Marjorie the news that the girls were dying to meet her and were so sorry they had missed her at noon.

"We waited for you more than ten minutes," Muriel whispered guardedly. "Mignon saw you stop at Professor Fontaine's desk. We knew what that meant. It always takes him forever to explain anything. Do you remember a black-haired, black-eyed girl in the French class this morning? She wore the sweetest brown crêpe-de-chine dress. Well, that's Mignon La Salle. Her father is the richest man in Sanford. Mignon could go away to school if she liked, but she doesn't care about it. Tell you more later."

Muriel faced front with a sudden jerk that could mean but one thing. Marjorie cast a fleeting glance at Miss Merton. The teacher was frowning angrily, as though about to deliver a rebuke. Luckily for the two girls, the first recitation bell rang and they stood not upon the order of their going, but went with alacrity. Once outside the study-hall door they were safe.

"I don't know what ails Miss Merton," complained Muriel. "She has never said a word to me before. That's twice to-day she has shown her claws."

"She doesn't like me," said Marjorie, calmly, "and I don't like her. I think she is the rudest teacher I ever knew. It was I, not you that she meant that scolding for this morning."

"Nonsense!" scoffed Muriel. "She likes you as well as she likes the rest of us. I don't believe she is awfully, terribly, fearfully fond of girls. When she was young she must have been one of those stiff, prim goody-goodies; the distressingly snippy sort that made all her friends so tired." Muriel laughed softly.

Marjorie smiled at Muriel's unflattering description of Miss Merton's youth, then her face sobered. In her heart she knew that Miss Merton disliked her, and the knowledge was not pleasant. She made an earnest resolve to overcome the teacher's prejudice. She would make Miss Merton like her.

Muriel went with her as far as the door of the history room, which was in charge of Miss Atkins, a stout, middle-aged woman, who beamed amiably upon Marjorie, entered her name in the class register, motioned her to a front seat and promptly appeared to forget her existence. But though Miss Atkins exhibited small personal interest in her new pupil, such was not the case with regard to the subject which she taught. The lesson dealt with the coming of the Virginia colonists, their settlement in Jamestown and the final burning of the town. Miss Atkins' vivid description of the colonists' determined struggles to gain a foothold in the New World was well worth listening to. The reading of extracts from special reference books pertaining to that gallant expedition into the treacherous forests of an unknown, untried country made the lesson seem doubly interesting. When the recitation was over Marjorie went back to the study hall congratulating herself on the fact that she had not dropped history, and reflecting that no one would ever have suspected Miss Atkins of being so fascinating.

As she groped in her desk for her textbook on physiology, she looked about her for some sign of Constance Stevens. She recollected that she had not seen her in her seat when the afternoon session began. The moment her recitation in physiology was over she hastened to the locker room. No, her new friend's hat was not there. She had not returned to school after luncheon. Marjorie reached for her own hat, vaguely wondering what had happened to keep Constance away from school.

She stood meditatively poking her hatpins in and out of her hat, when the sound of footsteps on the stairs came to her ears. School was over for the day. She put on her hat in a hurry, took a swift peep at herself as she passed the one large mirror that hung at the end of the freshmen's lockers, and ran up the stairs. She would not disappoint Muriel's friends again.

This time she was first on the scene, standing on the identical spot where she had stood the day Constance rushed weeping past her. Why didn't her class come out? Surely she had heard their footsteps on the stairs. But it was fully five minutes before the stream of girls began to issue from the big doors. Then Muriel appeared, surrounded by her friends, and in another instant the girl with the dimples, the fair-haired girl, the stout girl and the Evil Genius were, with varying degrees of friendliness, telling Marjorie Dean that they were glad to meet her.

Susan Atwell said so frankly with a delightful show of dimples. Irma Linton looked the acme of gentle friendliness. Geraldine Macy's face wore an expression of open admiration. Mignon La Salle's greeting, however, was distinctly reserved. To be sure, she smiled; but Muriel, who had been furtively watching her, knew that the French girl was not pleased with the idea of admitting another girl to their fellowship.

"The rest of the girls like her," thought Muriel. "Mignon will find she'll have to give in this time." Purposely, to make sure she was right, she said boldly: "Miss Dean, will you go to the basketball tryout with us on Friday afternoon?"

"Yes, do," urged Geraldine Macy, eagerly.

"We'd love to have you," came from Susan Atwell. "We understand that you are a star player."

"Of course you must," smiled Irma Linton.

The French girl alone hesitated. Her eyes roved speculatively from one face to another, then she said suavely, "Come by all means, Miss Dean. It will be quite interesting."

"Thank you. I shall be pleased to go with you." Marjorie ignored Mignon's slight hesitation, although she had noted it. "I wonder if you are all as fond of basketball as I," she went on quickly. "It's a splendid game, isn't it?"

Her new acquaintances answered with emphasis that it was certainly a great game, and, the ice now broken, they began to ply their new acquaintance with questions. How did she like Sanford? Did it seem strange to her after a big city high school? What subjects had she selected? Had she met any other girls besides themselves?

Marjorie answered them readily enough. She was glad to be one of a crowd of girls again.

"Have you met any other girls?" asked Geraldine Macy, abruptly.

"I met a Miss Seymour before I had even gone as far as Miss Archer's office. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?"

No one of the five girls made answer. The little freshman regarded them perplexedly.

"Mm!" ejaculated Muriel Harding. "You wouldn't think her quite so nice if you knew as much about her as we do. Wait until you see her play basketball. She plays center on the sophomore team, and she makes some very peculiar plays. She's always creating trouble, too. She and some of her sophomore friends seem to have a particular grudge against Mignon. They are forever criticising her playing. They have even gone so far as to say that we don't play fairly; that we are tricky. The idea!" Muriel looked highly offended at the mere idea of any such thing.

Marjorie listened without comment. Muriel's ready tirade against the pleasant-faced sophomore who had willingly offered her services that morning made her feel decidedly uncomfortable. Then Miss Seymour's straightforward speech to Miss Archer came back to her. The sophomore had been generous to her enemies, if they were enemies, in that she had refused to mention any names. Marjorie wondered if Muriel or Mignon would be equally generous in the same circumstances. She resolved to say nothing of what she had been privileged to hear. It was not hers to tell.

Suddenly she divined, rather than saw, Mignon's elfish eyes fixed upon her. "You met another girl, at noon, did you not, Miss Dean?" asked the French girl, with an almost sarcastic inflection.

"Yes; Miss Stevens," was the composed answer. "We share the same locker. She is a nice girl, too, and I like her very much, so, please, don't say anything against her," she ended, in half-smiling warning.

Mignon La Salle's face grew dark. She recognized the challenging note in the new girl's tone. Muriel, too, frowned. Susan Atwell sidled up to Mignon, Irma Linton looked distressed and Geraldine Macy calmly curious as to what would come next. It came in the way of a small tempest, for the French girl lost her temper over Marjorie's retort.

She stamped her foot in childish rage, saying vehemently: "She is a nobody, that Stevens person, and her family are vagabonds. You will make a great mistake if you choose her for your friend." Then, her rage receding as suddenly as it had come, she shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly. "Pardonnez moi." She bowed to Marjorie. "I spoke too strongly. It is not for me to choose Miss Dean's friends." Slipping her arm through Muriel's, she drew her ahead of the others. Susan Atwell took a hurried step forward and caught her other arm, leaving Marjorie to walk between Irma and Geraldine.

"Don't mind her," said Jerry, in a low voice. "She has it in for that Miss Stevens. She, the Stevens girl, did something, no one knows what, to make Mignon angry with her. Mignon says Miss Stevens talked about her and Muriel and Susan believed it, but Irma and I are not so silly."

Two blocks further on Marjorie bade good-bye to the five girls. She said it without enthusiasm. Their carping, quarrelsome attitude had taken all the pleasure from knowing them. She made mental exception in favor of Irma and Jerry. The gentleness of the one and the sturdy, outspoken manner of the other had impressed her favorably. But she was sorely disappointed in Muriel.

Should she tell her mother of the disagreeable ending of her first day? She decided not to do so. She would carry nothing save pleasant tales to her captain to-day. And so that night, when she entered the living-room and found her mother, in a becoming negligee, occupying the wide leather couch by the window, she saluted, like a dutiful soldier, and included in her report only the pleasant happenings of her first, never-to-be-forgotten day in Sanford High School.



Chapter VIII

Standing By Her Colors


When Marjorie took her seat in the study hall the next morning, Muriel's greeting was as affable as it had been before the disagreement of the previous afternoon. She even went so far as to whisper, "Don't take Mignon too seriously. She is really dreadfully hurt over the unkind things Miss Stevens has said of her."

Marjorie listened in polite silence to the Picture Girl's rather lame apology in behalf of her friend. She could think of nothing to say. Muriel had turned about in her seat, her eyes fixed expectantly upon the other girl. But just then came an unexpected interruption.

"Miss Dean," shrilled Miss Merton's high, querulous voice, "who gave you permission to leave school before the regular hour of dismissal yesterday afternoon?"

"I did not --  -- " began the astonished girl.

"Young woman, do you mean to contradict me?" thundered Miss Merton.

Marjorie had now risen to her feet. Her pretty face had turned very white, her brown eyes gleamed like two angry flames. "I had no intention of contradicting you, Miss Merton." Her low, steady tones were full of repressed indignation. "What I had begun to say was that I did not know I was expected to return to the study hall after my last class. In the high school which I attended in B --  --  we went from our last class to our locker rooms. It is, of course, my fault. I should have inquired about it beforehand." The freshman quietly resumed her seat.

Every pair of eyes in the room was turned upon Marjorie.

Miss Merton, however, had no intention of letting her off so easily. "The rules and regulations of another high school do not, in the least, interest me, Miss Dean," she said, with biting sarcasm. "It is my business to see that the rules of Sanford High School are enforced, and I propose to do it. You have been a pupil in this school for only one day, yet I have been obliged to reprimand you on two different occasions. If you annoy me further I shall consider myself fully justified in sending you to Miss Archer."

The ringing of the first recitation bell put an end to the little scene. Marjorie rose from her seat and marched from the study hall, her head held high. If Miss Merton expected her to break down and cry she would find herself sadly mistaken. Muriel overtook her in the corridor. "My, but Miss Merton hates you!" she commented cheerfully, as though enjoying her classmate's discomfiture.

Marjorie made no reply. Her proud spirit was too deeply crushed for words. She went through her recitation in English that morning like one in a dream. Several times during her French hour she gazed appealingly at Constance, but the Mary girl kept her fair head turned resolutely away. She did not appear at her locker either at noon or after school was over, although Marjorie lingered, in the hope that she would come.

So successfully did she manage to steer clear of Marjorie, who was too proud to make advances in the face of Constance's marked avoidance, that, when Friday came and the afternoon session was over, Marjorie was escorted to the gymnasium by the Picture Girl and her friends, who, even to Mignon, believed that the newcomer had been wise and taken their brusque advice.

At least half of the freshman class had elected to try for a place on the team. Miss Randall, the instructor in gymnastics, and several seniors had been chosen to pick the team, and when the six girls arrived on the scene the testing had begun. Mignon La Salle was the first of their group to play. Her almost marvelous agility, her quick, catlike springs and her fleetness of foot called forth unstinted praise from Marjorie. Muriel, too, played a skilful game; so did Susan Atwell. When Marjorie was called upon to play left guard on a team composed of the last lot of aspirants for basketball honors, she advanced to her position rather nervously. Muriel, Mignon, Susan Atwell and two freshmen, whom she did not know, were to oppose her. She wondered if she could play fast enough to keep up with her clever opponents. Then, as she caught the French girl's elfish eyes fixed upon her, mocking incredulity in their depths, she rallied her doubting spirit and resolved to outplay even Mignon.

Fifteen minutes later Marjorie Dean had been chosen to play left guard on a team of which Mignon was center, Muriel, right guard, Susan Atwell, right forward, and a freshman named Harriet Delaney, left forward. Muriel had also been made captain, and several girls were chosen as substitutes.

"Hurrah for the new team!" cried Muriel Harding. "Let's call ourselves the Invincibles. You certainly can play basketball, Miss Dean. How lucky in you to come to Sanford just when we need you. By the way, 'Miss Dean' is too formal. Please let us call you Marjorie. You can call us by our first names. What's the use of so much formality among team-mates?"

Being merely a very human young girl, Marjorie could not help feeling a little bit pleased with herself. She was glad she had played so well. She felt that she had really begun to like her new associates very much. Even Mignon must have her good points; and how wonderfully well she played basketball! Perhaps Constance Stevens had been just a little bit at fault. Certainly she had acted very queerly after that first day when they had pledged their friendship. Had she, Marjorie, been wise to avow unswerving loyalty to a stranger, and all because she looked like Mary Raymond? Marjorie's disquieting reflections were interrupted by something the French girl was saying.

"It was too funny for anything, wasn't it, Muriel?" Mignon laughed with gleeful malice.

"Yes," nodded Muriel. "We gave the sophomores a bad scare."

"What did you do?" asked Irma Linton, curiously.

Seeing that she had the attention of her audience, the French girl began.

"You remember the practice game we played against the sophomores last week? According to my way of thinking, the sophomores played a very rough game. I complained to Miss Seymour, their captain. She laughed at me," Mignon scowled at the remembrance, "so I decided to teach her a lesson."

"I told Muriel about it, and between us we made up a dialogue. It was all about the sophomores' unfair playing, and how surprised they would be when they found themselves forbidden to play basketball. Then we managed to walk out of school behind two girls that always tell everything they know, and recited our dialogue. The next morning Muriel saw one of the girls talking to Miss Seymour for all she was worth, so we know that she faithfully repeated everything she heard. Miss Seymour wouldn't dare go to Miss Archer with it for fear Miss Archer would ask too many questions. You know Miss Archer said last year when Inez Chester made such a fuss about her sprained wrist that if ever again one team reported another for rough playing she would disband the accused team and have Miss Randall select a new one. So I imagine we gave our friends the sophs something to think about."

"But who told you the sophomores would be forbidden to play?" demanded candid Jerry.

"No one told us, silly," retorted Muriel, her color rising. "We simply said they would be surprised when they found themselves forbidden to play. 'When' may mean next week or next month, or next year or century, or any other time. We were only talking for their general edification."

"Then nobody actually said a word about it?" persisted Jerry. "You just made up all that stuff?"

"It didn't do any hurt," began Muriel. "We thought --  -- "

"Don't be such a prig, Jerry," put in Mignon, impatiently. "It isn't half so wicked to play a joke on those stupid sophomores as it is to ask one's mother for money for a fountain pen, and then use the money for candy and ice cream."

There was a chorus of giggles from the girls, in which Jerry did not join. She was eyeing Mignon steadily. "See here, Mignon," she said with offended dignity. "I just want you to know that I told my mother about that money that very same night. I may have my faults, but I certainly don't tell things that aren't true." Jerry punctuated this pertinent speech with emphatic nods of her head, and, having said her say, walked on a little ahead of her friends, the picture of belligerence.

"Now, you've made Jerry angry, Mignon," laughed Susan Atwell.

Mignon merely lifted her thin shoulders. "I can't please every one. If I did, I should never please myself."

"I don't know what ails Jerry all of a sudden," commented Muriel to Marjorie. "She isn't usually so -- so funny."

Again Marjorie kept her own counsel. She, alone, knew that the object of the rumor which Muriel and Mignon had started had failed. Ellen Seymour had gone frankly to headquarters with it, and Miss Archer had asked no questions. Marjorie wondered what these girls would say if they knew the truth. She did not like to criticize them, but were they truly honorable? For a moment she wished she had refused to play on the team with them. Muriel and Mignon, in particular, seemed so careless of other people's feelings.

Her sympathies were with Jerry, and quickening her pace she slipped her arm through that of the fat girl, saying, "Don't you think to-morrow's algebra lesson is hard?"

Jerry viewed her companion's smiling face rather sulkily. Then succumbing to the other's charm, she said in a mollified tone: "Of course it's hard. They're all hard. I know I shall never pass in algebra."

"Oh, yes, you will," was Marjorie's cheerful assurance. "It's my hardest study, too; but I'm going to pass my final examination in it. I've simply made up my mind that I must do it."

"Then I'll make up my mind to pass, too," announced Jerry, inspired by Marjorie's determined tones. "And, say, it would be splendid if we could do our lessons together sometimes. My mother likes me to bring my school friends home."

"So does mine," returned Marjorie, cordially. "She says home is the place for me to entertain my schoolmates. I hope you will come to see me soon. It's your turn first, you know. Oh, please pardon me a moment, I must speak to this girl!" The cause of this sudden exclamation was a young woman in a well-worn blue suit who was coming across the street directly ahead of them.

"Oh, Constance!" hailed Marjorie, "I have been looking for you. Stop a minute!" Marjorie stood waiting for her friend with eager face and outstretched hand. By this time the four other girls had come abreast of the trio and had passed them, Irma Linton being the only one of them who bowed to Constance. Jerry stood beside Marjorie for an instant, then walked on and overtook her chums.

"Please don't stop," begged Constance, her face expressing the liveliest worry. "Really, you mustn't try to be friends with me. I wish to take back my part of our compact. You've been chosen to play on the team, and those girls seem to like you. I can't stand in your way, and my friendship won't be worth anything to you, so just let's forget all we said the other day."

Marjorie stared hard at the other girl, the pathetic droop of whose lips looked for all the world like Mary's when things went wrong. "You don't mean that, and I won't give you up," she said with fine stubbornness. "I haven't time to talk about it now. I must catch up with those girls. Wait for me at our locker to-morrow noon, please, please."

With a hasty squeeze of Constance's hand, Marjorie raced on up the street to overtake her companions. They were so busily engaged in discussing her, however, that they did not hear her approach, and consequently did not lower their voices.

"I will not speak to her; I will not play with her on the team!" she heard Mignon La Salle sputter angrily.

"We certainly don't care to bother with her if she's going to take up with all sorts of low people." This loftily from Muriel, who was afraid to cross the French girl.

"My mother told me never to speak to any of those crazy Stevens persons," added Susan Atwell, with a toss of her curly head. "I don't care so very much for this Dean girl, either."

"Oh, you make me tired, the whole lot of you," cried Jerry, with angry contempt. "Marjorie Dean is nicer than all of you put together, and if she likes that little white-faced Stevens girl, then the girl is all right, even if her family were ragpickers. I'm ashamed of myself for being so silly as to listen to any of Mignon's complaints against her. You can do as you like, but if it's a case of being your friend or Marjorie's, then I guess I'd rather be hers."

"Thank you, Geraldine." Marjorie's quiet voice caused the party to turn, then exchange sheepish glances. "I don't wish you to quarrel over me," she went on. "I should like to be friends with all of you, but none of you can choose my friends for me any more than I can choose yours for you."

"You can't chum with us and be the friend of that Miss Stevens," muttered Mignon. "She is my enemy. Do you understand?"

"I am sorry to hear that," returned Marjorie, keeping her temper with difficulty, "but she is not mine. I like her. I shall stand up for her and be her friend as long as we go to Sanford High School. I am sorry to seem disagreeable, but I shouldn't feel the least bit true to myself if I were afraid to say what I think. This is my street. Good-bye."

Marjorie walked proudly away from the group. An instant and she heard the patter of running feet behind her.

"You can't get rid of us so easily," panted Geraldine Macy.

"I think you are right, Marjorie," said Irma Linton, quietly, putting out her hand. "I should like to be your friend."

And the dividing of the sextette of girls was the dividing of the freshman class of Sanford High School.



Chapter IX

A Bitter Moment


Marjorie went soberly up the steps of her home that afternoon. Her pleasure in making the team had been short-lived. She wondered if it would not be better to write her resignation. How could she bear to play on a team when three of the members had decided to drop her acquaintance? Still, they had not chosen her to play on the team; why, then, should she resign? She decided to consult her captain on the subject; then changed her mind. She would not trouble her mother with such petty grievances. This prejudice against Constance Stevens had originated wholly with Mignon La Salle. Perhaps the French girl would soon forget it, and it would die a natural death. Marjorie was not mortally hurt over the turn of the afternoon's affairs. She had not been so deeply impressed with the importance of Mignon and her friends that she failed to see their snobbish tendencies. She made mental exception of Jerry and Irma. She was secretly glad that they had declared for her. She liked Jerry's blunt independence and Irma's gentle, lovable personality. With the optimism of sixteen, she declined to worry over what had happened, and her report to her captain at the end of that troubled afternoon included only the pleasant events of the day.

When she went to school the next Monday morning she discovered that it did hurt, just a trifle, to be deliberately cut by the Picture Girl, and, instead of being greeted with Susan Atwell's dimpled smile, to receive an icy stare from that young woman, as, later in the morning, they passed each other in the corridor.

In some mysterious manner the story of the disagreement had been noised about the freshman class, with the result that Marjorie's acquaintance was eagerly sought by a number of freshmen whom she knew merely by sight, and that several girls, who had made it a point to smile and nod to her, now passed her, frigid and unsmiling.

As for the members of the little group Marjorie had watched so earnestly before she had been enrolled as a freshman at Sanford, they were now divided indeed. As the week progressed the "Terrible Trio," as Jerry had satirically named Mignon, Muriel and Susan, endeavored to make plain to whoever would listen to them that there was but one side to the story, namely, their side. Emulating Marjorie's example, Jerry and Irma had taken particular pains to be friendly with Constance Stevens. After an eloquent dissertation on friendship, delivered by Marjorie at their locker on the Monday morning following her disagreement with the other girls, Constance had shed a few happy tears and admitted that she had rather be "best friends" with Marjorie than anyone else in the world.

The hardest part of it all for Marjorie was her basketball practice. It was dreadful to be on speaking terms with only one girl on the team, Harriet Delaney, and she was not overly cordial. Marjorie tried to remember that Miss Randall had appointed her to her position, that the right to play was hers; but the unfriendly players made her nervous, and she lost her usual snap and daring. The second week's practice came, and she resolved to play up to her usual form, but, try as she might, she fell far short of the promise she had shown at the tryout. She also noted uneasily that, no matter how early she reported for practice, the team seemed always to be in the gymnasium before her and that one of the substitutes invariably held her position.

The freshmen had challenged the sophomores to play against them on the first Saturday afternoon in November. It was now the latter part of October and both teams were utilizing as much of their spare time as possible in preparing for the fray.

"Are you going to practice this afternoon?" whispered Geraldine Macy to Marjorie as they left the algebra class on Monday morning.

Marjorie nodded.

"Oh, dear," grumbled Jerry under her breath. "I wanted to talk to you about the Hallowe'en party."

"What Hallowe'en party?" asked Marjorie, opening her eyes.

"Haven't you your invitation?" It was Jerry's turn to look surprised.

"I don't even know what you're talking about."

Their entrance into the study hall put an end to the conversation. It was renewed at noon, however, when Jerry, Irma, Marjorie and Constance trooped out of the school building together, a seemingly contented quartet.

"Just imagine, girls," announced Jerry, excitedly. "Marjorie doesn't know a thing about the Hallowe'en party. She hasn't her invitation either. I think that's awfully queer."

"I haven't mine, but I know all about it," put in Constance Stevens, quietly.

"Who has charge of the invitations?" asked Marjorie.

"Miss Arnold. You'd better see her about yours to-day. Of course you both want to go."

"But what is it and where is it held?" questioned Marjorie.

"It's a big dance. Weston High School, that's the boys' school, gives a party to Sanford High on every Hallowe'en night. It's a town institution and as unchangeable as any law the Medes and Persians ever thought of making," informed Jerry.

"Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I should like to know some nice Sanford boys, and I love to dance!"

"Then you ought to meet my brother Hal," declared Jerry, solemnly, "for he's the nicest, handsomest, best boy I know."

"Wait until you see the Crane," laughed Irma Linton. "He's the tallest boy in high school. He's six feet two inches now. They say he hasn't stopped growing, either, and he is awfully thin. That's why the boys call him the 'Crane.' He doesn't mind it a bit. His real name is Sherman Norwood, but no one ever calls him that except the teachers."

During the rest of the walk home the coming dance was the sole subject under discussion. Yes, the girls wore evening gowns, if they had them. Lots of girls wore their best summer dresses. The leading caterer of Sanford always had charge of the refreshments and the boys paid the bills. There was a real orchestra, too. Of course all the teachers were there, but the pokey ones went home early and the jolly ones, like Miss Flint and Miss Atkins, stayed until the last dance.

There were countless other questions to ask, but the luncheon hour was too short to admit of any lingering on the corner.

"I wish we had more time to talk," sighed Marjorie, reluctantly, as she came to her street. "I'd love to hear more about the dance."

"We'll tell you all there is to tell after school," promised Jerry. "Oh, no, we can't either. You'll have to go to that old basketball practice. What a nuisance it is. And to think you have to play on the team with Mignon, Muriel and Susan, after the way they've treated you. Why don't you resign?"

"I don't believe I'll play next term," said Marjorie, slowly, "but I feel as though I ought to stay on the team for the rest of this term. Our game with the sophomores is set for two weeks from to-morrow; then, I believe we are to play against two teams from nearby towns. It wouldn't be fair to leave the team now, after having practiced with it."

"I don't believe I'd bother my head much about that part of it," sniffed Jerry, "I'd just quit."

"No, you wouldn't, Geraldine Macy," laughed Irma. "You might grumble, but you wouldn't be so hateful."

"You don't know how hateful I can be," warned Jerry. "Some other girls are likely to find out, though."

"Good-bye. I must not stop here another second," declared Marjorie.

"Good-bye!" floated after her as she walked rapidly toward home.

"How goes it, Lieutenant?" asked her father, who, with her mother, was already seated at the table as she entered the dining-room.

"Pretty well, thank you, General," she replied, touching her hand to her curly head.

"I haven't heard you say a word about school for at least a week, my dear," commented her mother. "Has the novelty of Sanford High worn off so soon?"

"No, indeed, Captain," returned Marjorie, earnestly. "I'm finding out new things every day." She did not add that some of the "new things" had not been agreeable, nor did she volunteer any further information concerning her school. This touch of reticence on the part of her usually talkative daughter caused her mother to look at her searchingly and wonder if Marjorie had something on her mind which in due season would be brought to light. The subject of the dance returning to the young girl's thoughts, she began at once to talk of it, and her enthusiastic description of the coming affair served to allay her mother's vague impression that Marjorie was not quite happy, and she entered into the important discussion of what her daughter should wear with that unselfish interest belonging only to a mother.

When Marjorie returned to school that afternoon she felt happier than she had been since her advent into Sanford High School. The thought of the coming dance brought with it a delightful thrill of anticipation. She had always had such good times at the school dances given by her boy and her girl chums of B --  -- . She hoped she would enjoy this Hallowe'en frolic. She wondered if the "Terrible Trio" would be there. She smiled over Jerry's appropriate appellation, then frowned at herself for countenancing it. Good soldiers didn't indulge in personalities.

That afternoon she found it hard, however, to concentrate her thoughts on her studies, and when Miss Atkins asked her on what day the Pilgrim Fathers landed in America, she absent-mindedly replied "Hallowe'en," to the great joy of her class. During her physiology hour she managed to keep strictly to the subject; but she was impatient for the afternoon to pass so that she could go to Miss Arnold for her invitation.

Her eyes sparkled, however, when, on returning to the study hall, she saw lying on her desk a square white envelope addressed to her.

"Oh, here it is," she thought delightedly. "I'm so glad. I wonder if Constance has hers."

She tore open the end of the envelope with eager fingers and drew out a folded sheet of note paper. But the light died out of her face as she read:

"My dear Miss Dean:

"For some time the members of the freshman team have been dissatisfied with your playing, and have repeatedly urged me to allow Miss Thornton to play in your position on the team. Not wishing to seem unfair, Miss Randall and I watched your work at practice Wednesday afternoon and agreed that the requested change would be best. As manager of the freshmen team, their welfare must ever be my first consideration. I therefore feel no hesitation in asking you for your resignation from the team.

"Yours sincerely,

"Marcia Arnold."

A sigh of humiliation that was half a sob rose to Marjorie's lips. Her chin quivered ominously. Suddenly a dreadful thought flashed across her brain. Suppose Mignon and the others were watching her to see how she received the bad news. Marjorie's desire to cry left her. She leaned back in her seat and assumed an air of indifference far removed from her real state of mind. Then she calmly refolded the letter and placed it in its envelope with the impassivity of a young sphinx.

Later that afternoon, as Mignon La Salle strolled out of school between her two satellites, Susan and Muriel, she was heard to declare with disappointed peevishness that that priggish Miss Dean was either too stupid to resent or too thick-skinned to feel a plain out-and-out snub.



Chapter X

A Blue Gown And A Solemn Resolve


The next day in school was a particularly trying one for poor Marjorie. It was decidedly hard for the sore-hearted little freshman to believe that Miss Arnold's motive in asking her to resign from the team had been purely disinterested. She was reasonably sure that she had Mignon to blame for the humiliation. Jerry Macy had told her of Miss Arnold's respect for Mignon's father's money, and that Miss Archer's thin-lipped, austere-looking secretary was one of the French girl's most devoted followers.

The wave of dislike which had swept over Marjorie upon first beholding Marcia Arnold had, as the days passed, intensified rather than lessened. Jerry, too, could not endure the secretary. "I never could bear her," she had confided to Marjorie. "I'm glad she's a junior. I'll have two years of comfort after she's gone. I suppose she deserves a lot of credit for keeping up in her studies and earning money as a secretary at the same time, but I'd rather have a nice wriggly snake, or a cheerful crocodile for a friend if it comes to a choice."

Marjorie was equally certain that Miss Arnold did not like her. She had had occasion to ask the secretary several questions and the latter's manner of answering had been curt, almost to rudeness. The desired resignation was yet to be written. Marjorie had purposely delayed writing it until the last hour of the afternoon session. She wished to think before writing. It took her the greater part of the hour to compose it, although, when it was finally copied on a sheet of note paper she had brought to school for that purpose, it covered little more than one side of the sheet.

While she was addressing it for mailing, she suddenly remembered that she had not yet asked Miss Arnold for her Hallowe'en invitation. Should she hand the secretary her resignation instead of mailing it? She decided that the more dignified course would be to mail it. As to the invitation for the dance, she was entitled to it; therefore she was not afraid to demand it. She wondered if Constance had received hers, and, when her new friend returned from class, Marjorie managed to catch her eye and question her by means of a sign language known only to schoolgirls. A vigorous shake of Constance's fair head brought forth more signs, which, when school was dismissed, resulted in a determined march upon Miss Archer's office by the two friends, reinforced by Jerry and Irma, who had managed to join Marjorie and Constance in the corridor.

"That's just why we waited," announced Jerry, wagging her head emphatically when Marjorie explained her mission. "We wondered if she'd given them to you. You let me do the talking. She won't have a word to say when I'm through."

"Hush, Jerry!" cautioned Irma. "She'll hear you."

They were now entering Miss Archer's living-room office. Marcia Arnold, who was seated before her desk, intent on the book she held in her hand, raised her eyes and regarded the quartette with a displeased frown. Then she addressed them in peremptory tones.

"Please make less noise, girls. Your voices can be plainly heard in Miss Archer's office and she is too busy now to be disturbed." This last with a view to discouraging any attempt on their part to see the principal.

"We didn't come to see Miss Archer," was Geraldine Macy's calm retort. "We came to see you about Miss Dean's and Miss Stevens' invitations for the dance. They haven't received them."

"I know nothing whatever about them," snapped Miss Arnold, picking up her book as a sign of dismissal.

"You ought to know. The invitations were given to you by the boys' committee," was Jerry's pertinent reminder. "You sent them the list of names, didn't you? Perhaps you accidentally left out these two names."

This was a malicious afterthought on Jerry's part, but it had a potent effect on Marcia Arnold. A tide of red rose to her sallow face. For a second her eyes wavered from the four pairs searchingly upon her. Then she answered with elaborate carelessness: "It is just possible that these two names have been omitted. I will go over my list and see."

"Yes, do," advised Jerry, laconically. Then she slyly added: "It seems funny, doesn't it, that when 'D' and 'S' are so far apart on the alphabetical list, they should both happen to be overlooked? If the girls don't receive their invitations by to-morrow night I'll speak to my brother about it. He's the president of the junior class, you know, and he'll take it up with the committee. Come on, girls."

The three young women obediently following her, Jerry marched from the room with the air of a conqueror. True to her prediction, Marcia Arnold had found nothing to say to the stout girl's parting shot.

"There really wasn't much use in our going. I'm afraid we weren't very brave. We shouldn't have stood like wooden images and let you fight our battles, Jerry. It was awfully dear in you, but I do hope Miss Arnold won't think Constance and I are babies," demurred Marjorie.

"What do you care what she thinks as long as she hunts up your invitations?" asked Jerry, with superb contempt. "What she thinks will never hurt either of you."

The belated invitations were delivered to the two freshmen by Miss Arnold herself the next day, greatly to Jerry's satisfaction.

"I saw her give them to you, girls," she whispered to Marjorie on the way to the English class. "She looked mad as a hatter, too. She thought she'd hold back your invitations until the last minute; then maybe you would get mad and not go to the dance."

"But why should she wish to keep us from going?" asked Marjorie, wonderingly.

"Ask Mignon," was Jerry's enigmatical answer. "Very likely she knows more about it than anyone else."

Marjorie found no chance for conversation with Constance until they met in French class. Even then she had only time to say, "Be sure to wait for me this noon," before Professor Fontaine called his class to order and attacked the advance lesson with his usual Latin ardor.

Constance was first at their locker. She had already put on her own hat and coat and was holding Marjorie's for her, when her friend arrived.

"What are you going to wear, Constance?" asked Marjorie, as she put on her coat and hat.

"I'm not going," was the brief answer.

"Not going!" Marjorie stared hard at her friend. Was Constance hurt because she had not received her invitation? Then she went on, eagerly apologetic: "It wasn't the Weston boys' fault that we didn't get our invitations when the others received theirs. They didn't intend to leave us out, even though they only knew our names."

"It's not that." Constance's voice trembled a little. "I -- I -- well, I haven't a dress fit to wear!" Her pale cheeks grew pink with shame as she burst forth with this confession of poverty. "This blue suit and three house dresses are all the clothes I have in the world. Don't say you feel sorry for me. I shall hate you if you do. I sha'n't always be poor. Some day," her eyes grew dreamy, "I'll have all sorts of lovely clothes. When I am a --  -- " She stopped abruptly, then said in her usual half-sullen tones, "I can't go, so don't ask me."

Marjorie looked curiously at this strange girl. The longer she knew Constance the better she liked her, but she did not in the least understand her. Suddenly a bright idea popped into her head. "I'm so sorry you can't go to the dance," she commented, then promptly dropped the subject. When she left Constance, however, she remarked innocently: "Don't forget, you are coming home with me to-night. Don't say you can't. You promised, you know."

"I will come," promised Constance, brightening. "Good-bye."

The moment Marjorie reached home she made a dash for her room and going to her closet, emerged a moment afterward with an immense white pasteboard box in her arms. Stopping only long enough to drop her wraps on her bed she ran downstairs and burst into the dining-room with: "I have found her, Mother. I've found the girl this was made for."

"What is all this commotion about, Lieutenant?" asked her father, teasingly. "Are we about to be attacked by the enemy? Salute your superior officers and then state your case. Discipline must be preserved at all costs in the army. Is it a requisition for new uniforms? You soldiers are dreadfully hard on your clothes. Or is the post about to move and is that a packing case?"

Marjorie made a most unsoldierlike rush for him and, throwing her arms about his neck, kissed his cheek. "You are a great big tease, and I choose to salute you this way." Then she kissed her mother, saying: "I've the loveliest plan, Captain. I'm sure that this dress will fit Constance. She says she won't go to the school dance because she has no pretty gown to wear. May I give her this darling blue one?" She opened the box and drew forth a dainty frock of pale blue chiffon over silk. The chiffon was caught up here and there with tiny clusters of pinky-white rosebuds. The round neck was just low enough to show to advantage a white girlish throat, while the soft, fluffy sleeves reached barely to the elbows. It was a particularly beautiful and appropriate frock for a young girl.

"You see, General," explained Marjorie, "Aunt Mary sent this to me when I graduated from grammar school. She hadn't seen me for two years and didn't know I had grown so fast. She bought it ready made in one of the New York stores. It was too short and too tight for me and to make it over meant simply to spoil it. It was so sweet in her to send it that when I wrote my thank you to her I couldn't bear to tell her that it didn't fit, so I kept it just to look at. I didn't really need it, for, thanks to you and mother, I have plenty of others. Don't you think I ought to make someone else happy when I have the chance? It is right to share one's spoils with a comrade, isn't it?"

Her father looked lovingly at the pretty, earnest face of his daughter as she stood holding up the filmy gown, her eyes bright with unselfish purpose. "I am very glad my little girl is so thoughtful of others," he said. "Whatever your captain says is law. How about it, Captain?" His wife and he exchanged glances.

"You may give your friend the dress if you like, dear," consented Mrs. Dean, "if you think she will accept it."

"That's just the point, Captain," returned Marjorie. "You know you said I could bring Constance home for dinner to-night, and she is coming. Perhaps we can think of some nice way to give it to her while she is here."

Marjorie carefully replaced the gown in its box and ran upstairs with it. She returned with her hat and coat on her arm, and hanging them on the hall rack hastened to eat her luncheon.

All afternoon she puzzled as to how she might best offer Constance the gown. When the four girls strolled homeward together after school she had still not thought of a way. Jerry and Irma held forth, at length, with true schoolgirl eloquence, upon the subject of their gowns. Constance listened gravely without comment. Her small, impassive face showed no sign of her hopeless longing for the pretty things she had never possessed.

Once inside the Dean's pleasant home, a flash of appreciation routed her impassivity as Marjorie conducted her into the comfortable living-room where Mrs. Dean sat reading, and her face softened under the spell of the older woman's gentle greeting.

"I am pleased to know you, Constance," said Mrs. Dean, offering her hand. "I have been expecting you for some time. Now that I have seen you I will say that you do look very much like Marjorie's friend Mary." She did not add that this girl's face lacked the good-natured, happy expression that so perfectly matched Mary Raymond's sunny curls. Yet she noted that the blue eyes met hers openly and frankly, and that there was an undeniable air of sincerity and truth about Constance which caused one instinctively to trust her.

To the formerly friendless girl who had never before been invited to the home of a Sanford girl, the evening passed like a dream. Under the genial atmosphere of the Dean household, her reserve melted and before dinner was over she had forgotten all about herself and was laughing merrily with Marjorie over Mr. Dean's nonsense. After dinner Mrs. Dean played on the piano and Constance, who knew how to dance was initiated into the mysteries of several new steps which were favorites of the Franklin girls, and later the two girls spent a happy hour in Marjorie's room with her books, of which she had a large collection.

"Oh, dear," sighed Constance, as she glanced at the clock on the chiffonier. "It is ten o'clock. I must go."

"Wait a few minutes," requested Marjorie. "I have something to show you, but I must see mother for a minute first. Please excuse me. I'll be back directly."

"Mother," Marjorie hurried into the living-room. "Have you thought of a way? Constance is going home, and it's now or never."

"Suppose you give it to her by yourself," suggested her mother. "I am afraid my presence will embarrass her and then she will surely refuse."

Marjorie stood eyeing her mother uncertainly. Then she laughed. "I know the easiest way in the world," she declared, and was gone.

When she entered the room Constance was kneeling interestedly before the book-shelves. "You have the 'Jungle Books,' haven't you? Don't you love them?"

"Yes," laughed Marjorie. "Mary and I read them together. I always called myself 'Bagheera' the black panther, and she always called herself 'Mogli, the man-cub.' We used to write notes to each other sometimes in the language of the jungle."

"How funny," smiled Constance. Her gaze intent upon the books, she did not notice that Marjorie had stepped to her closet, returning to her bed with a cloud of pink over her arm. Next she opened a big box and laid a cloud of blue beside the one of pink. "Constance, come here a minute," she said.

Constance sprang up obediently. Her glance fell upon the bed and she gave a little startled, admiring "Oh!"

Marjorie linked her arm in that of her friend and drew her up to the bed. "This gown," she pointed to the pink one, "is mine, and this one," she withdrew her arm, and lifting the blue cloud held it out to Constance, "is yours."

The Mary girl drew back sharply. "I don't know what you mean," she muttered. "Please don't make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you. It's your very own, and after I tell you all about it you'll see just why it happens to be yours."

Seated on the edge of the bed beside Marjorie, the wonderful blue gown on her lap, the girl who had never owned a party dress before heard the story of how it happened to be hers. At first she steadily refused its acceptance, but in the end wily Marjorie persuaded her to "just try it on," and when she saw herself, for the first time in her poverty-stricken young life, wearing a real evening gown that glimpsed her unusually white neck and arms she wavered. So intent was she upon examining her reflection that she did not notice Marjorie had slipped from the room, returning with a pair of blue silk stockings and satin slippers to match. "These go with it," she announced.

"Oh -- I -- can't," faltered Constance, making a move toward unhooking the frock.

"Of course you can." Marjorie deposited the stockings and slippers on the foot of her bed and going over to Constance put both arms around her. "You are going to have this dress because mother and I want you to. I can't possibly wear it myself, and it's a shame to lay it away in the closet until it is all out of style. Please, please take it. You simply must, for I won't go to the dance unless you do, and you know how dreadfully I should hate to miss it. I mean what I say, too."

"I'll take it," said Constance, slowly.

Suddenly she slipped from Marjorie's encircling arm and leaned against the chiffonier, covering her face with her hands.

"Constance!" Marjorie cried out in surprise. "You mustn't cry."

"I -- can't -- help -- it." The words came brokenly. "Ever since I was little I've dreamed about a blue dress like this. You -- are -- too -- good -- to -- me. Nobody -- was -- ever -- good to me before."

It was a quarter to eleven o'clock before Constance, her tears dried, her face beaming with a new expression of happiness, left the Deans' house, accompanied by Mr. Dean, who had come in shortly before ten o'clock and insisted on seeing her safely home.

Later, as she prepared for bed in her bare little room she could not help wondering why Marjorie had desired her for a best friend, and had clung to her in spite of the displeasure of certain other girls. She wondered, too, if there were any way in which she might show Marjorie her affection and gratitude, and she made a solemn resolve that if that time came she would prove herself worthy of Marjorie Dean's friendship.



Chapter XI

The Hallowe'en Dance


Saturday dawned as inauspiciously as any other day in the week, but to the high school boys and girls of the little city of Sanford it was a day set apart. Aside from commencement, the great event of their high school year was about to take place.

As early as eight o'clock that morning the decorating committee of Weston High School was up and laboring manfully at the task of turning Weston's big gymnasium into a veritable bower of beauty, which should, in due season, draw forth plenty of admiring "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" from their gentle guests. For three days the committee had been borrowing, with lavish promises of safe return, as many cushions, draperies, chairs, divans and various other articles calculated to fitly adorn the ballroom, as their families and friends confidingly allowed them to carry off.

Their progress along this line had been painstakingly watched by numerous pairs of sharp, young eyes, and the report had gone forth among the girls that this particular Hallowe'en party was going to be "the nicest dance the boys had ever given."

To Marjorie Dean, however, the event promised more than the usual interest. It was to be her first opportunity of entering into the social life of the boys and girls of Sanford. In B --  --  she had numbered many stanch friends among the young men of Lafayette High School, but she had lived in Sanford for, what seemed to her, a very long time and had not met a single Weston boy. Jerry had promised to introduce Marjorie to her brother and to the tall, fair-haired youth known as the Crane, but so far the young people had not been thrown together. Marjorie had no silly, sentimental ideas in her curly brown head about boys. From early childhood she had been allowed to play with them. She was fond of their games and had always evinced far more interest in marbles, tops and even baseball than she had in dolls. Still, at sixteen, she was not a hoyden nor a tomboy, but a merry, light-hearted girl with a strong, healthy body and a feeling of comradeship toward boys in general which was to carry her far in her later life.

At the time she had given Constance the blue gown she had also gained her friend's rather reluctant consent to come to dinner at the Deans' on the great night and dress with her for the dance. Marjorie attributed Constance's hesitation to shyness. Always reticent regarding her home life, Constance, aside from her one outburst relating to her family on the day when she had advised Marjorie against her friendship, had said little or nothing further of her home. So Marjorie did not know that it was not a matter of shyness, but rather a question of who would keep house and get the supper while she was out enjoying herself, that caused Constance to demur before accepting the invitation. Then she remembered that Hallowe'en came on Saturday and decided that she could manage after all.

The momentous Saturday dawned clear and cold, with just the suspicion of a fall tang to the air. It was a busy day for the Weston boys, and when at four o'clock the last garland of green had been twined about the gymnasium posts and the gallery railing, while the last flag had been painstakingly hung at the proper angle, the dozen or more of young men who formed the decorating committee viewed their work with boyish pride.

"It looks bully," shouted an enthusiastic freshman, with a sweep of his arm which was intended to include the whole room. "If the girls aren't suited with this, they won't be invited over here again in a hurry."

"Hear him rave!" sadly commented a sophomore. "It takes a freshman to fall all over himself."

"That's because we are young and have more enthusiasm," retorted the freshman, his freckled face alive with an impish grin.

"Desist from your squabbles And join in the waltz,"

caroled an extremely tall, thin youth, pirouetting on his toes, and waving a long trail of ground pine about his head in true première danseuse fashion.

There was a shout of laughter from the boys at this burst of terpsichorean art. The tall youth pranced and whirled the length of the gymnasium and back, ending his performance with a swift, high kick and a bow that bade fair to dislocate his spine.

"Did I hear someone laugh?" he asked severely, drawing down his face with such an indescribably funny expression that the laughter broke forth afresh. "It is evident that you don't appreciate my rare ability as a dancer."

"You mean as a grasshopper," jeered the freckle-faced youth.

"Exactly. No, I don't either. How dare you insult me?" He made a lengthy lunge toward the freshman, who promptly dodged behind a tall, good-looking young man who had at that moment joined the group.

The lunging youth brought up short with, "Hello, Hal, I thought you had gone."

"So I had. Got halfway home and found I'd left my pocketknife here. Maybe I didn't hotfoot it back though. Hope the girls will like the looks of things." He cast approving eyes about the transformed gymnasium. "Jerry's been raving to me ever since school began about her new friend, Marjorie Dean. Have you met her? I understand she is coming to-night."

"Not I, I can't tell one of those girls from another," grumbled the Crane. "You know just how much I like girls. I don't mind helping get ready for this business, but I'd rather take a licking than come back here to-night. You'll see me vanishing around the corner and out of here at the very first chance. Girls are an awful nuisance anyway."

"Nothing like true chivalry," murmured the freckle-faced freshman. An instant later he was sprinting down the gymnasium as fast as his short legs could carry him, the Crane in hot pursuit.

"Cut it out, fellows," laughed Harold Macy. "You'll upset something or other, and then, look out."

"If we do it will be the Crane's fault," came plaintively from the freckle-faced freshman, as he dodged his pursuer with an agility born of long practice. "I don't see why he wants to chase me. I merely made a simple remark."

"Now that you've owned up to its being simple I'll let you off this time," declared the Crane, magnanimously, "but see that it doesn't happen again."

"I will," was the glib promise. "I'm sorry I said you were a grasshopper. You look more like a giraffe."

Then he made a hurried exit through a nearby side door, leaving the Crane to vow dire vengeance the next time he ventured within reach.

A little further loitering and the group of boys broke up, and, leaving the gymnasium, went home to get ready for the evening's fun and be back in good season to help receive their guests.

There were two guests, however, who dressed for the party with entirely different emotions. To Constance it was the most wonderful night of her life. She stole frequent, half-startled glances at her blue satin-shod feet and even pinched a fold of her chiffon gown between her fingers to feel if it were real. Mrs. Dean had arranged the girl's fair curling hair in precisely the same fashion that Mary Raymond wore hers, and when she had been hooked into the precious gown, with its exquisite little sprays of rosebuds, she thought she knew just how poor, lowly Cinderella felt when the fairy godmother touched her with her wand. While she was being dressed she said little, yet Marjorie and her mother knew by the happy light that crowded the wistful look quite out of her expressive eyes that their guest was too deeply appreciative for words.

Marjorie, who looked radiantly pretty in her frock of pink silk with its overdress of delicate pink net, welcomed the dance with all the enthusiasm of one who was heartily glad to get in touch with the social side of her school life. She had forgotten for the moment that certain girls in the freshman class had turned against her; that she was no longer a member of the freshman basketball team. She remembered only that it seemed ages since she had attended a party and she hoped fervently that someone would ask her to dance.

Jerry and Irma had arranged to call for Marjorie and Constance, as the quartette were to use the Macys' limousine. When the automobile stopped before the house, Jerry insisted on getting out and running into the house to see her friends' gowns. Irma followed her, a smile of good-natured tolerance on her placid face.

"Jerry couldn't wait to see your dresses," she said, then exclaimed in wonder: "How lovely you look, Constance, and what a perfectly sweet gown!"

Constance colored to the tips of her small ears. Jerry, too, began voicing loud approval, and when, after having stood in line and been inspected by Mrs. Dean, the four girls piled into the limousine, Constance was overcome with the peculiar sensation of experiencing too much happiness. She felt that it could not possibly last.

The gymnasium was fairly well filled when they entered and by half past eight o'clock the majority of the guests had arrived. Hardly had they deposited their scarfs in the dressing-room and administered last judicious pats to straying fluffy locks of hair when Jerry, who had disappeared the moment they reached the dressing-room, came hurrying back with the information that Hal was waiting outside to do the honors. "You'd better hurry out and console the Crane, Irma," she added slyly. "He looks about ten feet tall in his evening clothes and perfectly miserable."

Following in Jerry's wake Marjorie stepped into the gaily decorated room and the next instant was shaking hands with handsome Hal Macy, the most popular fellow in Weston High. As the brown eyes met the frank manly gaze of the gray, there passed between the two young people a vivid flash of liking and comradeship that was later to develop into a stanch and beautiful friendship.

"I am so glad to know you," said Marjorie, earnestly. "I am very fond of your sister."

"I am sure we shall be friends," declared Hal Macy. Involuntarily he put out his hand. Marjorie's hand met it, and thus began the friendship between Marjorie Dean and Hal Macy.



Chapter XII

On The Firing Line


Introductions followed thick and fast. More than one pair of boyish eyes had been centered approvingly on the girls that "Macy" was "rushing," and he was soon besieged with gentle reminders not to be stingy, but to give someone else a chance.

When the enlivening strains of a popular dance began, Hal Macy pointed significantly to his name on Marjorie's card. She nodded happily then glanced quickly about to see if Constance had a partner. Surely enough, she was just about to dance off with a rather tall, slender lad, whose dark, sensitive face, heavy-browed, black-lashed eyes of intense blue and straight-lipped, sensitive mouth caused her to say impulsively, "Oh, who is that nice-looking boy dancing with Constance?"

Hal glanced after the two graceful, gliding figures. "That's Lawrence Armitage. He's one of the best fellows in school and my chum. You ought to hear him play on the violin. He's going to Europe to study when he finishes high school."

"How interesting," commented Marjorie as they joined the dancers. Then, as Mignon La Salle, wearing an elaborate apricot satin frock, flashed by them on the arm of a rather stout boy, with a disagreeable face, Marjorie suddenly remembered the existence of Mignon, Muriel and Susan. Her eyes began an eager search for the Picture Girl. Muriel was sure to look pretty in evening dress. Mignon's frock made her look older, she decided. She soon spied Muriel, whose gown of white lace was vastly becoming. So was Susan Atwell's dress of old rose and silver. She wondered a trifle wickedly if they had not been surprised to see Constance blossom out in such brave attire. Then she put the thought aside as unworthy and determined to remember only the good time she was having.

After each dance the four friends managed to meet and compare notes before they were off again with their next partners, and as the party progressed it became noticeable that there were no wallflowers in that particular group.

"What do you think of that Stevens girl to-night, Mignon?" inquired Susan Atwell as she and the French girl stood together for a moment between dances.

Mignon's elfish eyes gleamed angrily. "I think such beggars as she ought never to be allowed to come to our parties. Goodness knows where she borrowed that dress. Perhaps she didn't borrow it." She raised her shoulders significantly. "If Laurie Armitage knew what a low, disreputable family she has, I don't think he'd waste his time with her."

"Did Laurie ask you to dance to-night?" asked Susan inquisitively.

But with a muttered, "I want to speak to Marcia," Mignon flounced off without answering Susan's question, and the latter confided to Muriel afterward that Mignon was mad as anything because Laurie hadn't noticed her, but was trailing about after Miss Nobody Stevens.

Completely unaware that she was adding to the French girl's list of grievances, Constance had danced to her heart's content, quite positive in her own mind that she had never met a more delightful boy than Lawrence Armitage, and that never before had she so greatly enjoyed herself. And now the wonderful party was almost over. She examined her card to see with whom she had the next dance. Then her glance straying down, she noticed that a bit of the tiny plaiting at the bottom of her chiffon skirt had become loose and was hanging. Fearful of a fall, she hurried toward the dressing-room. She would have the maid take a stitch or two in it.

But the maid was not in the room.

A solitary figure in an apricot gown stood before the mirror, lingered for a moment after Constance entered, then glided noiselessly out. Evincing no sign of having seen Mignon, Constance began a diligent hunt for a needle and thread. Failing to find them, she fastened the loose bit of plaiting with a pin and hurried out into the gymnasium. Her next dance was with Lawrence Armitage. She must not miss it.

To her surprise Mignon re-entered the dressing-room as she left it. Constance quickly made her way toward the corner which her friends had selected as their headquarters.

"I tore the plaiting of my dress," she said ruefully to Marjorie. "I couldn't find the maid or a needle, so I had to pin it. I'm awfully sorry. I don't know how it happened."

"That's nothing," returned Marjorie, cheerfully. "I have a great long tear in my sleeve. Someone caught hold of it in Paul Jones, and away it went. Don't look so guilty over a little thing like that."

"You don't --  -- " began Constance, but she never finished.

A tense little figure clad in apricot satin confronted her, crying out in tones too plainly audible to those standing near, "Where is my bracelet? What have you done with it?"

Constance stared at her accuser in stupefied amazement. Her friends, too, were for the moment speechless.

"Answer me!" commanded Mignon. "I left it on the table in the dressing-room. You were the only one in there at the time. When I remembered and came back for it you were just leaving, but the bracelet was gone. No one else except you could have taken it."

Still Constance continued to stare in horror at the French girl. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. Attracted by Mignon's shrill tones, the dancers began to gather about the two girls. It was Marjorie who came to her friend's defense.

Even as a wee girl Marjorie Dean had possessed a temper. It was not an ordinary temper. It was not easily aroused, but when once awakened it shook her small body with intense fury and the object of her rage was likely to remember her outburst forever after. Knowing it to be her greatest fault, she had striven diligently to conquer it and it burst forth only at rare intervals. To-night, however, the French girl's heartless denunciation of Constance during a moment of happiness was too monstrous to be borne. In a voice shaking with indignation she turned to those surrounding her and said, "Will you please go on dancing? I have something to say to Miss La Salle."

They scattered as if by magic, leaving Marjorie facing Mignon, her arm about Constance, her face a white mask, her eyes flaming with scorn. Then she began in low, even tones:

"I forbid you to say another word either to or about my friend Constance Stevens. She has not taken your bracelet. She knows nothing about it. I will answer for her as I would for myself. You have accused her of this because you wish to disgrace her in the eyes of her friends and schoolmates. I am not at all sure that you have lost it, but I am very sure that Miss Stevens hasn't seen it. And now I hope I shall never be called upon to speak to you again, for you are the cruelest, most contemptible girl I have ever known; but, if I hear anything further of this, I will take you to Miss Archer, to the Board of Education, if necessary, and make you retract every word. Come on, Constance."

With her arm still encircling the now weeping girl, Marjorie made her way to the dressing-room. Jerry followed her within the next five minutes.

"The car's here," she announced briefly. "Hal and Laurie and the Crane are going home with us."

"Don't you cry, Constance," she soothed, patting the curly, golden head. "Mignon made a goose of herself to-night. The boys are all disgusted, and everyone knows she was making a fuss over nothing. You did exactly right, too, Marjorie, when you sent us all about our business. I'm sorry it happened, but you remember what I tell you, Mignon has hurt herself a great deal more than she has hurt you."



Chapter XIII

A Pitched Battle


After the echoes of the dance had died away, basketball received a new impetus that brought it to the fore with a bound. With the renewed interest in the coming game was also noised about the report that "Miss Dean wasn't on the team any longer," and in some unknown fashion the news that she had been "asked" to resign had also gone the round of the study hall. The upper class girls were not particularly interested either in Marjorie or her affairs. She had not lived in Sanford long enough to become well-known to them, and as a rule the juniors and seniors left the bringing up of the freshmen to their sophomore sisters. The sophomores were too much absorbed in the progress of their own team to trouble themselves greatly over what was happening in the freshman organization. If Muriel or Mignon had resigned, then there would have been good cause for predicting an easy victory, for both girls were considered formidable opponents; but Marjorie was new material, untried and unproven.

It was in the freshman class, however, that comment ran rife. Since the night of the Weston dance the class had been almost equally divided. A little less than half the girls had either openly or by friendly smiles and nods declared in favor of Marjorie and her friends. The remaining members of the class, with a few neutral exceptions, were apparently devoted to the French girl and Muriel. Among their adherents they also counted Miss Merton, who took no pains to conceal her open dislike for Marjorie, and Marcia Arnold, who even went so far as to try to explain the situation to Miss Archer and was sternly reminded that the principal would take no part in the private differences of her girls unless they had something to do with breaking the rules of the school.

The days immediately preceding the game were not cheerful ones for Marjorie. She was still unhappy over her unjust dismissal from the team, and she wondered if it had been much talked of among her classmates. At home she had announced offhandedly her resignation from the team and her mother had asked no questions.

Mignon was greatly disturbed and displeased with the advent of Marjorie Dean into Sanford High School. Young as she was, she was very shrewd, and she at once foresaw in Marjorie's pretty face and attractive personality a rival power. To be sure, Marjorie's father was not so rich as her own, but it could not be denied that the Deans lived in a big house on Maple avenue, that Marjorie wore "perfectly lovely" clothes and had plenty of pocket money. In the beginning she had decided that it would be better to make friends with her, but Marjorie's sturdy defense of Constance and utter disregard for Mignon's significant warning had shown her plainly that she could not influence the other girl to do what she considered an unworthy act. Therefore, she had secretly determined to make matters as disagreeable as lay within her power for the two girls during her freshman year. Still she was obliged to admit to herself that her next move would have to be planned and carried out with more discretion.

And now it was the Friday before the much-heralded basketball game which was to be played between the sophomores and the freshmen, and the merits and shortcomings of the respective organizations were being eagerly discussed throughout the school. The game was to be called at half-past two o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and from all accounts there was to be no lack of spectators.

"I wouldn't for anything miss that game to-morrow!" exclaimed Jerry Macy, as she and Constance and Marjorie came down the steps of the school together. "I hope the freshmen get the worst whitewashing that any team in this school has ever had, too," she added, with a deliberate air of spite.

"You mustn't say that, Jerry," returned Marjorie, a faint color rising to her cheeks. "You must not let my grievances affect your loyalty to your class."

"Do you mean to say that you want that horrid Mignon La Salle and her crowd to win the game, and then go around crowing that it was all because they put you out of the team? You needn't look so as though you didn't believe me. You mark my word, if they win you'll find out that they'll do just as I say. Freshman or no freshman, I'd rather see that nice Ellen Seymour's team win any day."

"So would I," echoed Constance, her face darkening with the remembrance of her own wrongs at Mignon's hands.

Marjorie was silent for a moment. She knew that Jerry's outburst rose from pure devotion to her friends, and she could not blame Constance for her hostile spirit. Still, was it right to allow personal grudges to warp one's loyalty to one's class? If the record of their class read badly at the end of their freshman year, whose fault would it be? She had fought it all out with herself on the day she wrote her resignation, and had wisely determined, then, not to allow it to spoil her year.

"I know how you girls feel about this," she said slowly. "I felt the same way until after I had written my resignation. While I was writing I kept hoping that the team would lose and be sorry they had put someone else in my place. Then it just came to me all of a sudden that a good soldier wouldn't be a traitor to his country even if he were reduced in rank or had something happen unpleasant to him in his camp."

She stopped and looked embarrassed. She had forgotten that the girls could not possibly know what she meant. She had never told any one in Sanford High School about the pretty soldier play which she and Mary had carried on for so long. It was one of the little intimate details of her life which she preferred to keep to herself. Should she explain? Jerry's impatient retort made it unnecessary.

"The only traitor I know anything about is Mignon," she flung back, failing to grasp the significance of Marjorie's comparison.

Constance, however, had flashed a curious glance at her friend, saying nothing. When Geraldine had nodded good-bye at her street, and the two were alone, she asked: "What did you mean by comparing yourself to a soldier, Marjorie?"

Marjorie smiled.

"I think I'd better tell you all about it. I've never told anyone else."

"What a splendid game," mused Constance, half to herself, when Marjorie had finished. "Do you -- would you -- could I be a soldier, too, Marjorie? It would help me. You don't know. There are so many things."

The wistful appeal touched Marjorie.

"Of course you can," she assured. "You'd better come to my house to luncheon to-morrow. You can join the army then and go to the game with me."

"I'm not going to the game." The look of expectancy died out of Constance's face.

"You can't be a soldier if you balk at the first disagreeable thing that comes along," reminded Marjorie, slipping her arm through that of her friend. Constance walked a few steps in stolid silence. She could not make up her mind to watch the playing of the girls whom she felt she hated, even to please Marjorie. It was not until they were about to separate that Marjorie said quietly. "Shall I tell mother you are coming?" and Constance forced herself to reply shortly, "I'll come."

By half past one Saturday afternoon every seat in the large gallery surrounding the gymnasium was filled, and by a quarter to two every square foot of standing room was occupied by an enthusiastic audience largely composed of boys and girls of the two high schools. Marjorie's mother had after some little coaxing consented to come to the game with her daughter as her guest. She sat with Constance and Marjorie in the first row of the gallery, while beside her sat none other than Miss Archer, whom they had encountered on their way to the high school and who had invited them to take seats in the front row with her. She had already met Mrs. Dean at the church which both women attended and had conceived an instant liking for the pretty, gracious woman who looked little older than her daughter.

"Wasn't it nice of Miss Archer to ask us to sit here?" whispered Marjorie in her friend's ear. "We have mother to thank for it. She is so dear that no one can help liking her." Marjorie looked adoring admiration at her mother's clear-cut profile. "Do you suppose anyone will mistake us for faculty?"

Both girls giggled softly at such an improbability.

"I never went to a basketball game before," confessed Constance after a time. "What are those girls over there in the red paper hats and big red bows going to do?"

"Oh, that's the sophomore class. They lead their class in the songs. The green and purple girls are the freshman chorus."

"I didn't even know our class colors were green and purple."

"You didn't! Why, that's the reason you and I wore violets to the dance. Almost every freshman had them."

"Oh, look!" Constance's eyes were fixed upon a tiny purple figure that had just emerged from a side door in the gymnasium and was walking slowly across the big floor. Immediately afterward a door opened on the opposite side and a diminutive scarlet-clad boy flashed forth.

"They are the mascots," explained Marjorie, her gaze on the two children who advanced to the center of the room and gravely shook hands. Then the boy in red announced in a high, clear treble: "Ladies and gentlemen, the noble sophomores!"

The door swung wide and a band of lithe blue figures, bearing a huge letter "S" done in scarlet on the fronts of their blouses, pattered into the gymnasium, amid loud applause.

"The valiant freshmen!" piped the purple-clad youngster.

There was a rush of black-clad girls, with resplendent violet "F's" ornamenting their breasts, another volley of cheers from the audience, then a shrill blast from the referee's whistle rent the air, the teams dropped into their places, the umpire, time-keeper and scorer took their stations, and a tense silence settled over the audience.

The referee balanced the ball. Ellen Seymour and Mignon La Salle gathered themselves for the toss. Up it went. The two players leaped for it. The referee's whistle sounded again. The struggle for basketball honors began.

A jubilant shout swelled from the throats of the watching freshmen and their fans. Mignon had caught the ball. She sent it speeding toward Helen Thornton, who fumbled it, and losing her head, threw it away from, instead of to the basket. An audible sigh of disapproval came from the freshman contingent as they beheld the ball pass into the hands of the sophomores, who scored shortly afterward.

Now that the ball was in their hands the sophomores proceeded to show their friends and opponents a few things about playing. They had the advantage and they kept it. Try as the freshmen might, they could not score. The first unlucky error on the part of Helen Thornton had seemed to turn the tide against them. Toward the close of the first half they managed to score, but all too soon the whistle blew, with the score 8 to 2 in favor of the sophomores.

Their fans went wild with delight and their chorus sang or rather shouted gleefully their pet song, beginning,

"Hail the sophomores, gallant band! See how bold they take their stand!"

to the tune of "Hail Columbia," coming out noisily on the concluding lines,

"Firm and steadfast shall they be, Marching on to victory; As a band of players, they Shall be conquerors to-day."

The freshmen answered with their song, "The Freshmen's Brave Banner," but they did not sing as spiritedly as they had before the beginning of the game.

"I wonder what Jerry and Irma think," commented Marjorie. Their two chums had been detailed to sing in the freshman chorus, which accounted for their absence from the Dean party.

"Jerry looks awfully cross," returned Constance, scanning the opposite side of the gallery where Jerry was singing lustily, her straight, heavy brows drawn together in a savage scowl.

"There goes the whistle!" Marjorie leaned eagerly forward to see the freshman team come in from the side room which they were using. Her alert eyes noted that Muriel looked sulky, Mignon stormy, Susan Atwell belligerent, Harriet Delaney offended, and that Helen Thornton, the substitute who had replaced her, had been crying.

Marjorie felt a thrill of pity for the unfortunate substitute. It looked as though she had spent an unhappy quarter of an hour in the little side room.

The teams changed sides and hastened to their places. Again Mignon and Ellen faced each other. Then the whistle shrilled and the second half of the game was on.

From the beginning of the second half it looked as though the freshmen might retrieve their early losses. They worked with might and main and made no false moves. Slowly their score climbed to six. So far the sophomores had gained nothing. Then Ellen Seymour made a spectacular throw to the basket and brought her team up two points. With the realization that they were facing defeat the freshmen rallied and made a desperate effort to hold their own, bringing their count up to eight.

Two more points were gained and the score was tied, but the time was growing short. Helen Thornton had the ball and was plainly trying to elude the tantalizing sophomore who barred her way. She made a clumsy feint of throwing the ball. It slipped from her fingers and rolled along the floor. There was a mad scramble for it. Mignon and Ellen Seymour leaped forward simultaneously.

The crowd in the gallery was aroused to the height of excitement. Marjorie, breathless, leaned far over the gallery rail. She knew every detail of the dear old game. She saw Mignon's and Ellen's heads close together as they sprang; then she saw Mignon give a sly, vicious side lunge which threw Ellen almost off her feet. In the instant it took Ellen to recover herself the French girl had seized the ball and was off with it. Eluding her pursuers, she balanced herself on her toes, and threw her prize toward the freshman basket. But it never reached there. A long blue figure shot straight up into the air. Elizabeth Corey, a girl whose sensational plays had made her a lion during her freshman year, had intercepted the flying ball. She sent it spinning through the air toward the sophomore nearest their basket, whose willing hands received it and threw it home.

Mignon's trickery had availed her little. The sophomores had won.



Chapter XIV

What Happened On Blue Monday


For the next ten minutes the air was rent with the lusty voices of the sophomore chorus and the joyous cheers of their fans. No echoing song arose from freshman lips. The vanquished team had already betaken themselves to their quarters, but the sophomore players were holding an impromptu reception on the ground they had so hotly contested.

Marjorie and Constance watched them eagerly.

"Go downstairs, girls, and join the hero worshipers," smiled Miss Archer. "We will excuse you, won't we, Mrs. Dean?"

"Yes; after the fervent manner in which they hung over the railing it would be cruel to keep them with us," smiled Mrs. Dean.

"Let's find Jerry and Irma," said Marjorie, as they paused in the open doorway of the gymnasium.

Hardly had she spoken, when Jerry's unmistakable tones rose behind her. The stout girl was talking excitedly, a rising note of indignation in her voice.

"I tell you I saw her push against Ellen Seymour," she declared. "You must have seen her, too, Irma."

"I thought so," admitted Irma, "but I wasn't sure."

"Well, I was. Oh, girls, we were just going upstairs to find you! Now that you're here, let's go into the gym, and join the celebration. I don't know how you feel about it, but I'm glad the sophomores won," Jerry ended, with an emphatic wag of her head.

"Listen, Jerry," said Marjorie, earnestly, "you were talking so loudly when you were behind us that I couldn't help hearing you. Did it seem to you as though Mignon deliberately pushed against Ellen Seymour?"

"I know she did," reiterated Jerry. "I watched her, for she is always unfair and tricky. Anyone who has ever played on a team could tell. I'm surprised that you --  -- " She stopped abruptly. "I believe you saw her, too. Confess, you did see her; now, didn't you?"

Marjorie nodded.

"Now's your chance to get even with her. Let's go to Miss Archer and tell her," proposed the stout girl. "She'll send for Ellen Seymour and then, good-bye freshman basketball for a while. But what do you care? You aren't on the team any more. It would serve them right at that."

"Oh, no," Marjorie looked her horror at the bare idea of tale-bearing.

"Just as you say," shrugged Jerry. They were still standing just inside the door watching the sophomore team receiving congratulations, when they beheld a familiar figure in a black gymnasium suit pause squarely in front of Ellen Seymour. They saw Ellen start angrily, then a confused murmur of voices arose and the circle of fans and players closed in about the two girls.

"What's happened?" demanded Jerry. "Come on, girls." She hurried toward the crowd, the three girls at her heels. Even as they joined the throng they heard Mignon declare in a tone freighted with malice! "You purposely pushed against me when we ran for the ball in our last play and nearly threw me off my feet. You know that deliberate pushing, striking or any kind of roughness is forbidden, and you could be disqualified as a player. I do not know where the referee's eyes were, I am sure, but I do know that you are not fit to be on a team, and I can prove it by the other players of my team. I shall certainly complain to Miss Archer about it the first thing Monday morning."

"All right, I'll meet you in Miss Archer's office the first thing after chapel," answered Ellen, coolly, ignoring everything save the French girl's final threat. "Come along, girls." She beckoned to the other members of her team, who had listened in blank amazement to the bold accusation. With her head held high, a careless smile on her fine face, Ellen marched through the crowd, which made way for her, and across the gymnasium to the sophomores' room, accompanied by her team.

"Isn't that a shame?" burst out Jerry. "Ellen will have an awful time to prove herself innocent. She never touched Mignon. It was Mignon who pushed her away. I saw her with my own eyes, and so did you, Marjorie. Say," she looked blankly at Marjorie, "do you suppose it's our duty to go to Miss Archer and tell her what we saw?"

"I -- don't -- know." The words came doubtfully. "Perhaps it will all blow over. I hate to carry tales. Suppose we wait until Monday and see? Mignon may change her mind. Even if she doesn't, Miss Archer may not listen to her. But, if she should, then we'll have to do it, Jerry. It wouldn't be fair to Ellen to keep still about it; I heard Miss Archer tell mother Monday that she would not tolerate the least bit of roughness in the girls' games. She knew of several schools where girls had been tripped or knocked down and seriously hurt. She said that if any reports of rough playing were brought to her she would 'deal severely with the offender.' Those were her very words."

"All right; we'll wait," agreed Jerry. "I'm not crazy about reporting even Mignon. Ellen can take care of herself, I guess."

So the matter was apparently settled for the time, and the four girls strolled home discussing the various features of the game.

"How did you like the game, Captain?" she asked, saluting, as an hour later she entered the living-room, where her mother sat reading.

"Very well, indeed," replied her mother, laying down her magazine. "Neither Miss Archer nor I understand all the fine points of the game, but we managed to keep track of most of the plays. By the way, Marjorie, when you go to school on Monday morning, I wish you to take this magazine to Miss Archer. It contains an article which I have marked for her. It is quite in line with a discussion we had this afternoon."

"I'll remember," promised Marjorie, and when Monday morning came she kept her word, starting for school with the magazine under her arm.

"I'll run up to Miss Archer's office with it after chapel," she decided.

When the morning service was over, Marjorie returned to the study hall, and obtained Miss Merton's grudging permission to execute her commission.

"I wish to see Miss Archer," she said shortly, as Marcia Arnold looked up from her writing just long enough to cast a half insolent glance of inquiry in her direction.

"You can't see her. She's busy."

The color flew to Marjorie's cheeks at the bold refusal. Her first impulse was to turn and walk away. She could see Miss Archer later. Then her natural independence asserted itself, and she determined to stand her ground at least long enough to discover whether or not Miss Archer were really too busy to be seen.

"Then I'll wait here until she is at liberty."

Marcia frowned and seemed on the verge of further unpleasantness when the sound of a buzzer from the inner office sent her hurrying toward it. As she opened the door, Marjorie caught a fleeting glimpse of two persons; one was Miss Archer, her face set and stern, the other Mignon La Salle, her black eyes blazing with satisfaction.

"Oh!" gasped Marjorie, remembering Mignon's threat, "she is reporting poor Ellen."

The door swung open again and the secretary glided past her and out into the corridor with the peculiar sliding gait that had caused Jerry to liken her to a "nice, wriggly snake."

"She is going to bring Ellen here," guessed Marjorie.

Sure enough, within five minutes Marcia returned, followed by Ellen Seymour, whose pale, defiant face meant battle. Again the door of the inner office closed with a portending click. Marcia Arnold did not return to the outer office.

Marjorie waited apprehensively, wondering if Ellen were holding her own. Then to her utter amazement, the secretary appeared with a sulky, "Miss Archer wants you," and returned to her desk.

"Good morning, Miss Dean," was the principal's grave salutation. "I did not know until I asked Miss Arnold to go for you that you were in the outer office."

"I have been waiting to give you the magazine that mother promised you. She asked me to say to you that she had marked the article she wished you to read."

"Please thank your mother for me," returned Miss Archer, her face relaxing, "and thank you for bringing it. To return to why I sent for you, you understand the game of basketball, do you not?"

"Yes," answered Marjorie, simply.

"You have played on a team?" inquired the principal.

"Yes."

"Did I not see you at practice with the freshmen shortly before the game?"

Marjorie colored hotly. "I made the team, but afterward was asked to resign because I did not play well enough."

"Who asked you to resign?"

"The note was signed by the manager of the team."

"And is that the reason you stopped playing?" broke in Ellen Seymour, with impulsive disregard for her surroundings. "I might have known it."

Then she whirled upon Mignon in a burst of indignation as scathing as it was unexpected.

"How contemptible you are! I haven't the least doubt that you are to blame for Miss Dean's leaving the team. You knew her to be a skilful player and you were afraid she would outplay you. You know, too, that when we jumped for the ball Saturday you purposely pushed me away from it, almost throwing me down. It didn't do you the least bit of good, and because you are spiteful you have set out to disgrace me and put a stain on the sophomores' victory."

"How dare you? You are not telling the truth! Prove your charge against me, if you can," challenged Mignon, with blazing eyes.

"It will be easier to prove than yours against me," flung back Ellen.

"Girls, this is disgraceful! Not another word." Miss Archer's tone of stern command had an immediate effect on the belligerents.

"Please pardon me, Miss Archer." There was real contrition in Ellen's voice. "I didn't mean to be so rude. I lost control of my temper."

Mignon, however, made no apology. Her elfish eyes turned from Marjorie to Ellen with an expression of concentrated hate.

"Now, girls," began Miss Archer, firmly, "we are going to settle this difficulty here in my office before anyone of you goes back to her classes. That is the reason I have sent for Miss Dean. When Miss La Salle entered her complaint against you, Miss Seymour, I decided that you should have a chance to speak in your own behalf. No sooner were you brought face to face than one accused the other of treachery. From the front row of the gallery, where I sat on the afternoon of the game, I could see every move of the players, but my eyes were not sufficiently trained to detect the roughness of which you accuse each other. Then I remembered that Miss Dean sat next to me and that she was a seasoned player. So I sent for her to ask her in your presence if she saw the alleged roughness on the part of either of you."

There was a half-smothered exclamation of dismay from Marjorie. Ellen was regarding her in mute appeal. Mignon's lips curled back in a sneer. It was dreadful to remain under a cloud.

"I am waiting for you to speak, Miss Dean."

Marjorie drew a long breath. "Miss Seymour spoke the truth. I saw Miss La Salle purposely push Miss Seymour away from the ball. Someone else saw her, too -- someone who sat on the other side of the gallery." Her tones carried unmistakable truth with them.

"It isn't true! It isn't true!" Mignon's voice rose to an enraged shriek. "She only says so because she wants to pay me for making her resign from the team."

"What did I tell you?" asked Ellen Seymour, triumphantly. "She admits that she was responsible for that resignation."

"That will do," commanded Miss Archer, raising her hand.

Ellen subsided meekly.

Realizing that she had said too much, Mignon quieted as suddenly as she had burst forth.

"Miss Dean, are you perfectly sure of what you say?" questioned Miss Archer.

"I am quite sure," was the steady answer.

A seemingly endless silence followed Marjorie's reply. The principal surveyed the trio searchingly.

"What girls comprise the freshman team?" At last she put the question coldly to Mignon.

The French girl sulkily named them. Miss Archer made note of their names. The principal then pressed the buzzer that summoned her secretary.

"Send these young women to me at once," she directed, handing Marcia the slip of paper.

Turning to the three girls before her she said, "Miss Seymour, you may go back to the study hall. Unless you hear from me further you are exonerated from blame. I shall not need you either, Miss Dean. I am sorry that I was obliged to involve you in this affair, but I am glad that you were not afraid to tell the truth."

Marjorie turned to follow Ellen Seymour from the room, when the door opened and the freshman basketball team filed in. For a brief instant the principal's attention was fixed upon the entering girls, and in that instant Mignon found time to mutter in Marjorie's ear, "I'll never forgive you for this and you'll be sorry. Just wait and see if you're not."



Chapter XV

Marjorie's Wonderful Discovery


What transpired in Miss Archer's private office on that memorable morning when the freshman team visited her in a body was a subject that agitated high school circles for at least a week afterward. Other than the team no one could furnish any authentic information as to what had actually been said and done, but the amazing report that "Miss Archer had disbanded the freshman basketball team" was on every one's tongue. Whether or not another team would be selected no one knew. That would depend wholly upon Miss Archer's decision. That the members of the team had offended seriously there could be no doubt. As for the ex-members themselves, they were absolutely mute on the subject. Among themselves, however, they had a great deal to say, and, one and all, held Marjorie Dean responsible for their downfall.

When Miss Archer had commanded their presence in her office that eventful morning it was not in connection with the conflicting statements of Ellen Seymour and Mignon La Salle. Satisfied that Mignon was the real offender, she had read that young woman a lesson on untruthfulness and treachery in the presence of the team that left her white with mortification, her stormy black eyes alone betraying her rage.

Then Miss Archer proceeded to the other business at hand, which was an inquiry into their reason for requesting Marjorie Dean's resignation from the team. One by one, the four girls, with the exception of Helen Thornton, were questioned separately and acknowledged, in shamefaced fashion, that Marjorie was a really good player.

"Then why," Miss Archer had asked sharply, "did you ask her to resign?" There had been no answer to this pertinent question, and then had followed their principal's rebuke, sharp and stinging.

"It is not often that I feel impelled to interfere in your games," she had said. "Not long since I refused to listen to something Miss Arnold tried to tell me; but, when several heartless girls deliberately combine to humiliate and discomfit a companion under the flimsy pretext of 'the good of the team' it is time to call a halt. Four girls were prime movers in this contemptible plan. One girl was an accessory, and therefore equally guilty. In justice to the traditions of Sanford High School the girl who has suffered at your hands, and in defense of my own self-respect, these offenders must be punished. So I am going to disband your team and forbid any one of you to play basketball again until I am satisfied that you know something of the first principles of honor and fair play. However, I shall not forbid basketball to the freshmen. The innocent shall not suffer with the guilty. A new team will be chosen which I trust will be a credit rather than a detriment to our high school. You are dismissed."

Five girls, whose faces were an open indication of their chagrin, had left the principal's office in a far more chastened frame of mind than when they had entered it. Miss Archer's arraignment had been a most unpleasant surprise, and in discussing it among themselves afterward, Helen Thornton had caused Mignon to pour forth a torrent of biting words by saying sulkily, that if Mignon had let Ellen Seymour alone everything would have been all right.

"Do you mean to say that you believe those miserable girls?" Mignon had cried out.

And Helen had answered with marked sarcasm, "No; I believe what I saw with my own eyes, and I wish I'd never heard of your old team. I'm ashamed to think I ever listened to you," and had walked away from the group with a sore and penitent heart, never to return to their circle again.

All this was, of course, kept strictly secret by the other four ex-members, who joined hands and vowed solemnly that they would weather the gale together. The disbanding of the team by Miss Archer and Ellen Seymour's vindication, could not be hushed up, however, and, despite their protests that Miss Archer was unfair, and that the statements of certain other girls were wholly unreliable, they lost ground with their classmates.

Marjorie, too, had been made to feel the weight of their displeasure, for they took pains to circulate the report that it was she who had told tales to the principal, and thus brought them to grief. Several of the sophomores, including Ellen Seymour, heatedly denied the rumor, and a number of freshmen also took up the cudgels in her behalf. Jerry, Irma and Constance stood firmly by her, and, although the poor little lieutenant was far more hurt over the allegation than she would show, she kept a brave face to the front and tried to ignore the ill-natured thrusts launched chiefly by Muriel and Mignon.

But in the midst of this uncomfortable season Marjorie made a wonderful discovery. It was quite by chance that she made it, and it concerned Constance Stevens. Although the Mary girl had apparently grown very fond of Marjorie and had almost entirely dropped her strange cloak of reserve, she had never invited the girl who had so graciously befriended her to her home.

From the words of vehement protest which Constance had spoken on that day when Marjorie had followed her and protested that they become friends, she had partly understood the other girl's position in regard to her family, and had tactfully avoided the subject ever afterward. She had talked the matter over with her captain, and they had decided to respect Constance's reticence and keep religiously away from anything bordering on the discussion of her family.

It was on a crisp November afternoon, several days before Thanksgiving, that Marjorie made her discovery. As she walked into the living-room, her books on her arm, her cheeks pink from the sharp, frosty air, her mother hung up the telephone with: "Marjorie, do you think Constance would like to go with us to the theatre to-night? Your father has just telephoned me that he has four tickets."

"She'd love it. I know she would. I'll hurry straight down to her house and ask her." Marjorie dropped her books on the table with a joyful thump.

"Very well; but I wish you would wait until I finish my letter, then you can post it on your way there."

"Did Nora bake chocolate cake to-day?" asked Marjorie irrelevantly.

"Yes."

There was a rush of light feet from the room. Three minutes later Marjorie returned, a huge piece of chocolate layer cake in her hand.

"It's the best ever," she declared between bites.

By the time the cake was eaten the letter was ready.

"Hurry, dear," her mother called after her; "we shall have an early dinner."

It did not recur to Marjorie until within sight of the house where Constance lived that she was an uninvited guest. What a queer-looking little house it was! Long ago it had been painted a pale gray with white trimmings, but now it was a dingy, hopeless color that defied description. A child's dilapidated tricycle stood on the rickety porch, which was approached by a flight of three unstable-looking steps.

Her mind centered upon her errand, Marjorie paid small attention to her surroundings. She bounded up the steps, searching with alert eyes for a bell. Finding none she doubled her fist to knock, but paused suddenly with upraised arm. From within the house came the vibrant notes of a violin mingled with the soft accompaniment of a piano.

"Schubert's 'Serenade,'" breathed Marjorie, delightedly, lowering her arm. "I simply must listen."

Suddenly a voice took up the plaintive strain. It was so high and sweet and clear that the listener caught her breath in sheer amazement.

She stood spellbound, while the wonderful voice sang on and on to the last note of the exquisite "Serenade" that seemed to end in a long-drawn sigh.

Marjorie knocked lightly, but no one responded.

The singer had begun again. This time it was Nevin's "Oh That We Two Were Maying."

She listened again; then, to her surprise, the door was gently opened. Before her stood the tiny figure of a boy whose great black eyes looked curiously into hers. Laying his finger upon his lips, he gravely motioned with his other hand for her to enter. Then as he limped away from the door Marjorie saw he was a cripple.

Marjorie stepped noiselessly into the room, her eyes on the piano. A man was seated before it. She could not see his face, but she noted that he had an enormous shock of snow-white hair. At one side of him stood another old man, his thin cheek resting lovingly against his violin, his whole soul intent upon the flood of melody he was bringing forth, while on the other side of the pianist, her quiet face fairly transfigured stood Constance, pouring out her very heart in song.



Chapter XVI

The People Of The Little Gray House


Intent upon their music, neither the singer nor the two men were immediately aware of the presence of another person in the room.

"Oh, that we two were lying Under the churchyard sod,"

sang Constance, voicing the pent-up longing of Kingsley's tenderly regretful words and Nevin's wistful setting, while the violin sang a subdued, pensive obligato.

Marjorie stood very still, her gaze fastened upon Constance. The quaint little boy stared at Marjorie with an equally intent interest. Thus, as Constance began the last line the earnest, compelling regard of the brown eyes caused her own to be turned toward Marjorie.

"Oh!" she ejaculated in faltering surprise. "Where -- where did you come from? What made you come here?"

There was mingled amazement, consternation and embarrassment in the question. The white-haired pianist swung round on his stool, and the old man with the violin raised his head and regarded the unexpected visitor out of two mildly inquiring blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," began Marjorie, her cheeks hot with the shame of being unwelcome. "I suppose I ought not to have come, but --  -- "

Constance sprang to her side and catching her hands said contritely, "Forgive me, dear, and please don't feel hurt. I -- you see -- I never invite anyone here -- because -- well, just because we are so poor. I thought you wouldn't care to come and so --  -- "

"I've always wanted to come," interrupted Marjorie, eagerly. "I don't think you are poor. I think you are rich to have this wonderful music. I never dreamed you could sing, Constance. What made you keep it a secret?"

"No one ever liked me well enough to care to know it until you came," returned Constance simply. "I meant to tell you, but I kept on putting it off."

While the conversation went on between the two girls the one old man was going over a pile of ragged-edged music on the piano, while the other was industriously engaged with a troublesome E string.

"Father, Uncle John!" called Constance, gently, "come here. I want you to meet my friend Marjorie Dean."

Both musicians left their self-appointed tasks and came forward.

Marjorie gave her soft little hand to each in turn, and they bowed over it with almost old-style courtesy. She looked curiously at Constance's father. His daughter did not in any way resemble him. His was the face of a dreamer, rather thin, with clean-cut features and dark eyes that seemed to see past one and into another world of his own creation. In spite of his white hair he was not old. Not more than forty-five, or, perhaps fifty, Marjorie decided. The other man was much older, sixty at least. He was very thin, and his gentle face wore a pathetically vacant expression that brought back to Marjorie the rush of bitter words Constance had poured forth on the day when she had declined to be friends. "We take care of an old man who people say is crazy, and folks call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds."

"I came here to see if Constance could go to the theatre with us to-night," explained Marjorie, rather shyly. "No, thank you, I won't sit down. I promised mother I'd hurry home."

"It is very kind in you to ask my daughter to share your pleasure," said Constance's father, his somber face lighting with a smile that reminded Marjorie of the sun suddenly bursting from behind a cloud. "I should like to have her go."

"Have her go," repeated the thin old man, bowing and beaming.

"Is there a band at the theatre?" piped a small, solemn voice.

Marjorie smiled down into the earnest, upraised face of the little boy.

"Oh, yes, there is a big, big band at the theatre."

"Then take me, too," returned the child calmly.

"No, no," reproved Constance gently, "Charlie can't go to-night."

A grieved look crept into the big black eyes. Without further words the quaint little boy limped over to the old man, whom Constance had addressed as Uncle John, and hid behind him.

Forgetting formality, tender-hearted Marjorie sprang after him. She knelt beside him and gathered him into her arms. He made no resistance, merely regarded her with wistful curiosity.

"Listen, dear little man," she said, "you and Constance and I will go to the place where the big band plays some Saturday afternoon, and we'll sit on the front seat where you can see every single thing they do. Won't that be nice?"

The boy nodded and slipped his tiny hand in hers. "I'm going to play in the band when I grow up," he confided. "Connie can go to-night if she promises to tell me all about it afterward."

"You dear little soul," bubbled Marjorie, stroking his thick hair that fell carelessly over his forehead and almost into his bright eyes.

"I'll tell you all about everything, Charlie," promised Constance.

"That means you will go," cried Marjorie, joyfully, rising from the floor, the child's hand still in hers.

"Yes, I will," returned Constance hesitatingly, "only -- I -- haven't anything pretty to wear."

"Pretty to wear," repeated Uncle John faithfully.

"Never mind that," reassured Marjorie. "Just wear a fresh white blouse with your blue suit. I'm sure that will look nice."

"Will look nice," agreed Uncle John so promptly, that Marjorie started slightly, then, noting that Constance seemed embarrassed, she nodded genially at the old man, who smiled back like a pleased child.

Remembering her mother's injunction, Marjorie took hasty leave of the Stevens family and set off for home at a brisk pace. Her thoughts were as active as her feet. She had seen enough in the last fifteen minutes to furnish ample food for reflection, and she now believed she understood her friend's strange reserve, which at times rose like a wall between them. What strange and yet what utterly delightful people the Stevens were! They really did remind one a little of gypsies. And what a queer room she had been ushered into by the odd little boy named Charlie! She smiled to herself as she contrasted her mother's homelike, yet orderly living-room with the room she had just left, which evidently did duty as a hall, living-room, music-room and also a playroom for little Charlie. There were hats and coats and musical instruments, pile upon pile of well-thumbed music, and numerous dilapidated playthings that bore the marks of too ardent treasuring, all scattered about in reckless confusion. No wonder Constance had fought shy of acquaintanceships which were sure to ripen into schoolgirl visits. Poor Constance! How dreadful it must be to have to keep house, cook the meals and try to go to school! The Stevenses seemed to be very poor in everything except music. She wondered how they lived. Perhaps the two men played in orchestras. Still she had never heard anything about them in school, where news circulated so quickly.

"I'm going to ask Constance to tell me all about it," she decided, as she skipped up the front steps. "Perhaps I can help her in some way."

Constance rang the Deans' bell at exactly half past seven o'clock. Her blue eyes were sparkling with joyous light, and her usually grave mouth broke into little curves of happiness. It was to be a red-letter night for her.

The play was a clean, wholesome drama of American home life in which the leading part was taken by a young girl, who appeared to be scarcely older than Marjorie and Constance. The latter sat like one entranced during the first act, and Marjorie spoke to her twice before she heard.

"Constance," she breathed, "won't you please, please tell me all about it?"

"About what?" counter-questioned the other girl, reddening.

"About your father and your wonderful voice, and, oh, all there is to tell."

"Marjorie," the Mary girl's tones were strained and wistful, "do you really think it is wonderful?"

"You will be a great singer some day," returned Marjorie, simply.

"Oh, do you believe that?" Constance clasped her hands in ecstasy. "I wish to be -- I hope to be. If I could only go away to New York city and study! Before we came here we lived in Buffalo. Father played in an orchestra there. He had a friend who taught singing and I studied with him for a year. Then he died suddenly of pneumonia and right after that father fell on an icy pavement and broke his leg. By the time it was well again another man had his place in the orchestra. He had a few pupils, and long before his leg was well he used to sit in a big chair and teach them. The money that they paid him for lessons was all we had to live on."

The rising of the curtain on the second act cut short the narrative. With "I'll tell you the rest later," Constance turned eager eyes toward the stage.

"Isn't it a beautiful play?" she sighed, when the act ended.

"Lovely," agreed Marjorie; "now tell me the rest."

"Oh, there isn't much more to tell. It was the last of March when father got hurt, but it was the middle of May before he was quite well again. Then summer came and most of his pupils went away and we grew poorer and poorer. Just when we were the poorest the editor of a new musical magazine wrote him and asked him to write some articles. A friend of father's in New York told the editor about father and gave him our address. We decided to move to a smaller city, where we could live more cheaply, and some of the musicians that father knew gave him a benefit concert. The money from that helped us to move to Sanford, and father has been writing articles off and on for the magazine ever since then. It's better for all of us to be here. Uncle John isn't quite like other people. When he was a young man he studied to be a virtuoso on the violin. He overworked and had brain fever just before he was to give his first recital. After he got well he never played the same again. He had spent all the money his father left him on his musical education, so he had to find work wherever he could. He played the violin in different orchestras, but he was so absent-minded that he couldn't be trusted. Sometimes he would go on playing after all the rest of the orchestra had finished, and then he began to repeat things after people.

"When father first met him they were playing in the same theatre orchestra. One night a great tragedian was playing 'Hamlet,' and poor Uncle John grew so interested that he said things after him as loud as he could. The actor was dreadfully angry, and so was the leader of the orchestra. He made the poor old man leave the theatre. After that he played in other orchestras a little, but he couldn't be depended upon, so no one wanted to hire him.

"Father did all he could to help him, but he grew queerer and queerer. Then he disappeared, and father didn't see him for a long while. One cold winter night he found him wandering about the streets, so he brought him to his room and he has been with father ever since. That was years ago, before father was married. He isn't really my uncle. I just call him that. The musicians used to call him 'Crazy Johnny.' His name is John Roland."

Although Constance had averred that there wasn't "much to tell," the third act interrupted her recital, and it was during the interval before the beginning of the last act that Marjorie heard the story of the fourth member of the Stevenses' household, little lame Charlie.

"Charlie has been with us a little over four years," returned Constance, in answer to Marjorie's interested questions. "He is seven years old, but you would hardly believe it. His mother died when he was a tiny baby, and his father was a dreadful drunkard. He was a musician, too, a clarionet player. He let Charlie fall downstairs when he was only two years old and hurt his hip. That's why he's lame. His father used to go away and be gone for days and leave the poor baby with his neighbors. Father found out about it and took Charlie away from him, and we've had him with us ever since."

"It was splendid in your father to be so good to the poor old man and Charlie," said Marjorie, warmly.

"Father is the best man in the world," returned Constance, with fond pride. "He is such a wonderful musician, too. He can play on the violin as well as the piano, and he teaches both. If only he could get plenty of work here in Sanford. He has a few pupils, and with the articles he writes we manage to live, but the magazine is a small one and does not pay much for them. He has tried ever so many times to get into the theatre orchestra, but there seems to be no chance for him. I think we'll go somewhere else to live before long. Perhaps to a big city again. I'd love to stay here and go through high school with you, but I am afraid I can't. I'm almost eighteen and I ought to work."

"Oh, you mustn't think of leaving Sanford!" exclaimed Marjorie, in sudden dismay. "What would I do without you? Perhaps things will be brighter after a while. I am sure they will. Why couldn't your father --  -- "

But the last act was on, and she did not finish what had promised to be a suggestion. Nevertheless, a plan had taken shape in her busy mind, which she determined to discuss with her father and mother.

As if to further her design they found Mr. Stevens waiting outside the theatre for his daughter and Marjorie lost no time in presenting him to her father and mother. He greeted the Deans gravely, thanking them for their kindness to his daughter, with a fine courtesy that made a marked impression on them, and after he had gone his way, a happy, smiling Constance beside him, Marjorie slipped her arms in those of her father and mother, and walking between them told Constance's story all over again.

"I think it is positively noble in Mr. Stevens to take care of that old man and little Charlie, when they have no claim upon him," she finished.

"He has a remarkably fine, sensitive face," said Mrs. Dean. "I suppose like nearly all persons of great musical gifts, he lacks the commercial ability to manage his affairs successfully."

"Don't you believe that if the people of Sanford only knew how beautifully Mr. Stevens and the other man played together they might hire them for afternoon teas and little parties and such things?" asked Marjorie, with an earnestness that made her father say teasingly, "Are you going to enlist in his cause as his business manager?"

"You mustn't tease me, General," she reproved. "I'm in dead earnest. I was just thinking to-night that Mr. Stevens ought to have an orchestra of his own. You know mother promised me a party on my birthday, and that's not until January tenth. Why can't I have it the night before Thanksgiving? That will be next Wednesday. Mr. Stevens and Mr. Roland can play for us to dance. A violin and piano will be plenty of music. If everybody likes my orchestra, then someone will be sure to want to hire it for some of the holiday parties. Don't you think that a nice plan?"

"Very," laughed her father. "I see you have an eye to business, Lieutenant."

"You can have your party next week, if you like, dear," agreed Mrs. Dean, who made it a point always to encourage her daughter's generous impulses.

"Then I'll send my invitations to-morrow," exulted Marjorie. "Hurrah for the Stevens orchestra! Long may it wave!" She gave a joyous skip that caused her father to exclaim "Steady!" and her mother to protest against further jolting.

"Beg your pardon, both of you," apologized the frisky lieutenant, giving the arms to which she clung an affectionate squeeze, "but I simply had to rejoice a little. Won't Constance be glad? I could never care quite so much for Constance as I do for Mary, but I like her next best. She's a dear and we're going to be friends as long as we live."

But clouds have an uncomfortable habit of darkening the clearest skies and even sworn friendships are not always timeproof.



Chapter XVII

Marjorie Meets With A Loss


By eight o'clock the following night twenty-eight invitations to Marjorie Dean's Thanksgiving party were on their way. No one of the invitations ran the risk of being declined. Marjorie had invited only those boys and girls of her acquaintance who were quite likely to come and when the momentous evening arrived they put in twenty-eight joyful appearances and enjoyed the Deans' hospitality to the full.

But to Constance, who wore her beautiful blue gown and went to the party under the protection of her father, whose somber eyes gleamed with a strange new happiness, and old John Roland, whose usually vacant expression had changed to one of inordinate pride, it was, indeed, a night to be remembered by the three. Charlie was to remain at home in the care of a kindly neighbor.

The long living-room had been stripped of everything save the piano, and the polished hardwood floor was ideal to dance on. Uncle John had received careful instructions beforehand from both Mr. Stevens and Constance as to his behavior, and with a sudden flash of reason in his faded eyes had gravely promised to "be good."

He had kept his word, too, and from his station beside the piano he had played like one inspired from the moment his violin sang the first magic strains of the "Blue Danube" until it crooned softly the "Home, Sweet Home" waltz.

The dancers were wholly appreciative of the orchestra, as their coaxing applause for more music after every number testified, and before the evening was over several boys and girls had asked Marjorie if "those dandy musicians" would play for anyone who wanted them.

"Mother's giving a tea next week, and I'm going to tell her about these men," the Crane had informed Marjorie.

"Hal and I are going to give a party before long, and we'll have them, too," Jerry had promised. Lawrence Armitage, who had managed to be found near Constance the greater part of the evening, insisted on being introduced to her father, and during supper, which was served at small tables in the dining-room, he had sat at the same table with the two players and Constance, and kept up an animated and interested discussion on music with Mr. Stevens.

But the crowning moment of the evening had been when, after supper, the guests had gathered in the living-room to do stunts, and Constance had sung Tosti's "Good-bye" and "Thy Blue Eyes," her exquisite voice coming as a bewildering surprise to the assembled young people. How they had crowded around her afterward! How glad Marjorie had been at the success of her plan, and how Mr. Stevens' eyes had shone to hear his daughter praised by her classmates!

In less than a week afterward Constance rose from obscurity to semi-popularity. The story of her singing was noised about through school until it reached even the ears of the girls who had despised her for her poverty. Muriel and Susan had looked absolute amazement when a talkative freshman told the news as she received it from a girl who had attended the party. Mignon, however, was secretly furious at the, to her, unbelievable report that "that beggarly Stevens girl could actually sing." She had never forgiven Constance for refusing to dishonorably assist her in an algebra test, and after her unsuccessful attempt to fasten the disappearance of her bracelet upon Constance she had disliked her with that fierce hatred which the transgressor so often feels for the one he or she has wronged.

Next to Constance in Mignon's black book came Marjorie, who had caused her to lose her proud position of center on the team, and in Miss Merton and Marcia Arnold she had two staunch adherents. Just why Miss Merton disliked Marjorie was hard to say. Perhaps she took violent exception to the girl's gay, gracious manner and love of life, the early years of which she was living so abundantly. At any rate, she never lost an opportunity to harass or annoy the pretty freshman, and it was only by keeping up an eternal vigilance that Marjorie managed to escape constant, nagging reproof.

Last of all, Marcia Arnold had a grievance against Marjorie. She was no longer manager of the freshman team. A disagreeable ten minutes with Miss Archer after the freshman team had been disbanded, on that dreadful day, had been sufficient to deprive her of her office, and arouse her resentment against Marjorie to a fever pitch.

There were still a number of girls in the freshman class who clung to Muriel and Mignon, but they were in the minority. At least two-thirds of 19 --  had made friendly overtures not only to Marjorie, but to Constance as well, and as the short December days slipped by, Marjorie began to experience a contentment and peace in her school that she had not felt since leaving dear old Franklin High.

"Everything's going beautifully, Captain," she declared gaily to her mother in answer to the latter's question, as she flashed into the living-room one sunny winter afternoon, with dancing eyes and pink cheeks. "It couldn't be better. I like almost every one in school; Constance's father has more playing than he can do; you bought me that darling collar and cuff set yesterday; I've a long letter from Mary; I've studied all my lessons for to-day, and -- oh, yes, we're going to have creamed chicken and lemon meringue pie for dinner. Isn't that enough to make me happy for one day at least?"

"What a jumble of happiness!" laughed her mother.

"Isn't it, though? And now Christmas is almost here. That's another perfectly gigantic happiness," was Marjorie's extravagant comment. "I love Christmas! That reminds me, Mother, you said you would help me play Santa Claus to little Charlie. I don't believe he has ever spent a really jolly Christmas. Of course, Mr. Stevens and Constance will give him things, but he needs a whole lot more presents besides. He climbed into my lap and told me all about what he wanted when I was over there yesterday. I promised to speak to Santa Claus about it. Charlie isn't going to hang up his stocking. He's going to leave a funny little wagon that he drags around for Santa Claus. He told me very solemnly that he knew Santa Claus couldn't fill it, for Connie had said that he never had enough presents to go around, but she was sure he would have a few left when he reached Charlie.

"So Constance and I are going to decorate the wagon with evergreen and hang strings of popcorn on it and fill it full of presents after he goes to bed. He has promised to go very early Christmas eve. Mr. Roland has a little violin he is going to give him, and Mr. Stevens has a cunning chair for him. He has never had a chair of his own. Constance has some picture books and toys, and I'm going to buy some, too. I saved some money from my allowance this month on purpose for this."

Marjorie's face glowed with generous enthusiasm as she talked.

"I am going shopping day after to-morrow," said Mrs. Dean, "and as long as it is Saturday, you had better go with me."

"Oh, splendid!" cried Marjorie, dancing up and down on her tiptoes. "Things are getting interestinger and interestinger."

"Regardless of English," slyly supplemented her mother, as Marjorie danced out of the room to answer the postman's ring.

"Here are two letters for you, Captain, but not even a postcard for me. I'd love to have a letter from Mary, but I haven't answered her last one yet. I'll write to her to-morrow and send her present, too, with special orders not to open it until Christmas."

The next morning Marjorie hurried off to school early, in hopes of seeing Constance before the morning session began. Her friend entered the study hall just as the first bell rang, however, and Marjorie had only time for a word or two in the corridor as they filed off to their respective classes.

"I'll see her in French class," thought Marjorie. "I'll ask Professor Fontaine to let me sit with her." But when she reached the French room and the class gathered, Constance was not among them, nor did she enter the room later. Wondering what had happened, Marjorie reluctantly turned her attention to the advance lesson.

"We weel read this leetle poem togethaire," directed Professor Fontaine, amiably, "but first I shall read eet to you. Eet is called 'Le Papillon,' which means the 'botterfly.'"

Unconsciously, Marjorie's hand strayed to the open neck of her blouse. Then she dropped her hand in dismay. Her butterfly, her pretty talisman, where was it? She remembered wearing it to school that morning, or thought she remembered. Oh, yes, she now recalled that she had pinned it to her coat lapel. It had always shone so bravely against the soft blue broadcloth. She longed to rush downstairs to her locker before reporting in the study hall for dismissal, but remembering how sourly Miss Merton had looked at her only that morning, she decided to possess her soul in patience until the session was dismissed.

Once out of the study hall she dashed downstairs at full speed and hastily opened her locker. As she seized her coat she noted vaguely that Constance's hat and coat were missing, but her mind was centered on her pin. Then an exclamation of grief and dismay escaped her. The lapel was bare of ornament. Her butterfly was gone!

"I wonder if I really did leave it at home?" was her distracted thought, as she climbed the basement stairs with a heavy heart, after having thoroughly examined the locker. But a close search of her room that noon revealed no trace of the missing pin. Hot tears gathered in her eyes, but she brushed them away, muttering: "I won't cry. It isn't lost. It can't be. Oh, my pretty talisman!" She choked back a sob. "I sha'n't tell mother unless it is really hopeless. It won't do any good and she'll feel sorry because I do. It's my own fault. I should have seen that my butterfly was securely fastened."

On the way home from the school that afternoon Marjorie reported the loss of her pin to Irma, Jerry and Constance, who had returned for the afternoon session.

"What a shame!" sympathized Jerry. "It was such a beauty."

"I'm so sorry you lost it," condoled Irma.

"So am I," echoed Constance. "I don't remember it. I'm not very observing about jewelry, but I'm dreadfully sorry just the same."

"It was --  -- " began Marjorie, but a joyful whistle far up the street and the faint ring of running feet put a sudden end to her description. Lawrence Armitage, Hal Macy and the Crane had espied the girls from afar and come with winged feet to join them. Their evident pleasure in the girls' society, coupled with the indescribably funny antics of the Crane, who had apparently appointed himself an amusement committee of one, drove away Marjorie's distress over her loss for the time being, and it was not until later that she remembered that she had not described the butterfly pin to Constance.



Chapter XVIII

Playing Santa Claus To Charlie


The next morning Marjorie wrote a description of her pin. It was placed at the end of the basement corridor above a small bulletin board, where those who passed might read. She wondered if the loss of her talisman would bring her bad luck. Before the day was over she gloomily decided that it had, for during the last hour Miss Merton accused her of whispering to the girl across the aisle, when she merely leaned forward in her seat to pick up her handkerchief. Smarting with the teacher's injustice, Marjorie politely but steadily contradicted the accusation, and two minutes later found herself on the way to Miss Archer's office, Miss Merton walking grimly beside her.

Miss Archer had been through a particularly trying day, and was irritable, while Miss Merton was consumed with spiteful rage at Marjorie's "impertinence," and did not hesitate to put her side of the story forward in a most unpleasant fashion. The principal turned coldly to Marjory with, "Apologize to Miss Merton at once, Miss Dean, for disturbing her," and Marjorie said, with uplifted chin and resentful eyes, "I am sorry you thought I whispered, Miss Merton, for I did not open my lips." Something in the proud carriage of the girl's head caused Miss Archer to divine the truth of the firm statement, and she said, more gently, "Very well, you are excused, Miss Dean; but I do not wish to hear again that you have failed in courtesy to your teachers. This is not the first time I have received such reports of you."

With a steady, reproachful look at Miss Merton, whose shifting eyes refused to meet hers, Marjorie walked from the room, ready to burst into tears, and when the all but interminable afternoon was ended, hurried home to the shelter of her faithful captain's arms and poured forth her grief and wrongs.

But the notice of the lost pin posted on the bulletin board brought forth no trace of the vanished butterfly. Marjorie made a valiant effort to thrust aside her heavy sense of loss and allow the spirit of Christmas to enter her heart. She had promised Constance her help in arranging Santa Claus' visit to Charlie, and, when on Christmas eve, at a little after seven o'clock she set out for the Stevens' weighed down by numerous festively-wrapped, be-ribboned packages, she was filled with that quiet exaltation that attends the performance of a good deed and happier than she had been for several days.

"Shh!" Constance met her at the door, a warning finger on her lips.

"Hasn't he gone to sleep yet?" asked Marjorie, sliding into the house in mouse-like fashion.

"Yes, but I thought he never would," returned Constance, with a relieved sigh. "What do you think? Father is playing at the theatre to-night for the first time. The pianist is ill. The leader of the orchestra was here this afternoon to see if father would take his place. We can never be grateful enough to you, Marjorie, for having father and Uncle John play at your party."

"Let's talk about Charlie's little wagon," proposed Marjorie, quickly. "Nora popped and strung a lot of corn for me. It's in this bag. Do tell me where I can put the rest of this armful of things."

Constance made a place on one end of an old velvet couch for them.

"This is yours." Marjorie flourished a wide, flat package tied with long, graceful loops of narrow pale blue ribbon. "I tied it with blue because that's your color. Don't you dare peep at it until to-morrow morning. These two little packages are for your father and Mr. Roland, and all the rest is for Charlie."

"He will be the happiest boy in Sanford," said Constance, her own face radiant. "He never dreamed of a Christmas like this."

"Can we begin now?" asked Marjorie. "I'm so impatient to see how this wagon will look when we get it fixed."

"Wait a minute." Constance disappeared through the door leading into the kitchen, returning with one arm piled high with evergreens, the other wound around a small balsam tree.

"Lawrence Armitage brought me this yesterday," she explained. "A party of boys went to the woods to cut down Christmas trees. He brought me this cunning little tree and all this ground pine and holly. Wasn't it nice in him?"

"Perfectly dear," agreed Marjorie. "I wonder if there is enough popcorn for the tree, too. I have a lot of little ornaments and candles at home. It won't take long to go there and back." She reached for her hat and coat as she spoke and in spite of Constance's protests was soon speeding home after the required decorations.

"I made good time, didn't I?" she observed, as half an hour later she burst into the Stevens' living-room without knocking.

Then the work of making one small boy's Christmas merry was begun in earnest. An hour later the sturdy baby balsam stood loaded with its crop of strange fruit, and the faithful, rickety wagon, whose imperfections were quite hidden beneath trails of thick, fragrant ground pine and sprays of flame-berried holly, looked as though it had received a visitation from the fairies. A diminutive black leather violin case, encircled with a wreath of ground pine and tied with a huge red bow, leaned against one wheel of the magic vehicle, and the cunning chair with its absurd little arms and leather cushion was also twined with green.

"It's too lovely for words," breathed Constance, her admiring gaze fastened upon the once dingy corner now bright with the flowers of love and generosity, which had bloomed in all shapes and sizes of packages to gladden one youngster's heart.

"I wish I could be here when first he sees it," commented Marjorie. "I'll be fast asleep then, for he told me that Mr. Roland promised to call him very early."

"He proposed staying up all night, but I was not enthusiastic over that plan," laughed Constance.

"I must go," decided Marjorie. "The hands of that clock fairly fly around the dial. I'm sure I just came and yet they point to a quarter to eleven." She reached reluctantly for her hat and her wraps.

"How can I ever thank you, Marjorie," began Constance, but Marjorie put a soft hand over her friend's lips.

"Please don't," she implored. "I've loved to do it." She held out both hands to Constance. "I wish you the merriest sort of a merry Christmas."

"I hope you will have a perfectly wonderful day," was the earnest response. "You'll come over to-morrow and see how happy you've made Charlie and all of us, won't you?"

"I'll come," promised Marjorie. "You couldn't keep me away."

She reached home just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of her father disappearing up the stairs with a huge box in his arms, while her mother hastily dropped some thing into the drawer of the library table.

"There, I caught both of you," she cried in triumph. "Confess you were hiding things from me, weren't you?"

"I'll answer your questions to-morrow," beamed her father.

"I forgive you both as long as the things are for me," was her calm declaration.

"What is she talking about?" solemnly asked Mr. Dean, with an air of complete mystification.

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about!" exclaimed Marjorie, making a rush for him.

"Help, help!" he called feebly. "The battalion has been ambushed and the general captured."

"And held prisoner," added Marjorie, severely. "Unless he informs the second lieutenant what is in a certain big, white box with which he escaped upstairs, he shall be court-martialed."

"Put off the court-martial until to-morrow and perhaps I'll tell," compromised the captured general, throwing his free arm across his lieutenant's shoulder in a most unmilitary manner.

"All right, I'll let you go on parole," returned his daughter. "I'm too sleepy to do guard duty to-night. How I wish you might have seen Charlie's little wagon when we finished it! We had a tree, too."

Forgetting that she was sleepy, Marjorie poured forth the story of her evening's work to her sympathetic listeners and it was ten minutes to twelve before she said good-night and went yawning to bed.

Eight o'clock Christmas morning found her awake and stirring. Wrapped in her bathrobe, she pattered downstairs to the living-room, her arms full of bundles, but her father and mother were already there before her, and their packages greatly outnumbered hers. After the kisses and greetings of the day had been given her father handed the big white box into her outstretched arms. "Shall I tell you --  -- " he began.

"Don't you dare! I'm going to see for myself. Oh-h-h!" She had the lid off, and was clasping to her breast a mass of soft brown fur. "Oh, General, you dear thing! You sha'n't ever go to prison again." She smothered her father in the coat and a rapturous embrace, causing him to protest mildly. Her mother's gift of a bracelet watch also evoked another burst of reckless enthusiasm.

What a happy hour it was, to be sure, and how beautifully all her friends had remembered her! Marjorie could hardly bear to leave her presents long enough to eat breakfast, and when after breakfast she left home for her Christmas call on the Stevens, she felt as though she must sing "Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men," at the top of her voice as she walked.



Chapter XIX

The Unlucky Talisman


There was a rapturous shriek of joy from Charlie as Constance opened the door for Marjorie and their hands and lips met in Christmas greeting. Marjorie stooped to embrace the excited little figure. "Santa Claus did come to see Charlie, didn't he?" she exclaimed, in pretended surprise. "And what did he bring?"

For answer the child limped to his Christmas corner. "Oh, a fiddle," he said reverently, clasping the little violin to his heart. "Now I shall play in the band soon. Johnny said so." He thrust the violin under his sharp little chin, the thin fingers of his left hand reaching across the fingerboard, his left wrist curving into position.

"Why, he holds it like a real violinist!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Can he play?"

Charlie answered her question by dragging his triumphant bow across the helpless strings, drawing forth a wailing discord of tortured sound.

"He thinks he can," giggled Constance. "I suppose those awful sounds are the sweetest music to his ears. Luckily, we don't mind them. I hope you don't. I hate to stop him, he is so delighted with himself."

"I don't mind in the least," assured Marjorie. "I wouldn't spoil his pleasure for anything in the world."

Charlie had no intention of giving a concert that morning, however; he had too many other things to distract his mind.

Marjorie sat on the floor beside the Christmas tree, her feet tucked under her, and listened with becoming gravity and attention while he told her about Santa Claus' visit, and one by one brought forth his precious presents for her to see.

"He must have had enough presents to go around this year or he wouldn't have left me so many," asserted the child with happy positiveness. "Connie's going to write him a letter and say thank you for me. If I don't say 'thank you' when someone gives me something, then I can never play in the band. Johnny and father always say it. I'm sorry I didn't write to Santa Claus before Christmas and ask him for a new leg. I can't go fast on this one. It's been wearing out ever since I was a baby and it keeps on getting shorter."

"Santa Claus can't give you a new leg, Charlie boy," answered Marjorie, her bright face clouding momentarily, "but perhaps some day we can find a good, kind man who will make this poor little leg over like a new one."

"When you find him, you'll be sure to tell him all about me, won't you, Marjorie?" he asked eagerly.

"As sure as anything," nodded Marjory, brushing his heavy black hair out of his eyes and kissing him gently.

"Will you walk down to the drugstore with me, Marjorie?" put in Constance, abruptly.

Marjorie glanced up to meet her friend's troubled gaze. In an instant she was on her feet.

"It's a good thing I didn't take off my hat and coat. I'm ready to go, you see."

"Charlie can watch for us at the window," suggested Constance, hugging the child. "We won't be long."

Once outside the house there was an eloquent silence. "It's dreadful, isn't it?" There was a catch in Constance's voice when finally she spoke.

"Can't he be cured?" queried Marjorie, softly.

"Yes; so a specialist said, if only we had the money."

"He is such a quaint child, and he really and truly believes in Santa Claus," mused Marjorie, aloud. "Most children of his age don't."

"He's different," was the quick reply. "He has been brought up away from other children and in a world of his own. He believes in fairies, too, good ones and bad ones. But he loves music better than anything else in the world, and his highest ambition in life is to play in the band. If only I had the money to make him well! I'd love to see him strong and sturdy like other children."

"You mustn't talk about such sad things to-day, but just be happy," counseled Marjorie, slipping her arm through that of her friend. "Charlie is cheerful and jolly in spite of his poor lame leg. Perhaps the New Year will bring you something glorious."

"You are so comforting, Marjorie," sighed Constance. "I'll throw all my cares to the winds and keep sunny all day if I can."

"I must go now." They entered the little gray house again, just in time to hear remonstrative squeaks from the E string of the diminutive violin, blended with disheartened moans from the A and growls of protest from the G string.

"How did you like that?" inquired Charlie, calmly.

"It was very noisy," criticised Constance.

"It was a very hard passage to play," explained the embryo musician, soberly.

"It seems to have been," laughed Marjorie.

"That is what Johnny says when he doesn't pay attention and makes a mistake on the fiddle," confided Charlie.

Constance's sad look vanished at this naive assertion. "He imitates father and Uncle John in everything," she explained. "He will have played his way through all the music in the house before to-morrow night -- most of it upside down, too."

"I'd love to stay longer, but I promised to stop at Macy's and we have our dinner at one o'clock. I wish you could come, too, but I know you'd rather be at home. Thank you again for the hemstitched handkerchiefs. I don't see how you found the time to make them."

"Thank you for the lovely hand-embroidered blouse and all Charlie's things," reminded Constance. "I hope we'll spend many, many more Christmases together."

"So do I," echoed Marjorie, as she kissed Charlie and held out her hand to her friend.

Her call on the Macys lasted the better part of an hour, for Jerry was the recipient of a host of gifts, and insisted upon displaying them, while Hal refused to pose gracefully in the background and absorbed as much of Marjorie's attention as she would give him, secretly wondering if she would be pleased with the box of American Beauty roses he had ordered the florist to deliver at the Deans' residence at noon that day.

What a blissful Christmas it was! From the moment of Marjorie's awakening that morning until the day was done it was one long succession of joyous surprises. And, oh, glorious thought! there were ten blessed days of vacation stretching before her.

"I'll see if Constance will go to the matinee Saturday," she planned drowsily that night as she prepared for sleep. "We will take Charlie. I promised him long ago that I would. I'll run over there to-morrow. Too bad I didn't think of it to-day."

But "to-morrow" brought its own deeds to be done, and so did the following two days, and it was Friday afternoon before Marjorie found time for her visit to the little gray house.

Ever since Christmas it had snowed at intervals and the snow-plow men had been kept busy clearing the streets. It was just the kind of weather to wear one's fur coat, and Marjorie gave a little shiver of delight as she slipped into her Christmas treasure. And how warm it was! The searching east wind that was abroad that day held no discomfort for her.

As she stepped briskly along over the hard-packed walk, hedged in by high-piled snow, she thought rather soberly of her own good fortune and wondered why so many beautiful things had been given to her while to Constance life had grudged all but the barest necessities. With a rush of generous impulse she resolved to do all in her power to smooth the troubled way of her friend.

When within sight of the house Marjorie's eyes were fastened upon the living-room windows for some sign of Charlie, who would sit contentedly at one of them by the hour watching the passersby. Catching sight of his pale little face pressed to the window pane she waved her hand gaily to him. He disappeared from the window and an instant later stood in the open door, shouting gleefully, "Oh, Connie, here's Marjorie! Here's Marjorie!"

Marjorie bent and embraced the gleeful little boy. "How is Charlie to-day?" she asked.

"Pretty well," nodded the child. "I wish I had asked for that leg, though. Mine hurts to-day."

"You poor baby!" consoled Marjorie, tenderly. "But where is Connie, dear?"

"She's upstairs. I'll call her."

He limped across the room to the stair door, which was situated at one side of the living-room, and opened it. "Connie," he called, "Marjorie's come to see us."

There was a sound of quick footsteps on the stairs and Constance appeared. "I didn't know you were here," she apologized.

"Where were you on Thursday?" began Marjorie, laughingly. "You promised to come over. Don't you remember?"

"Yes," returned Constance, briefly. Then with a swift return of the old, chilling reserve, which of late she had seemed to lose, "It was impossible for me to come."

Marjorie scrutinized her friend's face. The look of impassivity had come back to it. "What is the matter, Constance?" she questioned anxiously. "Has anything happened?"

An expression of intense pain leaped into Constance's blue eyes. "I've something to tell you, Marjorie. It's dreadful. I --  -- " With a muffled sob she threw herself, face down, upon the old velvet couch, her slender shoulders shaking with passionate grief.

"Why, Constance!" Marjorie regarded the sobbing girl in sympathetic amazement.

Charlie went over to the couch and patted Constance's fair head. "Don't cry, Connie," he pleaded. Then, limping to a dilapidated writing desk in the corner, which Marjorie never remembered to have seen open before, he took from one of the lower pigeonholes a small, glittering object.

"This is what makes Connie cry." He opened his hand and disclosed a little object on his outstretched palm. "Shall I throw the old thing into the fire, Connie?"

With a sharp ejaculation of dismay, Constance sprang from the couch. One swift glance toward the desk, then she caught Charlie's tiny hand in hers. "Give it to Connie, this minute," she commanded sternly. For the instant Marjorie was forgotten.

Charlie's lips quivered with grieved surprise. Relinquishing his hold on the object he wailed resentfully, "It is a horrid old thing. It made you cry, and me, too."

"Charlie, dear," soothed Constance. Then she glanced up to meet the horrified stare of two accusing brown eyes. "Why -- Marjorie!" she exclaimed.

"Where -- where -- did you get that pin?" Marjorie's soft voice sounded harsh and unnatural.

"That's what I started to tell you," faltered Constance. "Oh, it's so dreadful I can't bear to speak of it. Yet I must tell you. I -- the pin --  -- " she broke down and throwing herself on the lounge again began to cry disconsolately.

An appalling silence fell upon the shabby, music-littered room, broken only by Constance's sobs. Marjorie stood rooted to the spot. Could it be true that Constance, the girl she had fought for, the girl for whose sake she had braved class ostracism, had deliberately stolen her pin? Yet she must believe the evidence of her own eyes which had told her that in Charlie's hand lay her cherished pin, her lost, much-mourned-for butterfly!

If Constance had deliberately taken the pin, then she was a thief. If she had found it, but purposely failed to return it, she was still a thief. Marjorie opened her lips to pour forth a torrent of reproaches, but the words would not come. She had a wild desire to pry open the hand which held her precious butterfly and seize it, but her hands remained limply at her sides. It was her pin, her very own, yet she could not touch it unless Constance chose to hand it to her.

But Constance made no such proffer. Still clutching the precious butterfly she continued to weep unrestrainedly.

Marjorie waited patiently.

Having failed hopelessly as a comforter, Charlie had hobbled to his corner, where his Christmas tree still stood, and, with that blessed forgetfulness of sorrow which childhood alone knows, had dragged forth his violin and begun a dismal screeching and scraping, a nerve-racking obligato to his foster sister's sobs.

Five endless minutes passed, but Constance made no sign.

"I'm -- I'm going now," choked Marjorie. Hot tears lay thick on her eyelashes. She stumbled blindly toward the door, her face averted from the girl who had so misused and abused her friendship. "Good-bye, Constance."

Something in the reproachful ring of that "Good-bye," startled Constance out of her grief. She had been too greatly overcome with her own trouble to note the effect of her tears and broken words upon Marjorie. Surely Marjorie was not angry with her for crying.

"Wait a minute, Marjorie," she called. "Please don't be angry. I won't cry any more. I want to tell you about the pin. It was --  -- "

But only the sound of a closing door answered her. Marjorie was gone.



Chapter XX

The Crowning Injury


Marjorie never remembered just how she reached home that afternoon. She followed the familial streets mechanically, her brain tortured with but one burning thought -- Constance was a thief. Over and over the dreadful sentence repeated itself in her mind. "How could she?" was her half-sobbed whisper, as she slipped quietly into the house, and, without glancing toward the living-room, went softly upstairs to her room. She wanted to be alone. Not even her beloved captain could ease the hurt dealt her by the girl she had loved and trusted. Her mother must never know that Constance was unworthy. No one should know, but she could never, never be friends with Constance again.

With the tears running down her cheeks Marjorie took off the new fur coat she had worn so proudly that afternoon and dropped it upon the first convenient chair. Her hat followed it; then throwing herself across the bed, she gave way to uncontrolled weeping. Until that moment she had not realized how greatly she had loved this girl who had Mary's eyes of true blue, but who was so sadly lacking in Mary's fine sense of honor.

Until the afternoon light waned and the shadows began to creep upon her she lay mourning, and inconsolable. Her generous heart had been sorely wounded and she could not easily thrust aside her dreadful sense of loss; neither could she understand why Constance had partly acknowledged that she took the butterfly pin, but had not offered to return it.

"I couldn't ask her for it," she sighed to herself, as, at last, she rose, switched on the electric light, and viewed her tear-swollen face in the mirror, "not when she had kept it all this time. She knew how dreadfully I felt over losing it, and she certainly saw the notice in the hall." A flash of resentment tinged her grief.

"I can't forgive her. I'll never forgive her. I --  -- " Marjorie's lips began to quiver ominously. "I won't cry any more," she asserted stoutly. "My face is a sight now. Mother will ask me what the trouble is, and I don't want a soul to know. Of course, we can't go to the matinee to-morrow. We can't ever go anywhere together again." Once more the tears threatened to fall. She shut her eyes and forced them back, then went dejectedly down the hall to the bathroom to lave her flushed face and aching eyes.

By the time dinner was ready Marjorie showed no traces of her grief. She was unusually quiet at dinner, however, and her mother inquired anxiously if she were ill.

"Did you wear your new coat this afternoon?" her father asked soberly.

"Yes, General. I went to see Constance." Marjorie tried to speak naturally.

"Ah, that accounts for it," he declared, putting on a professional air. "Too much magnificence has struck in. You have, no doubt, a well-developed case of pride and vanity."

"I haven't a single shred of either," protested Marjorie, laughing a little at her father's tone, which was an exact imitation of their former family physician. "That sounded just like good old Doctor Bates."

"Are you and Constance going to take Charlie to the matinee to-morrow, dear?" asked her mother.

"No, Mother," returned Marjorie. Then as though determined to evade further questioning, she asked: "May I go shopping with you?"

"I wish you would. You can select the material for your new dress and the lace for that blouse I am making for you. It is so pretty. My new fashion book came to-day. I have picked out several styles of gowns for you."

"What did you pick out for me?" inquired Mr. Dean, ingenuously.

"You can't have any new clothes. Too much magnificence would strike in. You would have, no doubt, a well-developed case of pride and vanity," retorted Marjorie, wickedly.

"Report at the guard house at once, for disrespectful conduct to your superior officer," ordered Mr. Dean with great severity.

"Not to-night, thank you," bowed the disobedient lieutenant, as all three rose from the table, "I'm going upstairs to my room to write a letter."

Once in her room Marjorie went to her desk and opened it with a reluctance born of the knowledge of a painful task to be performed. Seating herself, she reached for her pen and nibbled the end soberly as she racked her brain for the best way to begin a note to Constance. Finally she decided and wrote:

"Dear Constance:

"I cannot come over to your house to-morrow or ever again. I know what you wanted to tell me. It is too dreadful to think of. You should have told me before. I will never let anyone know, so you need not worry. You have hurt me terribly, and I can't forgive you yet, but I hope I shall some day. I don't like to mention things, but for your own sake won't you try to do what is right about the pin? I shall always speak to you in school, for I don't wish the girls to know we have separated.

"Yours sorrowfully,

"Marjorie."

When she had finished, the all-too-ready tears had again flooded her eyes and dropped unrestrained upon the green blotting pad on her desk. After a little she slowly wiped her eyes, and, without reading what she had written, folded the letter, addressed and stamped it. Slipping into her coat, she wound a silken scarf about her head and went downstairs.

"I'm going out to the mailbox, Mother," she called, as she passed the living-room door.

"Very well," returned Mrs. Dean, abstractedly. She was deep in her book and did not glance up, for which Marjorie was thankful. If her mother noticed her reddened eyelids, explanations would necessarily follow.

The next day dragged interminably. Even the usual pleasure of going shopping with her captain could not mitigate the pain of yesterday's shocking discovery. To Marjorie the bare idea of theft was abhorrent. When, at the Hallowe'en dance, Mignon had accused Constance of taking her bracelet, Marjorie's wrath at the insult to her friend had been righteous and sweeping.

That night, as she sat opposite her mother in the living-room trying to read one of the books she had received for Christmas the incident of the missing bracelet and Mignon's accusation suddenly loomed up in her mind like an unwelcome specter. Suppose Mignon had been right, after all. Jerry had openly asserted that she did not believe Mignon had really lost her bracelet, and in her anger Marjorie had secretly agreed with the stout girl. Suppose Constance had taken it. What if she were one of those persons one reads of in books whom continued poverty had made dishonest, or perhaps she was a kleptomaniac? The last idea, though unpleasant to contemplate, was not so repugnant to her as the first; but she did not believe it to be true. Constance's partial confession, coupled with her ready tears, was positive proof that she had been conscious of her act of theft. There was only one other theory left; she had found the pin and succumbed to the temptation of keeping it. Yet Constance had always averred that she did not care for jewelry, and would not wear it if she possessed it.

Marjorie went over these suppositions again and again, but each time her theories ended with the bitter fact that, in spite of her tears, Constance had kept her ill-gotten bauble.

The vacation which had promised so much, and which she had happily supposed would be all too short, seemed endless. During the long days that followed she received no word from the girl in the little gray house. If Constance had received her letter, she made no sign, and this served to add to Marjorie's belief in her unworthiness.

Jerry Macy's New Year's party proved a welcome relief from the hateful experience through which she had passed. Although invited, Constance was not among the merry gathering of young people, and Jerry loudly lamented the fact. Mr. Stevens and Uncle John Roland, who furnished the music for the dancing, greeted Marjorie with affectionate regard. It was evident that they knew nothing of what had transpired. Constance was ill, her father reported, but hoped to be able to return to school on Tuesday. He thanked Marjorie for her remembrance of him and Charlie, and Uncle John forgot himself and repeated everything after him with grateful nods and smiles.

During the evening Marjorie frequently found herself near the two musicians, and Lawrence Armitage, secretly disappointed because of Constance's absence, also did considerable loitering in their immediate vicinity. If the troubled little lieutenant had had nothing on her mind, she would have spent a most delightful evening, for the Macy's enormous living-room had been transformed into a veritable ballroom, where the guests might dance without bumping elbows at every turn, while Hal and Jerry were the most hospitable entertainers.

If Constance's father and foster uncle had not been present, she might have forgotten her woes, but whenever she glanced at either, the sorrowful face of the Mary girl rose before her. To make matters worse, Jerry proposed to her that they call upon Constance the next day, and Marjorie was obliged to refuse lamely without giving any apparent reason. It was in the nature of a relief to her when the party broke up. In spite of the gratifying knowledge that the girls had pronounced her new white silk frock the prettiest gown of all, and that Hal Macy had been her devoted cavalier, Marjorie Dean went to bed that night in a most unhappy mood.

The Monday before she returned to school she began a long letter to Mary. She and Mary had sworn that, though miles divided them, they would tell each other their secrets. Resolved to keep her word, she had written her heart out to her chum, then had read the letter and torn it into little pieces. Having written only pleasant things of her new friend to Mary, she could not bear to take away her good name with a few strokes of her pen.

"If only Constance were true and honorable like Mary," she sighed as she closed her desk, and selecting a book she wandered disconsolately downstairs to the living-room to read; but her thoughts continually reverted to her own grievance. "If she gives back my pin, I'll forgive her," was her final conclusion as at last she laid her book aside with an impatient sigh, and sitting down on a little stool near the fire, stared gloomily into its ruddy depths; "but I never, never, never can feel the same toward her again."

Marjorie went to school on Tuesday morning vaguely hoping that Constance would see things in a finer light and act accordingly. Unselfish in most respects, the poor little soldier had forgotten everything save the fact that she was the injured one. To her it seemed as though the other girl's crushing weight of half-acknowledged guilt ought to make her a willing suppliant for pardon. During the early part of the morning session she waited, half expecting to receive a contrite plea for grace from the Mary girl.

When her French hour came, she hurried into the classroom, thinking that she might see Constance before the class gathered; but Professor Fontaine had closed the door and remarked genially, "Bon jour, mesdemoiselles. Comment vous portez vous, aujourd'hui. I trost that you have not forgotten your French during your 'oliday," when it opened quietly to admit Constance.

Marjorie regarded her gravely, noting that she looked pale and tired. Suddenly her eyes opened in wide, unbelieving amazement. With a half-smothered exclamation that caused half the class to turn and look at her, including Mignon, whose alert eyes traveled knowingly between the two girls, she tore her gaze from the disturbing sight, and, putting one hand over her eyes, leaned her head on her arm. For fastened at the open neck of Constance's blouse was her butterfly pin.



Chapter XXI

Mignon Plans Mischief


To Marjorie, torn between resentment of Constance's bold display of the stolen pin and shame for her utter absence of honor, the French lesson was a confused jumble. She heard but dimly the rise and fall of Professor Fontaine's voice as he conducted the lesson, and when he called upon her to recite she stared at him dazedly and finally managed to stammer that she was not prepared.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Dean, I am of a certainty moch surprised that you cannot translate thees paragraph," the little man declared reproachfully. "I weel begeen eet for you, and you shall do the rest, N'est pas?"

Marjorie stumbled through the paragraph with hot cheeks and a strong desire to throw her book into the air and rush from the recitation. When class was over she seized her books and left the room without looking in Constance's direction.

The eyes of the latter followed her with an expression of perplexed, questioning sorrow that, had Marjorie noted and interpreted as such, might have caused her to doubt what seemed plain, thresh the matter out frankly with Constance, and thus save them both many weeks of misunderstanding and heartache.

At the close of the morning session Marjorie lingered until she was sure that Constance had taken her wraps from the locker and departed. The thought of her beloved pin ornamenting the other girl's blouse was too bitter to be tamely borne. Fierce resentment crowded out her gentler feelings, and she could not trust herself to come in contact with her faithless classmate and remain silent.

On the steps of the school she met Jerry and Irma, who had posted themselves to wait for her.

"I thought you had decided to stay in there all day," grumbled Jerry.

"It's only five minutes past twelve," protested Marjorie.

"I thought it was at least half-past," retorted Jerry. "Say, Marjorie, didn't you say that you'd lost your butterfly pin?"

"Yes," replied Marjorie, shortly, bracing herself for what she felt would follow. She was not the only one who had seen the pin in Constance's possession.

"Did Constance Stevens find it?" quizzed Jerry.

"Yes."

"Oh, then that's all right. I saw her wearing it this morning; and I'm not the only one who saw her, either. Mignon had her eye on it in French class, and I wouldn't be surprised to hear of some hateful remark she had made about it. You know, she still insists that Constance took her bracelet. She might be mean enough to say that Constance found your pin and didn't give it back to you."

Marjorie stared at Jerry in amazement. Without knowing it, the stout girl had exactly stated the truth about the pin.

"You needn't stare at me like that," went on Jerry. "Of course, we know that Constance wouldn't be so silly as to try to keep a pin belonging to someone else that everyone recognized; but lots of girls would believe it. I suppose you let Constance wear it because you two are so chummy; but you'd better get it back and wear it yourself. Then Mignon can't say a word."

"I'll think about it," was Marjorie's evasive answer, but once she had said good-bye to the two girls she began to deliberate within herself as to what she had best do. Here was an exigency against which she had failed to provide. She had resolved never to betray Constance to the girls, but now Constance had, by openly wearing the pin, betrayed herself. Either she would be obliged to go to Constance and demand her own or allow her to wear the bit of jewelry and create the impression that she had sanctioned the wearing of it.

When she returned to school that afternoon she had half determined to see Constance and put the situation fairly to her, but rather to her relief Constance did not appear at the afternoon session, nor was she in school the next day. When Friday came and she was still absent, Marjorie was divided between her pride and a desire to go to the little gray house and settle matters. On Saturday she was still halting between two opinions, and it was four o'clock Saturday afternoon before she put on her wraps with the air of one who has made up her mind and started for the Stevens'.

As she approached the house she looked toward the particular window where Charlie was so fond of stationing himself to peer out on the dingy little street, but there was no sign of the boy's white, eager face. To her vivid imagination the very house itself wore a sad, cheerless aspect that filled her with a vague apprehension of some impending unpleasantness.

She knocked briskly at the door, then waited a little. There was no response. She knocked again, harder and longer, but still silence unbroken by any footfall, reigned within. After pounding upon the door at intervals for at least ten minutes, she turned and walked dejectedly away from the house of denial, speculating as to what could possibly have become of the Stevens'.

At the corner she almost ran against Mr. Stevens, who, with his soft black felt hat pulled low over his forehead, was hurrying along, his violin case under his arm.

"Oh, Mr. Stevens," cried Marjorie, "where is Constance? I have just come from your house, and there is no one at home."

Mr. Stevens looked mildly surprised. "I thought you knew," he answered. "Didn't Constance tell you she was going away? She and Charlie went to New York City yesterday. They are to meet Constance's aunt there. It was very unexpected. She received a letter from her aunt on Tuesday. I was sure she had told you." Mr. Stevens' fine face took on an expression of perplexity.

"I did not know it," responded Marjorie, soberly. "When will she return?"

"I am not quite sure. I shall not know definitely until I hear from her," was the discouraging reply.

"I'm sorry I didn't see her," was all Marjorie could find words for, as she turned to go. "Good-bye, Mr. Stevens."

"Good-bye, Miss Marjorie." The musician bared his head, his thick, white hair ruffling in the wind. "You will hear from Constance, no doubt."

"No doubt I won't," breathed Marjorie, as she walked on. "What would he say, I wonder, if he knew? He'll never know from me, neither will anyone else. I hope those girls will forget all about seeing Constance wear the pin."

But the affair of the pin was destined not to sink into oblivion, for the next morning Marjorie found on her desk the following note:

"Miss Dean:

"Do you think you are doing right in shielding a thief? It looks as though a certain person either stole or found and kept a certain article belonging to you and yet you allow her to wear it before your very eyes without protest. If you do not immediately insist on the return of your property and denounce the thief, we will put the matter before Miss Archer, as this is not the first offense. This is the decision of several indignant students who insist that the girls of the freshman class shall be above reproach."

Marjorie's eyes flashed her contempt of the anonymous missive. She folded it quietly, then, reaching into her desk, drew forth a sheet of note paper and wrote:

"Miss La Salle:

"Although the note I found on my desk is not signed, I am sure that you wrote it. I do not think you have the slightest right to dictate to me in a personal matter. Miss Stevens and I are perfectly capable of settling our own affairs without the help of any member of the freshman class.

"Marjorie Dean."

Mignon's pale face flushed crimson as she read the note which Marjorie lost no time in sending to her via the student route, which was merely the passing of it from desk to desk until it reached its destination. With a scornful lifting of her shoulders she flung the note on her desk, then snatching it up, tore it into tiny pieces.

When school was dismissed she lingered and twenty minutes afterward emerged from Miss Archer's office in company with Marcia Arnold, an expression of triumph in her black eyes.

When she reached home that afternoon she took from the drawer of her dressing-table something small and shining and examined it carefully. "It looks the same, but is it?" she muttered. "Where did the other come from? I don't understand it in the least. Just the same, Marjorie Dean thinks Miss Smarty Stevens took her pin. She was thunderstruck when she saw that Stevens girl wearing it this morning. She's too much afraid of not telling the truth to deny it in her letter. There's something gone wrong with their friendship, too. I'm sure of it from the way they have been acting. I don't know what it's all about, but I do know that this," she touched the small, shining object, "shall never help them solve their problem."



Chapter XXII

Planning For The Masquerade


On the morning following Mignon's visit to Miss Archer's office, Marjorie was unpleasantly startled to hear Miss Merton call out stridently just after opening exercises, "Miss Dean, report to Miss Archer, at once."

A battery of curious eyes was turned in speculation upon Marjorie as she walked the length of the study hall, outwardly composed, but inwardly resentful at Miss Merton's tone, which, to her sensitive ears, bordered on insult.

"Good morning, Miss Archer; Miss Merton said you wished to see me," began Marjorie, quietly, as she entered the outer office where Miss Archer stood, reading a letter which her secretary had just handed to her for inspection.

"Yes," returned the principal, briefly; "come with me." She led the way to her inner office and, motioning to Marjorie to precede her, stepped inside and closed the door.

"Sit here, Miss Dean," she directed, indicating a chair at one side of her desk. Then, seating herself, she turned to the young girl, and said, with kind gravity: "I sent for you this morning because I wish to speak frankly to you of one of your classmates. I shall expect you to be absolutely frank, too. Very grave complaints have been brought to me by Miss La Salle concerning Constance Stevens. She insists that Miss Stevens is guilty of the theft of her bracelet, which disappeared on the night of the dance given by the young men of Weston High School. As I left the gymnasium some time before the party was over, I knew nothing of this, and no word of it was brought to me afterward.

"Miss La Salle also states that Miss Stevens has been wearing a gold pin, in the form of a butterfly, which belongs to you and which you advertised as lost. She declares that she is positive that Miss Stevens found the pin and made no effort to return it to you, and that you are shielding her from the effects of her own wrongdoing by allowing her to continue to wear it. This latter seems to be a rather far-fetched accusation, but Miss La Salle is so insistent in the matter that I was going to settle that part of it, at least, by asking you where and when you found your pin and whether you gave Miss Stevens permission to wear it.

"This may seem to you, my dear, like direct interference in your personal affairs, but it is necessary that this matter be cleared up at once. Miss Stevens cannot afford to allow such detrimental reports to be circulated about her through the school."

Miss Archer looked expectantly at Marjorie, who was strangely silent, two signals of distress in her brown eyes.

"I cannot answer your questions, Miss Archer," she answered at last, her clear tones a trifle unsteady.

The principal regarded her with amazed displeasure. Accustomed to having the deciding voice in all matters pertaining to her position as head of the school, she could not endure being crossed, particularly by a pupil.

"I must insist upon an answer, Miss Dean. Your silence is unfair, not only to Miss Stevens, but to the school. If Miss Stevens is innocent of any wrongdoing, now is the time to clear her name of suspicion. If she is guilty, by telling the true circumstances concerning your pin, you are doing the school justice. A person who deliberately appropriates that which does not belong to him or to her is a menace to the community in which he or she lives, and should be removed from it. Our school is our community. It must be kept free from those who are a detriment to it," concluded Miss Archer, her mouth settling into lines of obstinate firmness.

The distress in Marjorie's face deepened. "I am sorry, Miss Archer, but I can tell you nothing. Please don't think me stubborn and obstinate. I can't help it. I -- I have nothing to say."

"I have explained to you the necessity for perfect frankness on your part, and you have refused to comply with my demand," reproved the principal. "I am deeply disappointed in you, Miss Dean. I looked for better things from you. The affair will have to stand as it is until Miss Stevens returns. I am sorry that you will not assist me in clearing it up." She made a gesture of dismissal. "That is all, I believe, this morning. You may return to the study hall."

Without a word Marjorie rose and left the room, her eyes full of tears, her proud spirit hurt to the quick. The icy reproach in the principal's words was, indeed, hard to bear, and all for a girl who had proved herself unworthy of friendship. Yet she could not help feeling a swift pang of pity for Constance. How dreadful it would be for her when she returned to Sanford and to school!

But Constance seemed in no hurry to return. Midyear, with its burden of examinations, its feverish hopes and fears, came and went. Then followed a three days' vacation, and the new term began with a great readjusting of programs and classes. Marjorie passed her state examinations in American history and physiology, and decided upon physical geography and English history in their places, as both were term studies. She entered upon her second term's work with little enthusiasm, however. The disagreeable, almost tragic events following the holidays had left a shadow on her freshman days, that had promised so much.

February came, smiled deceitfully, froze vindictively, threatened a little, then thawed and froze again, as his next-door neighbor, March, whisked resentfully down upon him, hurried him out of the running for a whole year, and blustered about it for two weeks afterward. The swiftly passing days, however, brought no word or sign concerning the absent Constance, and, try as she might, Marjorie could not forget her.

Mignon La Salle, though greatly disappointed over the failure of her plan to humiliate the musician's daughter, was craftily biding her time, resolved to strike the moment Constance returned to school.

"Mignon certainly intends to make things interesting for Constance," declared Jerry to Marjorie, as the French girl switched haughtily by them one mild afternoon in late March on the way home from school.

"Why do you say that?" asked Marjorie, quickly. "Have you heard anything new?"

"Nothing startling," replied Jerry. "You know Irma and Susan Atwell used to be best friends until they began chumming with Mignon and Muriel. Well, Susan is awfully angry with Mignon for something she said about her, so she has dropped her, and Muriel, too. She went over to Irma's house the other night and cried and said she was sorry she'd been so silly. She wanted to be friends with Irma again."

"What did Irma say?" asked Marjorie, breathlessly.

"Oh, she made up with her, then and there," informed Jerry with fine disgust. "I'd have kept her waiting a while. She deserved it. She told Irma she hoped I'd forgive her, but I didn't make any rash promises."

"What a hard-hearted person you are," smiled Marjorie. "But, tell me, Jerry, what did you hear about Constance?"

"Oh, yes. That's what I started out to tell you. Mignon told Susan last week that she was only waiting for Constance to come back to school to take her to Miss Archer and accuse her of stealing her bracelet."

"How dreadful!" deplored Marjorie. "Perhaps Constance won't come back."

"Yes, she will. She wrote a note to Miss Archer when she went away saying that she had to go to New York City on business, but would return to school as soon as possible. Marcia Arnold saw the note, and told Mignon. Mignon told Susan before they had their fuss. Susan told Irma, and she told me. Almost an endless chain, but not quite," finished Jerry with a cheerful grin.

"I should say so," returned Marjorie, in an abstracted tone. Her thoughts were on the absent girl. She wondered why Constance had gone to New York so suddenly and taken little Charlie with her. She wished she had asked Mr. Stevens more about it.

"See here, Marjorie," Jerry's blunt tones interrupted her musing. "What's the trouble between you and Constance? I know something is the matter, but I'd like most awfully well to know what it is."

"I can't answer your question, Jerry," said Marjorie in a low tone. "Would you care if I -- if we didn't talk about Constance?"

"Not a bit," rejoined the stout girl good-naturedly. "Never tell anything you don't want to tell. We'll change the subject. Let's talk about the Sanford High dance. What character do you intend to represent?"

"Is Sanford High going to give a party?" Marjorie voiced her surprise.

"Of course. The Sanford High girls give one every spring, and the Weston boys give their dance in the fall."

"When is it to be?"

"Not until after Easter, and this year it's going to be a lot of fun. We are to have a fairy-tale masquerade."

"I never heard of any such thing before."

"Neither did I," went on Jerry, "that is, until yesterday. The committee just decided upon it. You see, the girls always give a fancy dress party, but not always a masquerade. This year a freshman who was on the committee proposed that it would be a good stunt to make everyone dress as a character in some old fairy tale. The rest of the committee liked the idea, so you had better get busy and hunt up your costume."

"But how did you happen to know so much about it?"

"Well," Jerry looked impressive. "I was on the committee and I happened to be the freshman who proposed it."

"You clever girl!" exclaimed Marjorie, admiringly. "I think that is a splendid idea. I wonder what I could go as?"

"Snow White," suggested Jerry, eyeing her critically. "I can get seven of the Weston boys to do the Seven Little Dwarfs and follow you around."

"But Snow White had 'a skin like snow, cheeks as red as blood and hair as black as ebony,'" quoted Marjorie. "I don't answer to that description."

"You are pretty, and so was she, and that's all you need to care," returned Jerry, calmly. "Besides, the Seven Dwarfs will be great. Will you do it?"

"All right," acquiesced Marjorie. "What are you going as?"

"One of the 'Fat Friars,'" giggled Jerry. "Don't you remember, 'Four Fat Friars Fanning a Fainting Fly'? I'm going to ask three more stout girls to join me. We'll wear long, gray frocks, get bald-headed wigs and carry palmleaf fans. I don't know anyone who would be willing to go as the 'Fainting Fly,' so we'll have to do without him, I guess."

"You funny girl!" laughed Marjorie. "But how will everyone know who is who after the unmasking? There will be so many queens and princesses and kings and courtiers."

"We thought of that and we are going to put up a notice for everyone to carry cards. Some of the characters will be easy to guess without cards."

"I must tell mother about it as soon as I go home and ask her to help me plan Snow White's costume. When will we receive our invitations?"

"We only send printed invitations to the boys. Every girl in high school is invited, of course. The invitations will be sent to the boys next week, and the Sanford girls will be notified at once, so as to give them plenty of time to plan their costumes."

"I wish it were to be next week," murmured Marjorie, after she had left Jerry and turned into her own street. "Everything has been gloomy and horrid for so long. I'd love to have a good time again, just to see how it seemed."

She reflected rather sadly that the disagreeable happenings of her freshman year had outweighed her good times. She had entered Sanford High School with the resolve to like every girl there, and with the hope that the girls would like her, but in some way everything had gone wrong. Perhaps she had been to blame. She had been warned in the beginning not to champion Constance Stevens. Yet the very girls who had warned her could never have been her intimate friends. Her ideals and theirs, if they had ideals, were too widely separated. No; she had been right in standing up for Constance. The fault lay with the latter. It was she who had betrayed friendship.

Determined to go no further into this most painful of subjects, Marjorie resolutely centered her thoughts upon the coming party. The moment she reached home she ran upstairs to her room. Sitting down on the floor before her bookcase, she drew out a thick red volume of Grimms' Fairy Tales and read the story of Snow White. To her joy she discovered that the colored frontispiece was a picture of Snow White begging admittance at the home of the Seven Little Dwarfs.

"I'll ask mother to make me a high-waisted white gown like this one, with pale blue trimmings and a big blue sash," she planned. "I'll wear my pale blue slippers, the ones that have no heels, and white silk stockings. Thank goodness, my hair is curly. I'll let it hang loose on my shoulders. Of course, it isn't as black as ebony; but then, I can't help that." With the book still in her hand she ran down the stairs, two at a time, to tell her mother.

What mother is not interested in her daughter's school fun and parties? Mrs. Dean entered at once into the planning of the costume and suggested that Snow White's cards be made in the shape of little apples, one half colored red, the other half green, and her name written diagonally across the surface of the apple.

Marjorie hailed the idea with delight. "May I buy the water-color paper for the apples to-morrow, Captain?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Dean. "You ought to begin them at once. What is Constance going to wear? She hasn't been here for a long time. Poor child, I suppose her family keep her busy. Why not ask her to dinner some night this week, Marjorie?"

Marjorie flushed hotly. Her mother, who was busily engaged with an intricate bit of embroidery, did not notice the added color in her daughter's face.

"Constance is in New York visiting her aunt," returned Marjorie. "She has been there for a long time. Charlie is with her. I don't know when they will be home."

Something in her daughter's tone caused Mrs. Dean to glance quickly up from her work. Marjorie was staring out of the window with unseeing eyes.

"Constance has hurt Marjorie's feelings by not writing to her," was Mrs. Dean's thought. Aloud she said: "Did you know before Constance went to New York that she intended going?"

"No; she didn't tell me."

Marjorie volunteered no further information, and Mrs. Dean refrained from asking questions. She thought she understood her daughter's reticence. Marjorie naturally felt that Constance was neglectful and a little ungrateful, but would not say so.

"I wish I could tell mother all about it," ruminated Marjorie, as she went slowly upstairs to replace the Grimms'. "I can't bear to do it. I suppose I shall some day, but it seems too dreadful to say, 'Mother, Constance is a thief. She stole my butterfly pin. That's why she doesn't come here any more.' It's like a disagreeable dream, and I wish I could wake up some day to find that it's all been a dreadful mistake."

But light is sure to follow darkness, and the loyal little lieutenant's awakening was nearer at hand than she could foresee.



Chapter XXIII

The Awakening


It was wilful, changeable April's last night, and, being in a tender reminiscent mood, she dispensed her balmiest airs for the benefit of the distinguished company who filled to overflowing the gymnasium of Sanford High School, prepared to dance her last hours away. For the heroes and heroines of fairy-tale renown had apparently left the books that had held them captive for so long, and, jubilant in their unaccustomed freedom, promenaded the floor of the gymnasium in twos, threes or in whole companies.

Simple Simon, whose tall, lank figure bore a startling resemblance to that of the Crane, paraded the floor, calm and unafraid, with none less personage than the terrible Blue Beard. Hansel and Gretel immediately formed a warm attachment for Jack and Jill, and the quartet wandered confidently about together. Little Miss Muffet, in spite of her reputed daintiness, clung to the arm of Bearskin, who, despite the fact that his furry coat was that of a buffalo instead of a bear, was a unique success in his line. One suspected, too that the Brave Little Tailor, whose waistcoat bore the modest inscription, "Seven at One Blow," and who tripped over his long sword at regular two-minute intervals, had an impish, freckled countenance. The straight, lithe figure of the youth with the Magic Fiddle reminded one of Lawrence Armitage, while his constant companion, Aladdin, a sultan of unequaled magnificence, had a peculiar swing to his gait that reminded sharp-eyed observers of Hal Macy. The Four Fat Friars loomed large and gray, and fanned imaginary flies with commendable energy, while Snow White, accompanied by her faithful dwarfs, made a radiantly beautiful figure and was greeted with ejaculations of admiration wherever she chose to walk.

There were kings and courtiers, queens and goose girls. There were jesters and princesses, old witches and fairies. Mother Goose was there. So were Jack Horner, Bo-peep, Little Boy Blue and many more of her nursery children, not to mention two fearsome giants, at least ten feet high, whose voluminous cloaks concealed figures which appeared far too tall to be true. Rapunzel trailed about on the arm of her prince, her beautiful hair, which looked suspiciously like nice new rope, confined in a braid at least three inches wide and hanging gracefully to her feet. Cinderella came to the party in her old kitchen dress, accompanied by her fairy godmother, and Beauty was attended by a strange being clad in a huge fur robe and a papier-mache tiger's head, which was immediately recognized as the formidable Beast.

The gallery of the gymnasium was crowded with the friends and families of the maskers who were admitted by tickets, a limited number of which had been issued. When the first notes of the grand march sounded there was a great craning of necks and a loud buzz of expectation as the gaily dressed company formed into line, and while the brilliant procession circled the gymnasium a lively guessing went on as to who was who in Fairyland.

Mother Goose led the march with the Brave Little Tailor, who frisked along in high glee and executed weird and wonderful steps for the edification of his aged partner and the rest of the company in general.

"Isn't it great, though," commented Aladdin to his partner, who was none other than Snow White. "I know who you are. I'm sure I do. If I guess correctly will you tell me?"

Snow White nodded her curly head.

"All right, here goes. You are Marjorie Dean."

"I'm so glad you guessed right the first time," declared Snow White in a muffled voice from behind her mask. "I've been perfectly crazy to talk to someone. It's a gorgeous party, isn't it, Hal?"

"The nicest one the Sanford girls have ever given the boys," returned Hal Macy, warmly. "You'll give me the next dance, won't you, Marjorie?"

"Of course," acquiesced Marjorie. "I think the grand march is going to end in a minute."

She danced the first dance with Hal. After that the Youth with the Magic Fiddle claimed her, and when he asked in a tone of deep concern, "When do you think Constance will be home, Marjorie?" she had no difficulty in recognizing Lawrence Armitage.

"I don't know, Laurie," she said rather confusedly. "I -- I haven't heard from her."

"She wrote me one letter," declared Laurie, gloomily. "I answered it, but she hasn't written me a line since."

"Then you know --  -- " began Marjorie. She did not finish.

"Know what?" asked Laurie, impatiently.

"Nothing," was the answer.

"That's just it!" exclaimed the boy. "I know exactly nothing about Constance. I thought you'd be sure to know something."

Just then the dance came to an end. Jack and the Beanstalk, clad in doublet and hose, and decorated with long green tendrils of that fruitful vine, his famous hatchet slung over his shoulder by a stout leather thong, claimed her for the next dance, and she had no time to exchange further words with Laurie.

The moment of unmasking was to follow the ninth dance. The eighth was just about to begin. Marjorie caught sight of a huge lumbering figure in princely garments heading in her direction, and turning fled toward the dressing-room. She was quite sure of the prince's identity, which was that of a youth whom she particularly disliked. Just as she reached the sheltering door a familiar voice called out a low, cautious, "Marjorie." Turning, she saw a stout, gray-robed friar hurrying toward her.

"I've hunted all over for you," declared the friar, in Jerry's unmistakable tones. "Come into the dressing-room. Someone is waiting to see you there."

"Waiting to see me!" exclaimed Marjorie, in surprise.

"That's what I said. Come along." Jerry caught her arm and pulled her gently into the dressing-room. At one end of the room stood the dingy figure of Cinderella, deep in conversation with her fairy godmother.

At the sound of the opening door Cinderella wheeled and, with a quavering little cry of "Marjorie!" ran forward to meet the newcomers.

Marjorie stopped short and stared unbelievingly at the shabbily clothed figure, but Cinderella had now torn off her mask and was fumbling with trembling eagerness in the pocket of her apron.

"Here it is, Marjorie, dear! I never dreamed you had one like it. No wonder you felt dreadfully that day. Look at it." She thrust a small glittering object into Marjorie's limp hand.

Marjorie regarded the object with a look of growing amazement, which suddenly changed to one of alarm. "It isn't mine!" she gasped. "It's exactly like it except for one thing. Mine has no pearls here." She touched the tips of the golden butterfly's wings. "Oh, Constance, can you ever forgive me?" The pretty butterfly pin slipped from her lax fingers and Marjorie burst into tears.

"Don't cry, Marjorie," said Jerry, with unusual gentleness. "You didn't know. It was just one of those miserable misunderstandings. Constance wants to tell you about the pin."

"But how -- where --  -- " quavered Marjorie.

"Oh, I had an idea that there was some kind of a misunderstanding, so I wrote Constance and asked her to come home as soon as she could," explained Jerry. "Her father gave me her address. She was coming home next week, anyhow, but I wrote her again and asked her to get here in time for the dance. The minute I saw that butterfly pin I asked her straight out and out where she got it. She told me, and then I knew that the thing for me to do was to bring you two together. She only came home last night, so we had to plan a costume in a hurry. You haven't said a word about her fairy godmother, either. Take off your mask, dear fairy godmother."

"Irma!" cried Marjorie, as she glimpsed a laughing face. "Oh, it's too wonderful!" She wound two penitent arms around Constance and kissed her.

"I guess that will settle Mignon," commented Jerry, in triumph. "It is a shame, but I suppose your butterfly pin is really lost. Constance will tell you the history of hers."

"I wish the bracelet problem could be solved, too," sighed Constance. "Jerry tells me that Mignon is going to accuse me of taking it when I go back to school. How can she be so cruel? I don't remember seeing it in the dressing-room on the night of the Weston dance."

"But I do!" called out a positive voice that caused them all to face the intruder in astonishment.

A slim, pale-faced girl, dressed as a shepherdess, emerged from behind a curtain which hung in a little alcove at one end of the dressing-room.

"Please excuse me for listening," apologized the girl. "I was standing here looking out of the window when you girls came in and began to talk. Before I could make up my mind what it was all about I heard Miss Stevens talking about Miss La Salle's bracelet and the Weston dance. Did Miss La Salle accuse you of taking her bracelet that night?" she asked, her eyes upon Constance.

"Yes," began Constance, "she --  -- "

"Miss La Salle is the real thief," interrupted the girl, dryly. "I saw her take off her bracelet and lay it on the dressing table. I saw her come and take it away after Miss Stevens left the room. I had to catch the last train home that night. You know, I don't live in Sanford, and I was sitting over in one corner of the dressing-room behind a chair putting on my shoes. Neither Miss Stevens nor Miss La Salle saw me. I wondered what Miss La Salle meant by doing as she did, but I never understood until this minute. I'm glad I happened to be there that night and I'm glad I happen to be here now. If there is likely to be any trouble, just send for me. I'm Edna Halstead, of the junior class."

The four girls had received this rapidly repeated information with varying degrees of amazement. It was Marjorie who first sprang forward and offered her hand to Edna Halstead. "It is the last word we needed to clear Constance," she asserted, joyously. "Will you go to Miss Archer with us on Monday?"

"I should be glad to do so. I never could endure that La Salle girl," was the frank response.

"We'll go together," planned Jerry. "Every one of you meet me in Miss Archer's living-room office on Monday morning before school begins."

"I must go home now," demurred Constance. "I don't wish anyone to know that I've been here."

"Not even Laurie?" asked Marjorie, slyly. "He spoke of you to-night."

Constance smiled. "You may tell him after the 'Home, Sweet Home' waltz."

"There goes the music for the ninth dance," informed Jerry, who had stepped to the door.

"Oh, gracious, I promised this dance to Hal! I can't go. I simply must hear about the pin, Connie."

"I'll tell you just one thing about it," stipulated Constance, "but the rest must wait until to-morrow, for Hal is too nice a boy to leave without a partner."

"Then tell me that one thing," begged Marjorie.

"My aunt sent me the pin," was the quick answer. "Now kiss me good-night and hurry along to Hal."

And Marjorie kissed her and went with happiness singing joyfully in her heart.



Chapter XXIV

The Explanation


Owing to the fervent manner in which each succeeding dance was encored, it was after midnight before the fairy-tale masquerade came to an end and the lords and ladies of fairy lore became everyday boys and girls again; and went home congratulating themselves on the blessed fact that to-morrow was Saturday and that they could make up lost sleep the next morning.

Marjorie Dean, however, was not among the late sleepers. She was up and about the house at her usual hour, for the day held promise of unusual interest. First of all, Constance was coming to see her at ten o'clock. Then too, it was May day, a gloriously sunshiny May day, without the faintest trace of cloud in the deep blue sky. As a third pleasant anticipation, her class had planned a Mayday picnic at a point about two miles up the river. It had been an unusually early spring, and the wild flowers had blossomed in such profusion in the neighboring woods about the town and along the river that the picnic had been planned with a view to spending the day in gathering as many of them as possible.

The expedition having been organized by the officers of the class there was no question of who should be invited or who should be left out. The class was exhorted to turn out in a body, and with the exception of a few girls who had made plans for that Saturday prior to their knowledge of the picnic, the freshmen of 19 --  had promised to attend.

"Oh, dear, I wish ten o'clock were here!" sighed Marjorie as she straightened the last object on her dressing table and viewed with satisfaction the immaculate order to which she had reduced her room. Keeping her room clean and dainty was almost a sacred obligation with Marjorie. Her mother had spared neither time nor expense to make it a marvel of pink-and-white beauty. The furniture was of white maple, the thick, soft rug had a cream background scattered with small pink roses. The window curtains were cunning ruffled affairs of fine white dotted Swiss, while the window draperies were in pink-and-white French cretonne. An attractive willow stand, which stood beside the bed, the two pretty willow rockers piled high with pink and white cushions and the creamy wallpaper with its graceful border of pink roses made the room a perpetual joy to its appreciative owner. Marjorie always referred to it as her "house" and when at home spent a great deal of her time there.

But this morning the May sunshine poured rapturously in at her open windows, touched her brown hair with mischievous golden fingers that left gleaming imprints on her curls, and mutely coaxed her to come out and play.

"I can't stand it indoors another minute," she breathed impatiently. "It's almost ten. I'll walk down to the corner. Perhaps I'll see Constance coming."

As she was about to leave the window she caught a glimpse of a slender blue figure far down the street. With a cry of, "Oh, there she is!" Marjorie raced out of her room, down the stairs and across the lawn to the gate.

"You dear thing!" she called, her hands extended.

The next instant the two girls were embracing with a degree of affection known only to those who, after blind misunderstanding, once more see the light.

Tears of contrition stood in Marjorie's eyes as she led Constance into the house and upstairs to her room. "Can you ever forgive me?" she faltered, pushing Constance gently into a chair and drawing her own opposite that of her friend.

"There is nothing to forgive," returned Constance, unsteadily. "You didn't know. If only I had made you stay that day until we came to an understanding! When you said 'Good-bye' in that queer tone, I called to you to wait, for it seemed to me you were angry; but you had gone. Then your note came. I didn't know how you could possibly have learned about the pin, for I hadn't told a soul besides father and Uncle John. It occurred to me that perhaps you had seen Uncle John and he had told you. When I read what you said about not seeing me again I thought just one thing, that, knowing my story, you didn't care to be friends with me any more."

"What do you mean, Constance?" Marjorie's query was full of compelling insistence. "I don't know any story about you."

"I know that you don't, dear; but I thought you knew. When Uncle John came in that afternoon I asked him if he had seen you in the last two days, and he said 'no,' and then 'yes.' I asked him if he had told you about what had happened to me, and he declared that he couldn't remember. I was sure that he had told you, because he often says that when he is afraid father or I won't approve of something he has done. That is the reason I didn't come to see you. Then I went to New York in a hurry without dreaming of what your letter really meant. Jerry wrote me two days before I had planned to come home. So I changed my plans and started for Sanford the same day her letter reached me. Charlie was so much better that I wasn't needed."

"Charlie?" repeated Marjorie, in bewildered interrogation.

"Yes," nodded Constance. "Haven't you seen father since I left? Didn't he tell you?"

"Only once. I -- he -- I didn't let him know about us. It was right after you went away. He said you had taken Charlie with you. I met him in the street and stopped only a minute. I had come from your house that day but there was no one at home. I couldn't bear to let things go on as they had.

"Now," declared Marjorie, drawing a long breath, "begin at the beginning and tell me every single thing."

"I will," assured Constance, emphatically. "Let me see. It began the day after Christmas. A letter came from New York in the morning mail addressed to father. I gave it to him, and after he read it he sat so still and looked so white that I thought he was going to faint. Then he made me come and sit down beside him and told me that the letter was from my mother's sister in New York and that she was rich and wanted me to come and live with her.

"I said that I would never desert my own father no matter how poor he was, and then he told me that he was only my foster father, just as he was Charlie's. That my own father had been his best friend when they were boys. Later on, my father became a worthless, drunken wretch and my mother had to do sewing to take care of herself and me. My mother's family never forgave her for marrying my father and would not help her. She was not strong and could not stand it to be so poor and work so hard. She died when I was a year old, and just a month afterward my father died with pneumonia. No one wanted me, so I was put in an orphan asylum, but Father Stevens, who had been trying to find my father, heard where I was and took me to live with him. He wrote to my aunt first, but she said she didn't want me. That is the first part of my story."

"It sounds like a story in a book," said Marjorie, softly. "Go on, Connie."

"This letter that father received was from my aunt," continued Constance. "She had been trying to find us for more than two years. Finally, she saw father's name signed to an article in the musical magazine, so she wrote a letter and asked the publishers to forward it. She said in the letter that she was now an old woman who had found that blood was thicker than water, and that she wanted her sister's daughter, who must now be a young woman, to come and live with her. With the letter came a jeweler's box, and in the box was the butterfly pin. She sent it to me as a Christmas gift.

"I cried and said I would not go, but father said it was the opportunity of my life time and that I must. He said that he had no legal right to me and that he loved me too dearly to stand in my way. It almost broke my heart. How I hated that butterfly and my aunt, too. When you came to see me that unlucky day I was feeling the worst. That very night I wrote my aunt a long letter. I told her just how I felt, how much I loved father and Charlie and poor old Uncle John and that I could never, never give them up. Father didn't know I wrote the letter. He thought I was becoming resigned to going away. I went back to school and wore the pin, as my aunt had asked me to do in a little note enclosed in father's letter.

"Then her letter came and it was so much nicer than the other that I cried out of pure happiness. She asked me to bring Charlie to New York. She knew a famous specialist who she thought might help, if not cure him. She asked me to make her a visit and said she would never wish me to come to live with her except of my own free will.

"We went to New York as you know, and, Marjorie" -- Constance made an impressive pause -- "Charlie is going to be entirely well in a little while. The specialist operated on his hip and the operation was successful. He will be able to walk before very long. When he knew I was coming home he said, 'Tell Marjorie that I don't need to ask Santa Claus for a new leg next year, because the good, kind man she told me about fixed mine.'"

"Dear little Charlie," murmured Marjorie. "I'm so glad."

A pleasant silence fell upon the two young girls. So much had happened that for a brief moment each was busy with her own thoughts.

"Are you coming back to school to finish the year, Constance?" asked Marjorie, at last.

"Yes. I am going to try to make up for lost time. I'll take in June the examinations I should have tried in January. I hope to be a Sanford sophomore, Marjorie. Aunt Edith is coming to visit us this summer. She is going to bring Charlie home."

Constance remained with Marjorie until almost noon.

"I wish you'd stay to luncheon," coaxed the little lieutenant.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I promised father I'd be home at noon."

"Then I wish you were going to the picnic this afternoon."

Constance shook her head, looking wistful, nevertheless.

"I'd rather not. Mignon will be there. It is better to be out of sight and out of mind until after Monday."

"Everything is turning out beautifully," sighed Marjorie. "There's only one thing more that I could possibly wish for."

"What is that?" asked Constance quickly.

"My lost butterfly."

"Perhaps it will fly back home when you least expect it," consoled Constance.

"Lost pins don't fly," retorted Marjorie. "If they did my butterfly would have come back to me long ago."

But, even then, though she could not know it, her cherished butterfly was poising its golden wings for the homeward flight.



Chapter XXV

Marjorie Dean To The Rescue


By one o'clock that afternoon 19 --  had assembled at the big elm tree on the river road which had been chosen as a meeting place. The flower hunters had planned to follow the road for a mile to a point where a boat house, which had a small teashop connected with it, was situated. Owing to the continued spring weather the proprietor had opened the place earlier than usual and it was decided that the picnickers should make this their headquarters, returning there for tea when they grew tired of roaming the neighboring woods.

Marjorie Dean had not hailed the prospect of 19 -- 's picnic with enthusiasm. She did not welcome the idea of coming into close contact with the little knot of freshmen that were loyal to Mignon La Salle's interests. However, it would be a pleasure to walk in the fresh spring woods and gather flowers, so she started for the rendezvous that afternoon determined to have the best kind of a time possible under the circumstances.

She had promised to call for Jerry, but the latter, accompanied by Irma, met her halfway between the two houses.

"I thought you were never coming," grumbled the stout girl, in her characteristic fashion.

"I've heard those words before," giggled Marjorie. "Haven't you, Irma?"

"Something very similar," laughed Irma.

Jerry grinned broadly.

"Shouldn't be surprised if you had," she admitted. "It's the first May I ever remember that it hasn't rained. I hope the weather doesn't change its mind and pour before we get home."

"Don't speak of it," cautioned Irma, superstitiously. "You'll bring rain down upon us if you do. May is a weepy month, you know."

"Weeps or no weeps, I suppose we'll have the pleasure of seeing our dear friends, Mignon and Muriel, to-day. I could weep for that," growled Jerry, resentfully.

Arrived at the elm tree, the girls found the majority of their classmates already there. To Marjorie's secret disgust, Marcia Arnold was among the number of upper-class girls chosen to chaperon the picnickers.

"Mignon's work," confided Jerry, as she caught sight of Marcia. "I hope she falls into the river and gets a good wetting," she added, with cheerful malice.

"Jerry!" expostulated Irma in horror. "You mustn't say such awful things."

"I didn't say I hoped she'd get drowned," flung back Jerry. "I'd just like to see her get a good ducking."

It was impossible not to laugh at Jerry, who, encouraged by their laughter, made various other uncomplimentary remarks about the offending junior.

The picnic party set out for the boathouse with merry shouts and echoing laughter. The quiet air rang with the melody of school songs welling from care-free young throats as the crowd of rollicking girls tramped along the river road.

Spring had not been niggardly with her flower wealth, and gracious, smiling May trailed her pink-and-white skirts over carpets of living green, starred with hepaticas and spring beauties, while, from under clusters of green-brown leaves, the trailing arbutus lifted its shy, delicate face to peep out, the loveliest messenger of spring.

The girls pounced upon the fragrant clumps of blossoms and began an enthusiastic filling of baskets. Held captive by the lure of the waking woods, the time slipped by unnoticed, and it was after four o'clock before the majority of the flower-hunters turned their steps toward the boathouse.

Mignon La Salle, Muriel Harding, Marcia Arnold and half a dozen girls who were worshipful admirers of the French girl, soon found flower gathering decidedly monotonous.

"Let's hurry out of these stupid woods," proposed Mignon. "My feet are damp and I'm sure I saw a snake a minute ago."

"Let's go canoeing," proposed Muriel Harding, as they came in sight of the boathouse.

"The very thing," exulted Mignon. "Let me see; there are nine of us. That will be three in a canoe. I'll hire the canoes and tell the man to send the bill to my father."

With quick, catlike springs, she ran lightly down the bank, across the road and disappeared into the boathouse. Ten minutes later three canoes floated on the surface of the river, swollen almost to the banks by April's frequent tearful outbursts. Mignon stood on the shore and gave voluble orders as the girls cautiously took seats in the bobbing craft.

"Get in, Marcia," she commanded, pointing to the third canoe.

Marcia obeyed with nervous expressions of fear.

An hour later, from a little slope just inside the woods, Marjorie and her friends, who had reluctantly directed their steps toward the boathouse, glimpsed the returning canoeing party through the trees. The canoers had lifted their voices in song, and Marcia Arnold, forgetful of her fears, was singing as gaily as the rest.

"It's dangerous to go canoeing now," commented Jerry, judicially. "The river's too high."

"Can you swim?" asked Irma, irrelevantly of Marjorie.

"Yes," nodded Marjorie. "I won a prize at the seashore last year for --  -- "

A sharp, terror-freighted scream rang out. The eyes of the trio were instantly fastened upon the river, where floated an overturned canoe with two girls struggling near it in the water. They saw the one girl strike out for shore, and, unheeding her companions' wild cries, swim steadily toward the river bank.

"Oh!" gasped Marjorie. Then she darted down the slope, scattering the flowers from her basket as she ran. At the river's edge she threw aside her sweater and, sitting down on the ground, tore off her shoes. Poising herself on the bank, she cut the water in a clean, sharp dive and, an instant later, came up not far from Marcia Arnold, who was making desperate efforts to keep afloat.

A few skilful strokes and she had reached the now sinking secretary's side. Slipping her left hand under Marcia's chin, she managed to keep her head above water and support her with her left arm while she struck out strongly for shore with her right. The water was very cold, but the distance was short, and Marjorie felt herself equal to her task.

To the panic-stricken girls on shore it seemed hours, instead of not more than ten minutes, before Marjorie reached the bank with her burden. Willing hands grasped Marcia, who, with unusual presence of mind for one threatened by drowning, had tried to lighten Marjorie's brave effort to rescue her. Once on dry land she dropped back unconscious, while Marjorie clambered ashore, little disturbed by her wetting.

It was Jerry, however, who now rose to the occasion.

"Marjorie Dean," she ordered, "go into that tea shop this minute. I'm going to my house to get you some dry clothes. I'll be back in a little while."

Marjorie allowed herself to be led into the back room of the little shop, where Marcia was already being divested of her wet clothing. Fifteen minutes afterward the two girls sat garbed in voluminous wrappers, belonging to the boat tender's wife, sipping hot tea. Marjorie smiled and talked gaily with her admiring classmates, but Marcia sat white and silent.

Suddenly a girl entered the room and pushed her way through the crowd of girls to Marcia's side. It was Muriel Harding.

"How do you feel, Marcia?" she asked tremulously.

"I'm all right now," quavered Marcia.

Muriel turned impulsively to Marjorie, and bending down, kissed her cheek. "You are a brave, brave girl, Marjorie Dean, and I hope some day I'll be worthy of your friendship." Then she turned and fairly ran from the room.

Before Marjorie could recover from her surprise, Jerry's loud, cheerful tones were heard outside.

"Here's a whole wardrobe," she proclaimed, setting down two suitcases with a flourish. "I came back in our car, and as soon as you girls are dressed, I'll take you home, and as many more as the car will hold," she added genially.

It was a triumphant little procession that marched to the spot where the Macy's huge car stood ready. As Marjorie put her foot on the step a girl's voice called out, "Three cheers for Marjorie Dean!" and the car glided off in the midst of a noisy but heartfelt ovation.

They were well down the road when Marjorie felt a timid hand upon hers. Marcia Arnold's eyes looked penitently into her own. "Will you forgive me, Marjorie?" she said, almost in a whisper. "I've been so hateful."

"Don't ever think of it again," comforted Marjorie, patting the other girl's hand.

"I must think of it," returned Marcia, earnestly. "I -- I can't talk about it now, but may I come to see you to-morrow afternoon? I have something to tell you."

"Come by all means," invited Marjorie. "I must say good-bye now. Here we are at my house. I hope mother won't be too much alarmed when I tell her. I'll have to explain Jerry's clothes. They are not quite a perfect fit, as you can see."

Marcia held the young girl's hand between her own. "I'll come to see you at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Maybe I can show you then how deeply I feel what you did for me to-day."

"I wonder what she is so mysterious over," thought Marjorie, as she ran up the steps. "I never dreamed that she and I would be friends. And Muriel, too. How perfectly dear she was. But" -- Marjorie stopped short in the middle of the veranda -- "what do you suppose became of Mignon?"



Chapter XXVI

Letting Bygones Be Bygones


Marjorie touched the button of the electric bell for admittance, but her finger had scarcely left it when the door was opened by her mother, who regarded her daughter with mingled amazement and alarm.

"Why, Marjorie!" she cried. "What has happened to you?"

"Don't be frightened, Mother. I know I look awfully funny!" Marjorie stepped into the hall, with a superb disregard for her strange appearance, assumed with a view to calming Mrs. Dean's fears.

"I -- a canoe tipped over and I helped one of the girls out of the river and got wet. My clothes are down at the boathouse drying. Jerry went home and brought back some of hers for me. That's why I look so different. She didn't come here for fear of scaring you."

"You have been in the river!" gasped her mother in horror, "and it's unusually high just now."

"But it didn't hurt me a bit," averred Marjorie, cheerfully. "I can swim, and someone had to help Marcia. Come upstairs with me while I get into my own clothes and I'll tell you all about it."

They had reached her room and Mrs. Dean was eyeing her lively little lieutenant doubtfully. "Are you sure you feel well, Marjorie?" she asked anxiously.

"Perfectly splendid, Captain," was the extravagant assurance, as Marjorie gently backed her mother into a chair. "I'm going to get out of Jerry's clothes and into my own and then we'll have a nice comfy old talk."

Slipping into a one-piece frock of blue linen, Marjorie brushed her dampened brown curls thoroughly dry and let them fall over her shoulders. Placing a sofa pillow on the floor close to her mother, she settled herself cozily at her mother's side and leaned against her knee, looking far more like a little girl than a young woman of seventeen.

It was a very long talk, for there was much to be said, and it lasted until the sun dropped low in the west and the early twilight shadows fell.

A sudden loud ring of the doorbell sent Marjorie scurrying to the door. She opened it to find a messenger boy, bearing a long, white box with the name of Sanford's principal florist upon it.

"For Miss Marjorie Dean," said the boy, handing her the box.

"Oh!" ejaculated the surprised lieutenant, almost dropping the box in her astonishment. Carrying it to the living-room table, she lifted the lid and exclaimed again over its fragrant contents. Exquisite, long-stemmed pink roses had been someone's tribute to Marjorie, and a card tucked in among their perfumed petals proclaimed that someone to be Harold Macy. At the bottom of the card was inscribed in Hal's boyish hand, "To my friend, Marjorie Dean, a real heroine."

Marjorie had scarcely recovered from this pleasant shock when her father appeared upon the scene and gathered her into his arms with an anxious, "How's my brave little lieutenant?"

"Why, General, who told you?" cried Marjorie. "I never dreamed you'd hear of it."

"It came to me through Mr. Arnold, who has the next office to mine," said Mr. Dean. "Mrs. Arnold telephoned him as soon as her daughter reached home. She was afraid he might hear an incorrect report of it from some other source."

"We never thought of that. We should have telephoned you. But it's my fault. I kept mother up in my room and talked so long to her that she forgot it," avowed Marjorie, apologetically.

"It's too late for apologies," Mr. Dean assumed an air of deep injury. Then he laughed and drew from his coat pocket a small package. "Here's an appreciation of bravery," he declared. "To the brave belongs the golden circlet of courage. We might also call it your commission to first lieutenancy. I think you've won your promotion."

Marjorie's second surprise was a gold bracelet, delicately chased, for which she had sighed more than once.

Sunday dawned as radiantly as had the preceding day. Marjorie went to church in a peculiarly exalted mood, and came home feeling at peace with the world. After dinner she took a book and went out into a little vine-covered pagoda built at one end of the lawn, which was fitted with rustic seats and a small table. Here it was that she and her captain had planned to spend many of the long summer afternoons reading and sewing, and it was here that Marcia found her.

"I have something for you, Marjorie," she said in a low voice. Then she opened a little silver mesh bag and drawing forth a small, glittering object handed it to the other girl.

Marjorie's eyes opened wide. With a gurgle of joy she caught the little object and fingered it lovingly. "My very own butterfly! Where in the world did you find it, Marcia?"

"I didn't find it," returned Marcia, huskily.

"Then who did?"

"Mignon. She found it the day after you lost it. I don't like to tell you these things, but I believe it is right that you should know. She kept it merely to hurt you. She knew you were fond of it. Muriel told her all about your receiving it as a farewell gift from your friends. I -- I -- am to blame, too. I knew she had it. She intended to give it back after a while. Then she saw Miss Stevens with one like it and noticed the queer way you looked at her pin in French class that day. She is very shrewd and observing. She suspected that you girls had quarreled, and so she put two and two together. She actually hates Miss Stevens, and told me she would never give the pin back if she could make Miss Stevens any trouble by keeping it.

"Then she went to Miss Archer and told her about her bracelet and the pin, too." Marcia paused, looking miserable.

"Miss Archer sent for me and questioned me about my pin," said Marjorie, gravely. "She is vexed with me still because I wouldn't say anything. You see I had misjudged Constance. I thought she had found it and kept it. It is only lately that I learned what a dreadful mistake I made. I think I ought to let you know, Marcia, that Constance is in Sanford. She is coming back to school on Monday and going straight to Miss Archer's office to prove her innocence. Constance was Cinderella at the dance Friday night. Jerry made her come to the party on purpose to bring us together. Constance's butterfly pin was a present from her aunt. We know the truth about Mignon's bracelet, too. Did you know that Mignon never lost it, Marcia? She only pretended that she had."

The secretary shook her head in emphatic denial. "I'm not guilty of that, at least. I hope I'll never do anything underhanded or dishonorable again. It's dreadful to think that Miss Archer will have to know what a despicable girl I've been, but that's part of my punishment. I suppose she won't have me for her secretary any more."

Marcia's face wore an expression of complete resignation. She had been a party to a dishonorable act, and her reaping promised to be bitter indeed.

"It means a whole lot to you to be secretary, doesn't it, Marcia?" asked Marjorie, slowly.

"Yes. This is my third year. I've been saving the money to go to college. Father couldn't afford to pay all my expenses. I --  -- " Marcia broke down and covered her face with her hands.

Marjorie regarded the secretary with a puzzled frown. She was apparently turning over some problem in her mind.

"Marcia, how did you obtain my butterfly from Mignon?"

Marcia's hands dropped slowly from her face. "I went to her house this morning and made her give it to me. She tried to make me promise that I would say she found it only a day or two ago. I didn't promise. I'm glad I can say that."

"Would you go with me to her home?" asked Marjorie, abruptly. "I have thought of a way to settle the whole affair without Miss Archer knowing about either of you."

"Oh, if it could only be settled among ourselves!" cried Marcia, clasping her hands. "I'll go with you. She is at home this afternoon, too. I came from her house here."

"Wait just a moment, then, until I run indoors for my hat."

Marjorie walked briskly across the lawn to the house. She was back in a twinkling, a pretty white flower-trimmed hat on her head, carrying a white fluffy parasol that matched her dainty lingerie gown.

"How beautiful Mignon's home is!" she exclaimed softly, as they entered the beautiful grounds of the La Salle estate and walked up the broad driveway bordered with maples. "There's Mignon on the veranda. She is alone. I am glad of that."

"What are you going to say to her?" asked Marcia, her curiosity getting the better of her dejection, for Mignon had risen with a muttered exclamation, and was coming toward them with the quick, catlike movements that so characterized her.

"What do you mean, Marcia Arnold," she began fiercely, "by --  -- "

"Miss Arnold is not responsible for our call this afternoon, Miss La Salle," broke in Marjorie, coolly. "I asked her to come here with me."

Mignon glared at the other girl in speechless anger. Her roving black eyes suddenly spied the butterfly pinned in the lace folds of Marjorie's frock.

"Oh, I see," she sneered. "You think I'm going to tell you all about your trumpery butterfly pin. You are mistaken, I shall tell you nothing."

"I believe I am in possession of all the facts concerning my butterfly," returned Marjorie, dryly, "and also those relating to your supposedly lost bracelet."

"Supposedly lost?" repeated Mignon, arching her eyebrows. "Have you found it? If you have, give it to me at once."

"There is only one person who can do that," said Marjorie, gravely, "and that person is you."

The betraying color flew to the French girl's cheeks. "What do you mean?" she asked, but her voice shook.

"Why do you ask me that?" retorted Marjorie, with sudden impatience. "You know that on the night of the Weston dance you pretended you had lost your bracelet in order to throw suspicion on Miss Stevens. Someone saw you lay your bracelet on the dressing table. The same person saw you leave the room, return a few minutes afterward and pick it up from the table. How could you be so cruel and dishonorable?"

"It isn't true," stormed Mignon. "Constance Stevens is a thief. A thief, do you hear? And when she comes back to Sanford the school shall know it."

"No, Constance Stevens is not a thief. You are the real thief," said Marjorie with quiet condemnation. "Knowing the butterfly pin to be mine, you kept it for many weeks. However, I did not come here to quarrel with you. I came to help Marcia and to save you from the effects of your own wrongdoing. Constance Stevens is in Sanford. She is going to Miss Archer to-morrow to prove her innocence. I am going with her. The girl who knows the truth about your bracelet will be there, too. You knew long ago that Constance's butterfly pin was her very own."

"Of course I knew it," sneered Mignon. There was a look of consternation in her eyes, however.

"Then that is another point against you. You do not deserve to be let off so easily, but for Marcia's sake, I am going to say that if you will go with Constance and me to Miss Archer to-morrow morning and withdraw your charges against Constance, stating that you have your bracelet, we will never mention the subject again. Meet me in Miss Archer's outer office at twenty minutes past eight." She did not even turn to look at the discomfited Mignon as she issued her command.

"Marjorie," said Marcia, hesitatingly, as they walked in silence down the poplar-shaded street. "Shall I -- had I -- do you wish me to go with you to Miss Archer?"

Marjorie cast a quick, searching glance at the thoroughly repentant junior. "What for?" she smiled, ignoring all that had been. They had now come to where their ways parted. Marjorie held out her hand. "We are going to be friends forever and always, aren't we, Marcia?"

Marcia clasped the extended hand with fervor. "Forever and always," she repeated. And through all their high school days that followed she kept her word.

Three unusually silent young women met in Miss Archer's living-room office the next morning and awaited their opportunity to see the principal.

"Miss Archer will see you," Marcia Arnold informed them after a wait of perhaps five minutes, and the trio filed into the inner office.

"Good morning, girls," greeted Miss Archer, viewing them searchingly. "Miss Stevens, I am glad that you have returned, but I am sorry to say that during your absence I have heard a number of unpleasant rumors concerning you."

Constance flushed, then her color receded, leaving her very white.

Before the principal could continue, Marjorie's earnest tones rang out.

"Miss Archer, Miss Stevens and I had a misunderstanding. When you asked me about it I could not tell you. It has since been cleared away. My butterfly pin has been found, but it was not the one Miss Stevens wore. See, here are the two pins. Mine has no pearls at the tips of the wings." She extended her open palm to the principal. In it lay two butterfly pins, precisely alike save for the pearl-tipped wings of the one.

Miss Archer looked long at the pins. Then she lifted them to meet the blue and the brown eyes whose gaze was fastened earnestly upon her. What she saw seemed to satisfy her. She held out her hand to Marjorie and Constance in turn.

"They are very alike," was her sole comment, as Marjorie returned Constance's pin. Then Miss Archer turned to Mignon.

"I am sorry I accused Miss Stevens of taking my bracelet," murmured Mignon, sulkily. "I have it in my possession. Here it is." She thrust out an unwilling wrist, on which was the bracelet.

"I am glad that you have exonerated Miss Stevens from all suspicion." Miss Archer's quiet face expressed little of what was going on in her mind. "I am also thankful that an apparently serious matter has been so easily settled." She did not offer her hand to Mignon, who left the office without answering.

A moment later, Marjorie and Constance were in the outer office standing at Marcia Arnold's desk. "It's all settled, Marcia, with no names mentioned," she said reassuringly. "Good-bye, we'll see you later. We'll have to hurry or we'll be late for the opening exercises."

In the corridor outside the study hall, Marcia and Constance paused by common consent and faced each other.

"Connie, dear," Marjorie said softly. "There's only a little more than a month of our freshman year left. It isn't very much time, but I believe we won't have to try very hard to make up in happiness for what we've lost."

"I am so happy this morning, and so grateful to you, Marjorie, for all you've done for me, and most of all for your friendship," was Constance's earnest answer. "I hope you will never have cause to question my loyalty and that next year we'll be sophomore chums, tried and true."

"We'll simply have to be," laughed Marjorie, with joyous certainty, "for I don't see how we can very well get along without each other."

<eob>

Adventures In Africa

By

William Henry Giles Kingston



Chapter One.

"How many more days, Jan, will it be before we get across this abominable desert?"  I asked of our black guide, as we trudged along, he leading our sole remaining ox, while my uncle, Mr Roger Farley, and I led our two horses laden with the remnants of our property.

"May be ten days, may be two ten," answered Jan Jigger, whose knowledge of numerals was somewhat limited.

I gave a groan, for I was footsore and weary, and expected to have had a more satisfactory answer.  We were making our way over a light-coloured soft sand, sprinkled in some places with tall grass, rising in tufts, with bare spots between them.  In other parts were various creeping plants, and also -- though I called the region a desert -- there were extensive patches of bushes, above which here and there rose clumps of trees of considerable height.  This large amount of vegetation, however, managed to exist without streams or pools, and for miles and miles together we had met with no water to quench our own thirst or that of our weary beasts.  My uncle was engaged in the adventurous and not unprofitable occupation of trading with the natives in the interior of Africa.  He had come down south some months before to dispose of the produce of his industry at Graham's Town, where I had joined him, having been sent for from England.  After purchasing a fresh supply of goods, arms, powder, and shot, and giving a thorough repair to his waggons, he had again set off northward for the neighbourhood of lake Ngami, where he was to meet his partner, Mr Welbourn, who had with him his son Harry, with whom I had been at school, and who was about my own age.  We had, beyond the borders of the colony, been attacked by a party of savages, instigated by the Boers, two or three of whom indeed led them. They had deprived us of our cattle and men, we having escaped with a small portion only of our goods, two of our horses, a single ox and our one faithful Bechuana.  To get away from our enemies we had taken a route unusually followed across the Kalahari desert.  We were aware of the dangers and difficulties to be encountered, but the road was much shorter than round either to the east or west; and though we knew that wild animals abounded, including elephants, rhinoceroses, lions, leopards, and hyaenas, yet we believed that we should be able to contend with them, and that we should not be impeded by human savages.  Day after day we trudged forward.  The only water we could obtain was by digging into certain depressions in the ground which our guide pointed out, when, having scraped out the sand with the single spade we possessed and our hands, we arrived at a hard stratum, beyond which he advised us not to go.  In a short time the water began to flow in slowly, increasing by degrees until we had enough for ourselves and our cattle.

We had now, however, been travelling sixty miles or more, without finding one of these water-holes; and though we had still a small quantity of the precious liquid for ourselves, our poor horses and ox had begun to suffer greatly.  Still Jan urged us to go forward.

"Water come soon, water come soon!" he continued saying, keeping his eye ranging about in every direction in search of the expected hole.

Trusting to Jan's assurances, thirst compelled us to consume the last drop of our water.  Still, hour after hour went by, and we reached no place at which we could replenish it.  Our sufferings became terrible. My throat felt as if seared by a hot iron.  Often I had talked of being thirsty, but I had never before known what thirst really was.  My uncle, I had no doubt, was suffering as much as I was, but his endurance was wonderful.

We had seen numbers of elands sporting round us in every direction, but as soon as we approached them, off they bounded.

"Surely those deer do not live without water; it cannot be far away," I observed.

"They are able to pass days and weeks without tasting any," said my uncle.  "They can besides quickly cover thirty or forty miles of ground if they wish to reach it.  We must try to shoot one of them for supper, which may give us both meat and drink.  See, in the wood yonder we can leave our horses and the ox under Jan's care, and you and I will try to stalk one of the animals."

On reaching the wood, my uncle and I, with our guns in our hands, took a direction which would lead us to leeward of the herd, so that we might not be scented as we approached.

By creeping along under the shelter of some low bushes as we neared them, the elands did not see us.  Hunger and thirst made us unusually cautious and anxious to kill one.  My uncle told me to reserve my fire, in case he should fail to bring the eland down; but as he was a much better shot than I was, I feared that should he miss, I also should fail.  Presently I saw him rise from among the grass.  Lifting his rifle to his shoulder he fired; the eland gave a bound, but alighting on its feet was scampering off, when I eagerly raised my rifle and pulled the trigger.  As the smoke cleared off, to my infinite delight I saw the eland struggling on the grass.  We both rushed forward, and my uncle's knife quickly deprived it of life.  It was a magnificent animal, as big as an ox, being the largest of the South African antelopes.

On opening its stomach we discovered water, which, on being allowed to cool, was sufficiently pure to quench our burning thirst.  We secured a portion of it for Jan, and loading ourselves with as much meat as we could carry, we returned to where we had left him.  A fire was soon lighted, and we lost no time in cooking a portion of the flesh.  With our thirst partially relieved we were able to eat.  We had made our fire at some distance from the shrubs for fear of igniting them, while we tethered our horses and ox among the longest grass we could find.  In that dry region no shelter was required at night, so we lay down to sleep among our bales, with our saddles for pillows, and our rifles by our sides.  I had been sleeping soundly, dreaming of purling streams and babbling fountains, when I awoke to find my throat as dry and parched as ever.  Hoping to find a few drops of water in my bottle, I sat up to reach for it; when, as I looked across the fire, what was my dismay to see a large tiger-like animal stealthily approaching, and tiger I fully believed it to be.  On it came, exhibiting a pair of round bright shining eyes.  I expected every moment to see it spring upon us.  I was afraid that by crying out I might only hasten its movements, so I felt for my rifle and, presenting at the creature's head shouted -- 

"A tiger, uncle; a tiger, Jan!"

"A tiger!" exclaimed my uncle, springing up in a moment.  "That's not a tiger, it's a leopard, but if pressed by hunger may prove as ugly a customer.  Don't fire until I tell you, for if wounded it will become dangerous."

All this time the leopard was crawling on, though it must have heard the sound of our voices; perhaps the glare of the fire in its eyes prevented it from seeing us, for it still cautiously approached.  I saw my uncle lift his rifle; he fired, but though his bullet struck the creature, instead of falling as I expected, it gave a bound and the next instant would have been upon us.  Now was my time.  As it rose, I fired, and my bullet must have gone through its heart, for over it rolled without a struggle, perfectly dead.

"Bravo!  Fred," exclaimed my uncle.  "This is the second time within a few hours your rifle has done good service.  You'll become a first-rate hunter if you go on as you've begun.  How that leopard came here it's difficult to say, unless it was driven from the hills, and has been wandering over the desert in search of prey; those creatures generally inhabit a high woody country."

Jan exhibited great delight at our victory, and having made up the fire, we spent some time in skinning the beast.  Its fur was of great beauty, and although it would add to the load of our ox, we agreed to carry it with us, as it would be a welcome present to any chief who might render us assistance.

Having flayed the animal and pegged down the skin, we returned to our beds, hoping to finish the night without interruption.  As soon as there was light sufficient to enable us to see our way, we pushed forward, earnestly praying that before the sun was high in the heavens, we might fall in with water.  Notwithstanding that Jan repeatedly exclaimed, "Find water soon!  Find water soon!" not a sign of it could we see.  A glare from a cloudy sky was shed over the whole scene; clumps of trees and bushes looking so exactly alike, that after travelling several miles, we might have fancied that we had made no progress.  At length even the trees and bushes became scarcer, and what looked like a veritable desert appeared before us.

I had gone on a short distance ahead, when to my delight I saw in front a large lake, in the centre of which the waves were dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, the shadows of the trees being vividly reflected on the mirror-like surface near the shores, while beyond I saw what I took to be a herd of elephants flapping their ears and intertwining their trunks.

"Water, water!"  I shouted; "we shall soon quench our thirst.  We must take care to avoid those elephants, however," I added, pointing them out to my uncle.  "It would be a fearful thing to be charged by them."

The horses and ox lifted up their heads and pressed forward.  Jan to my surprise said nothing, though I knew he was suffering as well as my uncle and I were.  I was rushing eagerly forward, when suddenly a haze which hung over the spot, broke and dispelled the illusion.  A vast salt-pan lay before us.  It was covered with an effervescence of lime, which had produced the deceptive appearance.  Our spirits sank lower than ever.  To avoid the salt-pan, we turned to the right, so as to skirt its eastern side.  The seeming elephants proved to be zebras, which scampered off out of reach.  We now began to fear that our horses would give in, and that we should have to push forward with our ox alone, abandoning everything it could not carry.  Still my uncle cried "Forward!"  Jan had evidently mistaken the road, and passed the spot where he had expected to find water.  Still he observed that we need have no fear of pursuing our course.  Evening was approaching and we must again camp: without water we could scarcely expect to get through the night.

Presently Jan looking out ahead, darted forward and stopped at where a small plant grew with linear leaves and a stalk not thicker than a crow's quill.  Instantly taking a spade fastened to the back of the ox, he began eagerly digging away; and after he had got down to the depth of a foot, he displayed to us a tuber, the size of an enormous turnip.  On removing the rind, he cut it open with his axe, and showed us a mass of cellular tissue filled up with a juicy substance which he handed to us, and applying a piece to his own mouth ate eagerly away at it.  We imitated his example, and were almost immediately much refreshed.  We found several other plants of the same sort, and digging up the roots gave them to the horses and ox, who crunched them up with infinite satisfaction.

Our thirst was relieved in a way I could scarcely have supposed possible.  The animals too, trudged forward with far lighter steps than before.  Relieved of our thirst and in the hopes of finding either water or more tubers next morning, we lay down thankful that we had escaped the fearful danger we had apprehended.  As we advanced we looked out anxiously for the tuber-bearing plants, but not one could we see.  I had gone on some little distance ahead, when I caught sight of a round object some way off, which, as the rays of sun fell on it, appeared of scarlet hue.  I ran towards it, when I saw what looked like a small oblong red melon.

"Here's something worth having!"  I exclaimed, cutting into it with my knife.  When I applied it to my mouth, to my disappointment I found that, although juicy in the extreme, it was perfectly bitter.  I threw it down in disgust.  Jan soon afterwards, on coming near, said:

"Dis no good, but find oders presently!"

Hurrying along, he struck one after another, and quickly handed me one perfectly sweet; when he collected many more, with which we returned to where my uncle had halted with the animals.

The fruit was far more gratifying to the taste than the tubers.  We allowed the animals to eat as many as they wished, and, loading them with a supply in case we should fail to find others further on, we continued our journey.

Those melons lasted us another whole day and a night, and afforded the only liquid which passed our mouths.  As we were on foot our view over the level desert was limited.

I was walking alongside my uncle, discussing our future plans, having begun to hope that, in spite of the difficulties we had to contend against, we should get through, when I saw some objects moving rapidly in the distance.  They were coming towards us.

"They are ostriches!" cried my uncle; "we must try and kill a few to obtain their plumes."

We halted, and remained perfectly still, hoping that the birds might approach us.  Now they ran as fleet as a race-horse, now they stopped and went circling round.  Two or three odd-looking birds, as they seemed, were moving at a much slower rate.

"Those Bosjeemen!" cried Jan.

We at length saw that the latter were human beings, their legs covered with white pigment and carrying the head and feathers of an ostrich on their backs, while each had in his hand a bow and a number of arrows. Presently they cautiously approached the ostriches to leeward, stopping every now and then and pretending to be feeding.  The ostriches would look at the strange birds, but, not suspecting danger, allowed them to approach.  One of the Bosjeemen then shot an arrow, when the wounded bird and his companions ran off; the former, however, quickly dropped, when the other birds stopped to see what was the matter, and thus allowed their enemy to draw near enough to shoot another arrow.

In this way three little yellow-skinned fellows each shot, in a short time, four magnificent ostriches.  They had seen us in the distance, but instead of running away, as we feared they would do, one of them, guessing we were traders, came forward to bargain for the sale of the feathers, and Jan acting as interpreter, my uncle expressed a willingness to trade.  The Bosjeemen then produced a number of reeds, scarcely the thickness of my little finger.  Having plucked off the feathers, they pushed them into the reeds; and, thus preserved, the feathers were fit to travel any distance without being spoilt.

It was late by the time the whole operation was performed, and we had given the articles they had agreed to take in exchange.  As the reeds weighed but little, the loads were considerably lightened.

Jan now explained to our new friends that they would be further rewarded if they would conduct us to water.  They at once agreed to do so, and one of them, hurrying away to a spot at a distance where they had left their travelling equipage, returned with a dozen ostriches' eggs in a net at his back; he then made a sign to us to follow him, while his companions remained with the ostriches they had shot.  Sooner than we expected he reached a hole, into which he rapidly dug with his hand; then, inserting a long reed, he began to suck away with might and main. In a short time the water flowed, and was led down by another reed into a hole at the end of an ostrich egg, which was soon filled with water. As we had a leathern bucket we were enabled to give our animals a drink, though we could not allow them as much as they would have liked.

The Bosjeeman then, refilling the egg-shells, returned with us to where we had left his companions.  We found that they had built themselves a hut, if so it could be called, in a thick mimosa bush, by bending the boughs so as to form a roof, covered by reeds lightly fastened together. The inside was lined with dried leaves, grass, and the coarser feathers of the ostrich.  When they saw that we were encamped, the three hunters lighted a fire and sat themselves down before it to enjoy a sumptuous repast of ostrich flesh.  Though unattractive in appearance, they were honest little fellows, and we slept in perfect security, knowing that they would give us timely notice of the approach of an enemy.

Jan assured us that we might trust them, as it was a high mark of confidence on their part to show us where we could procure water, for they are always careful to hide such spots from those they think unfriendly.

They accompanied us the following day, and led us to a pool, the only one we had met with while crossing the desert.  Probably in many seasons that also would have been empty.  Here our animals got as much water as they could drink, and we filled our water-bottles.  We then parted from our yellow friends, who said that, as they were ignorant of the country to the northward, they could not venture farther.  Trusting to Jan's sagacity to find water, we proceeded in good spirits.

We had hoped to trade largely with the natives, but as we had lost the greater part of our goods, we should have to depend upon our own exertions to obtain the ivory and skins which would repay us for the difficulties and dangers of our journey.  We had fortunately saved the greater part of our ammunition, which would enable us to hunt for some months to come.

Of course we knew Mr Welbourn would be much disappointed at seeing us arrive with so slender an equivalent for the skins and ivory my uncle had taken south, instead of the waggon full of goods which he had expected.

"He is a sensible, good-natured fellow, and will know that it was from no fault of ours we were plundered," observed my uncle.  "We shall still do well, and shall probably encounter more adventures than we should have met with had we confined ourselves to simple trading with the natives.  I should, however, have preferred that to undergoing the fatigues of hunting; besides which we might the sooner have returned with our cargo of ivory to the coast."

Several more days passed by during which we came to three spots where we were able to obtain a sufficient amount of water to satisfy ourselves and our thirsty animals.  Sometimes for miles together not a drop could be procured, and had it not been for the tubers, and the little red melons I have described, the horses and our patient ox must have perished.  At length the sheen of water in the bright sunlight was seen in the distance.  This time we were convinced that it was not a mirage. We pushed forward, hoping that our sufferings from thirst were at an end.  Trees of greater height than any we had yet met with since leaving the colony fringed the banks of a fine river.  On examining the current we found that it was flowing to the north-east, and we therefore hoped that by following it up we should reach the lake for which we were bound.  Our black guide, however, advised that we should cross the river, which was here fordable, and by steering north, considerably shorten the journey.  On wading through the water we looked out sharply for crocodiles and hippopotami, lest one of those fresh-water monsters should venture to attack us; we got over, however, without accident. Having allowed our animals to drink their full of water, and replenished our bottles, we encamped for the night under a magnificent baobab tree with a trunk seventy feet in girth as high as we could reach, while our animals found an abundance of rich grass on which to satisfy their hunger.

What pigmies we felt as we stood beneath that giant tree.  An army might have found shelter from the sun under its wide-spreading boughs.  We thought the spot a perfect paradise after our long journey across the plain.

We had not long been seated round our camp-fire, when Jan made a dart at his foot and caught a fly which had settled on it; and, exhibiting it to my uncle, exclaimed -- 

"No good, no good!"

It was of a brownish colour with three yellow bars across the body, and scarcely larger than a common house-fly.  We soon saw others buzzing about in considerable numbers.

I asked Jan what he meant.

"Das de tsetse: when bite horse or ox den dey die," he answered.

As, however, neither my uncle nor I felt any ill effects from the bites of the flies, we thought that Jan must be mistaken, and at all events it was now too late to shift our encampment.  We therefore, having made up a blazing fire to scare off any wild beasts, lay down to sleep, without thinking more of the flies, which did not cause us any annoyance.

The next morning we saw some of the creatures on the legs of our horses and the ox; but we soon brushed them away, and, loading up, we continued our journey.  They went on as usual.  Jan, however, looked much disconcerted, and I saw him continually brushing off the flies.

"No good, no good!" he said, "hope soon get through, for de horses not go far."

I asked my uncle what Jan meant.  He replied that he had often heard of the tsetse fly, but never having passed through a country infested by it, he was disinclined to believe the stories told of the deadly effects of its bite on cattle and horses.



Chapter Two.

We soon passed through the tsetse district, which was not more than a couple of miles wide, and, as our animals showed no appearance of suffering, we hoped that they had escaped injury.

We had determined to encamp early in the day near a pool fed by a rivulet which fell into the main stream, in order that we might shoot some game for our supper.  Leaving Jan in charge of the camp, my uncle and I set off, believing that we could easily find our way back to the fire.  We had gone some distance when we caught sight of a herd of antelopes.  In order that we might have a better chance of killing one of them, my uncle told me to make a wide circuit, keeping to leeward of the deer towards a clump of trees, whence I might be able to get a favourable shot, while he lay down concealed by the brushwood near where we then were.

Taking advantage of all the bushes and trunks of trees on the way, I approached the antelopes without disturbing them.  Looking out from the cover I had gained, I watched the beautiful creatures, hoping that one of them would come within range of my rifle.  It was tantalising to see them feeding so quietly just out of my reach.  Still, though I might not get a shot, I hoped that they might go off towards where my uncle was lying hid.  Presently, however, they bounded towards me; and, thinking it possible that they might again turn, I fired at one of the leading animals, which, notwithstanding its wound, still went on, though at slackened speed.  Instead of reloading, as I ought to have done, I dashed forward to secure it.  Scarcely, however, had I left my cover than what was my surprise, and I must confess my dismay, to see a huge lion!  Should I attempt to escape by flight, the savage brute would, I knew, follow me.  I fixed my eyes as steadily as I could upon him, while I attempted to reload.  At the same time I knew that, even should I fire, I might only wound him, when he would become more fierce.  There were trees near, up which it was possible I might climb should he give me time, but it was not likely that he would do that.  I wondered that he did not pursue the antelope; but probably he had lately had his dinner, or he certainly would have done so.  I continued loading, he lashing his tail and roaring furiously.  I expected every moment that he would spring upon me.  To escape by any other way than by shooting him dead seemed impossible.

I finished loading, and brought my gun up ready to fire.  Should I miss or only wound him, he would be upon me in a moment.  I had hitherto remained quite silent, but it occurred to me that if I should shout loudly enough my uncle would hear my cry for help.  I thought, too, that I might scare the lion.  When once I had made up my mind to shout, I did so with might and main.

I was answered by a distant "hollo!" by which I knew that my uncle was still a long way off.  He would, however, understand that I was in danger, and come to my assistance; or, if too late to help me, would provide for his own safety.

The lion seemed as undecided how to act as I was.  As I shouted he roared, and again lashed his tail, but did not advance a step.  This gave me courage; but, although the monarch of the forest did not appear in a combative mood, I felt very sure that, should I wound him, his rage would be excited.  I dared not for a moment withdraw my eye from him, and thus we stood regarding each other.  To me it seemed a prodigiously long time.  At last he seemed to lose patience, for his roars became more frequent and louder and louder, and he lashed his tail more furiously.  I raised my rifle to my shoulder.  He came on at a cat-like pace, evidently ignorant of the power of the weapon I held in my hands. In another instant he would spring at me.  I pulled the trigger.  To my horror, the cap failed to ignite the powder.  I saw the monstrous brute in the act of springing, but at the same moment I heard the crack of a rifle close to me; the next, a tremendous roar rent the air.  I was felled to the earth, and felt myself weighed down by a vast body, unable to breathe or move.  It was some time before I came to myself, when, looking up, I saw my uncle kneeling by my side.

"The lion very nearly did for you, Fred," he said; "but cheer up, lad. I don't think you're mortally hurt, though you've had a narrow squeak for it.  Had your gun not missed fire, you might have shot the lion yourself.  Here he lies, and there's the springbok."

While my uncle was talking, he was examining my hurts.  The lion had given me a fearful blow with his paw, and had injured one of my shoulders.  It was a wonder indeed that he did not kill me.

"We must get you to the camp somehow," said my uncle; "I cannot leave you here while I bring the ox, so the sooner we set off the better."

Taking me up in his arms, he began to stagger on with me; but, though he was a strong man, I was no slight weight, and he had great difficulty in getting along.  I asked him to let me walk, as I thought that I could do so with his support.  When I tried, however, I found that I could not move one foot before the other.  As we got within hail of the camp he shouted to Jan to come and help him; and together they carried me along the remainder of the distance.

"Now that we have you safe here, though I am unwilling to leave you, I must go back and fetch the antelope, for we cannot do without food," he said.

Telling Jan to collect materials for building a hut, as it was evident that I should be unable to move for some time, and also charging him to keep an eye on me, he started off.

I felt a great deal of pain, but I retained my senses, and tried to divert my thoughts by watching Jan, who was busily employed in cutting long sticks and branches for the hut.

It seemed to me that my uncle had been gone for more than an hour, and I began to fear that some accident might have happened to him.  Where there was one lion it was probable that there were others, and they might revenge themselves on the slayer of their relative.

Jan, however, kept working away as if satisfied that all was right, now and then taking a look at me, and throwing a few sticks on the fire to get it to burn brightly.  He then began to prepare for roasting the expected venison by placing some uprights, with cross pieces to serve as spits, close to the fire.

"Hurrah! here am de Cap'n!" he at length shouted, such being the title he usually bestowed on my uncle.  "He bring springbok, an' someting else too."

I felt greatly relieved when I saw my uncle throw down his heavy load, consisting not only of the antelope which I had shot, but of the lion's skin.

"I brought this," he said, "to make a bed for you.  You want it, though it is not fit at present to serve the purpose."

I thanked him for his offer, but declared that I would rather just then be left where I was, as any movement pained me.

Jan lost no time in cutting off some pieces of venison, and placing them to roast.  My uncle also put on a pot with a small portion to make some soup, which he said would suit me better than the roast.  Hungry as I was, though I tried to eat some of the latter as soon as Jan declared it sufficiently done, I could not manage to get it down.  My thirst became excessive, and it was fortunate that we were near water, or I believe I should otherwise have died.

The hut was soon finished, and some leaves and grass placed in it for me to lie upon.  The soup did me some good, but I suffered so much pain that I could scarcely sleep all the night, and in the morning was in so fevered a condition, that I was utterly unfit to travel.  I was very sorry to delay my uncle, but it could not be helped, and he bore the detention with his usual good temper.  Nothing could exceed his kindness.  He sat by my side for hours together; he dressed my wounds whenever he thought it necessary, and indeed tended me with the greatest care.

Day after day, however, went by, and I still remained in the same helpless state.  He would not have left me for a moment, I believe, but it was necessary to go out and procure more game.

Jan had undertaken to scrape and prepare the lion's skin.  He was thus employed near the stream at a little distance from the camp when I was startled by hearing a loud snort; and, looking up, what was my horror to see him rushing along, with a huge hippopotamus following him!  In another minute I expected to see him seized by its formidable jaws and trampled to death, and then I thought that the savage brute would make at me.  In vain I attempted to rise and get my gun, but my uncle, when he went out, had forgotten to place it near me.  I tried to cry out and frighten the brute, but I could not raise my voice sufficiently high. Poor Jan shrieked loud enough, but his cries had no effect on the monster.  He was making for a tree, up which he might possibly have climbed, when his feet slipped, and over he rolled on the ground.  He was now perfectly helpless, and in a few minutes the hippopotamus would trample him to death.  It seemed as if all hope was gone; but, at the very instant that I thought poor Jan's death was certain, my uncle suddenly appeared, when, aiming behind the ear of the hippopotamus, he fired, and the monster fell.  Jan narrowly escaped being crushed, which he would have been had he not by a violent effort rolled out of the way.

Suffering as I was, I could scarcely help laughing at Jan's face, as, getting up on his knees, he looked with a broad grin at the hippopotamus, still uncertain whether it was dead or not.  At length, convinced that his enemy could do him no further harm, he rose to his feet, exclaiming -- 

"Tankee, tankee, cap'n!  If de gun not go off, Jan no speak 'gain."

Then, hurrying on, he examined the creature, to be certain that no life remained in it.

"What we do wid dis?" he asked, giving the huge body a kick with his foot.

"As it will shortly become an unpleasant neighbour, we must manage to drag him away from the camp," observed my uncle.  "If the stream were deep enough, I would drag it in, and let it float down with the current; but, as it would very likely get stranded close to us, we must haul it away with the ox and the horses, though I doubt if the animals will like being thus employed."

I thought the plan a good one; and my uncle told Jan to catch the horses and ox, while he contrived some harness with the ropes and straps used for securing their cargoes.  The ox showed perfect indifference to the dead hippopotamus, but the horses were very unwilling to be harnessed. They submitted, however, to act as leaders, while the ox had the creature's head, round which a rope was passed, close to its heels. Even then the animals found it no easy task to drag the huge body along over the rough ground.

"We shall not be long gone, Fred," said my uncle, placing a rifle and a brace of pistols close to me.  "I hope that no other hippopotamus or lion or leopard will pay you a visit while we are away.  If they do, you must use these, and I trust that you'll be able to drive off the creatures, whatever they may be."

I felt rather uncomfortable at being left alone in the camp, but it could not be helped; and I could only pray that another hippopotamus might not make its appearance.  This one, in all probability, came up the stream far from its usual haunts.

I kept my rifle and pistols ready for instant use.  The time seemed very long.  As I listened to the noises in the forest, I fancied that I could hear the roaring and mutterings of lions, and the cries of hyaenas. Several times I took my rifle in my hand, expecting to see a lion stealing up to the camp.  I caught sight in the distance of the tall necks of a troop of giraffes stalking across the country, followed soon afterwards by a herd of bounding blesboks, but no creatures came near me.  At last my uncle and Jan returned with our four-footed attendants.

"We have carried the monster's carcase far enough off to prevent it from poisoning us by its horrible odour when it putrifies, which it will in a few hours," he observed.  "But I am afraid that it will attract the hyaenas and jackals in no small numbers, so that we shall be annoyed by their howls and screechings.  I am sorry to say also that the horses seem ill able to perform their work, and I greatly fear that they have been injured by the tsetse fly.  If we lose them we shall have a difficulty in getting along.  However, we won't despair until the evil day comes."

I should have said that my uncle, just before he rescued Jan from the hippopotamus, had shot another antelope, which he had brought to the camp, so that we were in no want of food.

Several days went by.  Though I certainly was not worse, my recovery was very slow, and I was scarcely better able to travel than I was at first; though I told my uncle that I would try and ride if he wished to move on.

"I doubt if either of the horses can carry you," he answered.  "Both are getting thin and weak, and have a running from their nostrils, which Jan says is the result of the tsetse poison.  If you are better in a day or two we will try and advance to the next stream or water-hole; and perhaps we may fall in with natives, from whom we may purchase some oxen to replace our horses.  It will be a great disappointment to lose the animals, for I had counted on them for hunting."

That night we were entertained by a concert of hideous howlings and cries, produced we had no doubt by the hyaenas and jackals; but by keeping up a good fire, and occasionally discharging our rifles, we prevented them from approaching the camp.

At the end of two days I fancied myself better.  We accordingly determined the next morning to recommence our journey.  At daybreak we breakfasted on the remains of the last deer shot, and my uncle having placed me on his horse, which was the stronger of the two, put part of its cargo on the other.  Pushing on, we soon left behind the camp we had so long occupied.

On starting I bore the movement pretty well, and fancied that I should be able to perform the journey without difficulty.  For the first two days, indeed, we got on better than I had expected, though I was thankful when the time for camping arrived.  On the third morning I suffered much, but did not tell my uncle how ill I felt, hoping that I should recover during the journey.  We had a wild barren tract to cross, almost as wild as the desert.  The ox trudged on as patiently as ever, but the horses were very weak, and I had great difficulty in keeping mine on its legs.  Several times it had stumbled, but I was fortunately not thrown off.  Our pace, however, was necessarily very slow, and we could discover no signs of water, yet water we must reach before we could venture to camp.

Jan generally led the ox, while my uncle walked by my side, holding the rein of the other horse.  Again and again my poor animal had stumbled; when, as my uncle was looking another way, down it came, and I was thrown with considerable violence to the ground.

My uncle, having lifted me up, I declared that I was not much hurt, and begged him to replace me on the horse.  The poor animal was unable to rise.  In vain Jan and he tried to get it on its legs.  He and Jan took off the saddle and the remaining part of the load, but all was of no use.  At last we came to the melancholy conclusion that its death was inevitable.  Our fears were soon realised: after it had given a few struggles, its head sinking on the sand, it ceased to move.  We had consequently to abandon some more of our heavier things, and having transferred the remaining cargo to the ox, my uncle put me on the back of the other horse.  Scarcely, however, had we proceeded a mile than down it came, and I was again thrown to the ground, this time to be more hurt than at first.

I bore the suffering as well as I could, and made no complaint, while my uncle and Jan tried to get the horse up.  It was soon apparent, however, that its travelling days were done, and that we had now the ox alone to depend upon.

"I wish that I could walk," I said, but when I made the attempt I could not proceed a dozen paces.  Had not my uncle supported me I should have sunk to the ground.  We could not stay where we were, for both we and our poor ox required water and food.

"We must abandon our goods," said my uncle; "better to lose them than our lives.  We will, however, if we can find a spot near here, leave them en cache, as the Canadian hunters say; and if we soon fall in with any friendly natives, we can send and recover them."

He had just observed, he said, a small cave, and he thought that by piling up some stones in front of it the things would remain uninjured from the weather or wild beasts for a considerable time.

As it was only a short distance off, while Jan remained with me, he led the ox to the spot.  The cave, fortunately, had no inhabitant; and, having placed the goods within, and piled some stones so as completely to block up the entrance, he returned, retaining only the powder and shot, the ostrich feathers, three or four skins, our cooking utensils, a few packages of tea, coffee, sugar, pepper, and similar articles weighing but little.  Unfortunately, in building up the wall, one of the larger stones had dropped, and severely injured his foot.  He found it so painful that he was unable to walk.  He, therefore, mounting the ox, took me up before him.  I, indeed, by this time could not even hold on to the saddle, so had not he carried me I should have been unable to travel.  We now once more went on.  It was already late in the day, and before long darkness overtook us; still we could not stop without water, which we hoped, however, to find before long.  In a short time the moon rose and enabled us to see our way.

The prospect was dreary in the extreme.  Here and there a few trees sprang out of the arid soil, while on every side were rocks with little or no vegetation round them.  We looked out eagerly for water, but mile after mile was passed over and not a pool nor stream could we see.  I suffered greatly from thirst, and sometimes thought that I should succumb.  My uncle cheered me up, and Jan declared that we should soon reach water and be able to camp.  Still on and on we went.  At length Jan cried out -- 

"Dare water, dare water!"

I tried to lift up my head, but had not strength to move.  I heard my uncle exclaim -- 

"Thank heaven! there's water, sure enough.  I see the moonbeams playing on the surface of a pool."

I believe I fainted, for I remember no more until I found him splashing water over my face; and, opening my eyes.  I saw him kneeling by my side.  Jan was busily engaged in lighting a fire, while the ox was feeding not far off.  A hut was then built for me, and as soon as I was placed in it I fell asleep.  In the morning I awoke greatly revived.  My uncle said he was determined to remain at the spot until I was sufficiently recovered to travel, and I promised to get well as soon as I could.  When breakfast was over he started off with his gun to try and shoot a deer, for we had just exhausted the last remnant of venison we possessed.

As, sheltered from the rays of the sun, I lay in my hut, which was built on a slight elevation above the lakelet, I could enjoy a fine view of the country in front of me.

Jan, having just finished cleaning my gun, was engaged a little way below me in cutting up the wood for the fire, singing in a low voice one of his native songs.

Presently I caught sight of my uncle in the far distance advancing towards a rounded hillock which rose out of the plain below.  Almost at the same moment, I saw still further off several animals which I at once knew to be deer coming on at a rapid rate towards our camp.  They were taking a direction which would lead them close to where my uncle lay in ambush.  They were followed by others in quick succession, until a vast herd came scampering and bounding across the plain like an army, two or three abreast, following each other.  Twice I heard the report of my uncle's rifle.  On each occasion a deer fell to the ground.

Jan cried out that they were blesboks, one of the finest deer in South Africa.  They had long twisting horns, and were of a reddish colour, the legs being much darker, with a blaze of white on the face.

I never saw a more beautiful sight.  Jan was all eagerness, and, taking my gun, he went in chase; but before he could get near enough to obtain a shot, the whole herd was scampering away across the plain, laughing at his puny efforts to overtake them.

In a short time my uncle appeared, carrying a portion of one of the animals on his back, and immediately sent off Jan with the ox to fetch in the remainder.

Here was wood and water, and game in abundance, so that we could not have chosen a better spot for remaining in until I was myself again.  As we had plenty of meat he was able to concoct as much broth as I could consume.  It contributed greatly to restore my strength; and, judging by the progress I was making, I hoped that we should be able shortly to resume our journey.



Chapter Three.

In a few days I was able to stroll a short distance from the camp, always taking my gun with me.  Though I still walked with some difficulty, I every hour found my strength returning.  Had we possessed a waggon we might have loaded it with skins, so abundant was the game; but, although we prepared a few of the most valuable, we could not venture to add much to the cargo of our poor ox.  At last my uncle, seeing that I was strong enough to undertake the fatigue of the journey, announced his intention of setting off, and I determined that it should not be my fault if I broke down again.

In order to try my strength, I accompanied him on a short shooting excursion from the camp, where we left Jan to look after the ox and our goods.  I found that I got along far better than I had expected; the satisfaction of once more finding myself able to move about greatly raising my spirits.  We had gone but a short distance when looking over the bushes we saw some objects moving up and down which, as we crept nearer, turned out to be a pair of elephant's ears.

"We must have that fellow," said my uncle; "we can carry his tusks, and one of his feet will afford us a substantial meal."  The elephant, we fancied, did not see us; and keeping ourselves concealed by the underwood, we cautiously advanced.  Presently we found ourselves on the borders of an open glade, a few low bushes only intervening between ourselves and the elephant.  He now saw us clearly enough, and not liking our appearance, I suppose, lifted up his trunk and began trumpeting loudly.

"If he comes on, don't attempt to run," whispered my uncle, "but face him for a moment, and fire at his shoulder; then leap on one side or behind a tree, or if you can do so, climb up it with your rifle.  I will look out for myself."  As he spoke the elephant began to advance towards us.  I fired, as did my uncle, the moment afterwards; but, though we both hit him, the huge beast, after approaching a few paces nearer, instead of charging, turned away to the left, and went crashing through the wood.

We having reloaded were about to follow him, when the heads of nearly a dozen other elephants appeared from the direction where we had seen the first; and, advancing rapidly through the shrubs which they trampled under foot, with trunks and tail stuck out, and uttering loud trumpetings, they came rushing like a torrent down upon us.

"Come behind these bushes!" cried my uncle, "and don't move thence if you value your life."

I felt as if my life was of very little value just then, for I could not see how we were to escape being crushed by the huge monsters as they rushed over us.  My uncle fortunately possessed all the coolness required by an elephant hunter.

"Fire at that fellow opposite," he cried.  "I'll take the next, and they'll probably turn aside."

We almost at the same moment pulled our triggers.  The elephant at which my uncle fired stopped short, then down it came with a crash on its knees; while the one I aimed at rushed by with its companions, very nearly giving me an ugly kick with its feet.

We had both dropped behind the bush the moment we had delivered our fire.  On went the creatures trumpeting with rage, and disappointed at not finding us.

We were not free from danger, for it was possible that they might return.  As soon, therefore, as their tails had disappeared among the brushwood, we reloaded and ran towards some trees, the trunks of which would afford us some protection.  Here we waited a short time in sight of the elephant which lay dead on the ground.  We could hear the trumpeting of the others grow less distinct as they made their way through the forest, either influenced by fear or excited by rage, fancying they were still following us up.

"They will not come back for the present," said my uncle at length as we issued out from among the trees, when he at once began to cut out the tusks from the dead elephant.  These he calculated weighed together fully a hundred and ten pounds.  This, however, was a greater weight than he could carry, and he would not allow me to attempt to help him.

"You shall convey one of the feet to the camp, and we will try our skill in cooking it," he said, dexterously cutting it off.

Taking a stick he ran it through the foot so that I could the more easily carry it.  He then having shouldered one of the tusks, we set out for the camp, well satisfied with our day's sport.

As soon as we arrived we sent off Jan for the other tusk, as he could easily find the way by the track we had made; while my uncle dug a hole close to the fire, into which he raked a quantity of ashes, and then covered it up.  After some time he again scraped out the ashes, and having wrapt the foot up in leaves, he put it into the hole, and covered it up with hot earth.  On the top of all he once more lit a fire, and kept it blazing away for some time.

The fire had well-nigh burnt out when Jan returned with the other tusk. He told us that on his way back he had seen the spoors of the elephants, and that if we chose to follow them, he was sure that we should come up with them, and should most probably find those we had wounded.

We now uncovered our elephant's foot, which Jan pronounced to be as satisfactorily cooked as his own countrymen could have done it.  The flesh was soft and gelatinous, greatly resembling calves-head, and was so tender that we could scoop it out with a spoon.  I don't know that I ever enjoyed a meal more.  Although we could not venture to load our ox with more than the two tusks we had already obtained, my uncle, hoping soon to fall in with Mr Welbourn, determined to try and obtain the tusks from the other two elephants we had wounded, and to leave them concealed, until we could send for them.  There was the risk, of course, of their being discovered by the natives, as we were now approaching an inhabited part of the country.  We had still a couple of hours of day-light, and as I did not feel myself fatigued with my previous exertions, my uncle agreed to allow me to accompany him, while Jan was left to clean the tusks and to prepare straps for carrying them on the back of the ox.

We soon discovered the elephants' spoor, and followed it for some distance, the splashes of blood we found here and there showing that the wounded animal had stopped to rest.  It would be necessary, as we approached them, to be cautious, as they would be on the alert and ready to revenge themselves for the injury they had received.

We now every moment expected to come upon them.  We stopped to listen; no sound could we hear to indicate that they were near us.  We, therefore, went on until, reaching the top of a hillock, we caught sight of some water glittering among the trees.  Advancing a little further a small lakelet opened out before us, in the shallow part of which, near the shore, stood an elephant, sucking up the water with his trunk and throwing it over his neck and shoulders.

My uncle remarked that he was sure it was the animal we had wounded, but that he was still too far off to give us a chance of killing him.  We were making our way among the trees, hoping to got near without being perceived -- though that was no easy matter as he kept his sharp eyes turning about in every direction -- when, from behind the grove which had before concealed them, several more rushed out.

"They see us!" cried my uncle.  "We must get up among the branches and shoot them as they pass, for they will not let us escape as easily as before."

Fortunately, near at hand was a tree, up which, without much difficulty, we could make our way.  My uncle, going up first, helped me to follow him.

Scarcely had we secured ourselves when the elephants came up with their trunks sticking out and trumpeting as loudly as before.  As they kept their eyes on the ground, they did not see us.  We fired at them as they passed.

We remained for some time expecting the wounded elephant to follow its companions, but as it did not we began to hope that it had succumbed, and that we might find it dead in the neighbourhood.  We were about to descend to look for it, when the heads of three giraffes, or camelopards, as they are sometimes called, appeared among the trees; the animals lifting up their tall necks to crop the leaves as they advanced. As they were coming in our direction we agreed to wait.  By descending we might frighten them.  In a short time one separated from the others, and got so close that my uncle could not resist the temptation of firing.  As the shot entered its neck the graceful animal sank down to the ground, and lay perfectly dead.  The other two trotted off to a short distance, alarmed by the report; but, seeing no human foe and not knowing what had happened to their companion, they stopped and continued browsing on the leaves as before.

"The chances are that they will soon come this way, and so we cannot do better than remain where we are," observed my uncle.

We sat some time watching the graceful creatures as they stretched up their long necks to a remarkable height, in search of the young shoots and leaves.  Presently we saw one of them turn its head and look towards its dead companion.  The next moment a lion burst out from among the bushes and sprang towards the giraffe on the ground.  I had fancied that lions never condescended to feast on a dead animal; but probably there was still some little life in the giraffe, or, at all events, having only just been killed, the carcase could have had no savoury odour. Directly afterwards we heard a roar, and another lion sprang from the cover, the first replying with a roar which made the welkin ring.  If we could not kill the lions, it was evident that we should soon have none of the meat to carry back with us.  Instead, however, of beginning to tear the giraffe to pieces, the lions began walking round and round it and roaring lustily, possibly thinking that it was the bait to a trap, as they are taught by experience to be wary, many of their relatives having been caught in traps set by the natives.  So occupied were the brutes with this matter that they did not discover us though we were at no great distance from them.

The two giraffes, on hearing the first lion roar, had trotted off, or they would probably have soon been attacked.

"Stay here, Fred!" whispered my uncle to me: "I will descend and get a shot at one of those fellows -- don't be alarmed.  If I kill him, the chances are the other runs off.  At all events, I will retreat to the tree, and do you keep ready to fire, should he follow me, while I reload.  In the meantime there is no real danger."

I felt somewhat nervous at hearing this, though my uncle knew so well what he was about that I need not have been alarmed for his safety. Before I could reply he had descended the tree.  Holding his rifle ready, he advanced towards the lions, but even then, as he was to leeward they did not discover him.

He was within fifteen paces of them, when he stopped and levelled his rifle.  Just then they both saw him, and looked up as if greatly astonished at his audacity.  He fired, and the first lion, giving a spring in the air, fell over on the body of the giraffe.

The second stopped, hesitating whether to leap on his enemy or to take to flight.  This gave my uncle time to reload when he slowly stepped back towards the tree, facing the lion, which advanced at the same pace.

"Now, Fred! let me see what you can do," he shouted out as he found that the brute had got within range of my rifle.

I obeyed him, earnestly trusting that my shot would take effect.  I felt sure that I had hit the animal, though, when the smoke cleared off, to my dismay I saw it about to spring at my uncle.  He stood as calm as if the creature had been a harmless sheep.  Just as the lion rose from the ground, I heard the crack of his rifle, and it fell back, shot through the heart.  I quickly scrambled down to the ground to survey the giraffe and the two lions.  My uncle seemed in no way elated by his victory. "If we had had our waggon we might have secured the skins," he observed; "but as it is, we must content ourselves with some of the giraffe's flesh, which we shall find palatable enough for want of better."

Drawing his knife, he at once commenced operations on the giraffe.  We soon, having secured as much of the meat as we could require, ran a couple of sticks through it and started off to return to the camp.

Darkness, however, came down upon us before we had gone far; still, we hoped to be able to find our way.  Scarcely, however, had the sun set, when the mutterings and roars of lions saluted our ears; and of course we had the uncomfortable feeling that at any moment one of them might spring out on us.  We cast many an anxious glance round, and kept our rifles in our hands ready for instant use, hoping that we should have time to see a lion before he was upon us.  We had no fear at present of human foes, as the country through which we were travelling was uninhabited; though we might fall in with hunting parties, who were, however, likely to prove friendly.  Besides lions, there was a possibility of our encountering hyaenas, leopards, and wolves, which, when hunting in packs, are as dangerous as in other parts of the world.

My uncle made me go ahead, while he kept five or six paces behind, so that, should a lion spring out at me, he might be ready to come to my assistance.  We kept shouting too, to scare away any of the brutes we most dreaded; for, savage as is the lion, he is a cowardly animal except when pressed by hunger.  Fortunately the sky was clear, and the stars shining out brightly enabled us to steer our course by them; but we went on and on, and I began to fear that we had already passed our camp.  I expressed my apprehensions to my uncle.

"No!" he answered, "we are all right.  We shall see the fire in a short time, unless Jan has let it out, which is not likely."

"But perhaps a lion may have carried him off, and killed our ox also, and we shall then be in a sad plight," I remarked.

"Nonsense, Fred!" he answered; "you are overtired with your long walk, and allow gloomy apprehensions to oppress you.  I wish that I had not brought you so far."

After this I said no more, but exerted myself to the utmost; though I could scarcely drag one foot after the other, and had it become necessary to run for our lives, I do not think I could have moved.  I looked about, now on one side now on the other, and fancied that I could see the vast heads and shaggy manes of huge lions watching us from among the trees.  I did not fear their roars as long as they were at a distance.  At length I heard what I took to be the mutterings of half-a-dozen, at least, close to us.  I shouted louder than ever, to try and drive them off.  As soon as I stopped shouting I listened for my uncle's voice, dreading lest one of the brutes should have seized him. I could not stop, to look round, and I was most thankful when I again heard him shout -- 

"Go on, Fred; go on, my boy.  We shall see Jan's camp-fire before long. I don't believe there's a lion within half a mile of us.  During the night we hear their voices a long distance off."

At length I saw, right ahead, a glare cast on the trunks and branches of the trees.  It was I hoped produced by our camp-fire.  Again, again, we shouted; should any lions be stalking us, they were very likely to follow our footsteps close up to our camp, and might pounce down upon us at the last moment, fearful of losing their prey.  I felt greatly relieved on hearing Jan's shout in reply to ours; and pushing eagerly on, we saw him sitting close to a blazing fire which he had made up.  He was delighted to see us, for he had become very anxious at our long absence; especially as a troop of elephants, he said, had passed close to the camp; and, as one of them was wounded, he knew that they had been met with by us, and he feared might possibly have trampled us to death. He had heard, too, the roar of lions near at hand.  We found the giraffe's flesh more palatable than I had expected.  As soon as we had eaten a hearty supper we lay down to rest, Jan promising to remain awake and keep up a blazing fire so as to scare away the lions.

Every now and then I awoke, and could hear the roarings and mutterings of the monarchs of the forest, which I heartily wished were sovereigns of some other part of the world.

Greatly to my disappointment, after the fatigue I had gone through I was unable to travel the next morning, and we had to put off our departure for another day.

My uncle went out for a short time, to shoot an antelope or any other species of deer he could come across for provisions, as what he killed for food one day was unfit for eating the next.

He had been absent for some time, and as I felt that a short walk would do me good, I took my gun, intending not to go far from the camp.  I had some hopes that I might come across an antelope or deer during my short excursion.  I of course took good care to keep a look-out on either side, lest I should be surprised by a lion or a leopard, the animals mostly to be feared in that region.  It was not impossible that I might fall in with an elephant, but I had no intention of attacking one if I did, and should have ample notice of its approach, so that I might keep out of its way.  I had gone about a quarter of a mile or so from the camp, and was thinking of turning back when I reached a tree which I found I could easily climb, as the remains of branches stuck out almost close to the ground.  I got up for the sake of taking a survey of the country around, and especially over that part of it we had to travel the next morning.  I found my lofty seat very pleasant, for I was well shaded by the thick foliage over head, while a light breeze played among the leaves, which was refreshing in the extreme.  I had some difficulty in keeping awake, but I endeavoured to do so fearful of letting go my gun, or, perhaps, of falling to the ground myself.  I did my best not to fall asleep, by singing and by occasionally getting up and looking around me.

The tree grew, I should have said, on the side of a bank, with a wide extent of level ground to the eastward, dotted over with thick clumps of trees, some large enough to be called woods; while nearer at hand, on either side of me, the vegetation was more scattered, here and there two or three trees only growing together.  In some places single trees alone could be seen, rising in solitary grandeur from the soil.  I had just got up when I caught sight of an elephant, which had come out from one of the clumps I have mentioned, where it had probably been spending the hot hours of the day, and advanced slowly towards me, now plucking a bunch of leaves with its trunk, now pulling up a shrub or plant. Presently I caught sight of a man with a gun in his hand coming out from the forest to the left and making his way towards where the elephant was feeding.  He apparently did not see the animal, which was hidden from him by an intervening clump.  When he got closer I recognised my uncle. Wishing to warn him of the neighbourhood of the elephant, I shouted as loudly as I could bawl; but, from the distance we were apart, he could not hear me.  The elephant also took no notice of my voice, but went on feeding as before.

Presently my uncle came in sight of the monstrous beast, which must have seen him at the same time, for it ceased feeding and turned its head in the direction he was coming.  Nothing daunted, my uncle continued to advance, keeping, however, more to the right, which would bring him towards the tree on which I was perched.  The elephant began to move towards him.  He quickened his pace -- he was now in the open ground, over which he was making his way, exposed to great danger.  He was aware of this and kept his gun ready to fire, though should he miss, he would be at the mercy of the brute.  I considered how I could help him, but saw it would be madness to descend the tree to fire, and therefore remained where I was, praying that, should my uncle fire, his shot might be successful.

Presently, up went the elephant's trunk; and, trumpeting loudly, he went at a fast trot directly towards my uncle, who, stopping for a moment, levelled his rifle and fired; but, although the shot took effect, it did not stop the elephant's progress.

He had not a moment to reload -- flight was his only resource.  Happily not far off was a tree, but whether its branches grew low down enough to enable him to climb up it, I could not see, and I trembled for his safety.  I shouted and shrieked, hoping to divert the attention of the elephant.  It appeared to me that its trunk was not a dozen yards from my uncle.  Should it once encircle him, his fate would be sealed.  I never felt more anxious in my life.  I might still stop its course I hoped, and, raising my rifle, I fired at its head, but my bullet seemed to make not the slightest impression.  I shrieked with alarm.  The next moment I saw my uncle seize the bough of a tree which had appeared to me above his head, when, exerting all his strength, he drew himself up. The elephant, elevating its trunk, actually touched his foot, but he drew it beyond its reach, and quickly clambered up into a place of safety.  The elephant stood for a moment, its trunk raised as if expecting him to fall, and then made a furious dash at the tree in a vain endeavour to batter it down.  The tree trembled from the shock but stood firm.

The elephant then, taking my uncle's cap which had fallen off, trampled it under foot, going round and round the tree and trumpeting loudly.  It was evidently a rogue elephant, an ill-tempered brute who had been driven from the herd to spend a solitary existence.  Such are always the most dangerous, as they appear to have a greater hatred of man and to be more cunning than the elephants found in herds.  It seemed to have made up its mind to besiege us.  Our position was unpleasant in the extreme, for while it remained we dared not descend, and for what we could tell, we might be kept up our respective trees all night, and perhaps the following day, or still longer.



Chapter Four.

My uncle and I felt far from happy up our trees.  He had had nothing to eat since he left camp in the morning, and I too was getting very hungry.  An hour or more went by, and yet the old "rogue" elephant showed no inclination to take its departure.  Fortunately it had not discovered my uncle's rifle, which lay concealed in the grass close to the foot of the tree.

He now shouted to me to try to shoot the brute.  This was no easy matter perched as I was high up; and as I was not likely to hit any vital part, I feared that any shot would only contribute to increase its rage without bringing it to the ground or driving it off.  I had but five more bullets in my pouch, but I determined to do my best and not throw a shot away.  I waited until the animal presented its side to me, when I fired, and the bullet struck it on the neck; but, though the blood flowed, it seemed to take no notice of the wound.  The next I planted just below the shoulder.  The elephant uttered several loud trumpetings and rushing again at the tree, seized the stem with its trunk, and endeavoured to pull it down.  It shook violently, compelling my uncle to hold on with arms and legs.

I quickly reloaded and fired another shot directly behind the creature's ear.  I saw the blood spouting forth and flowing down until it formed a pool dyeing the surrounding grass.  Gradually the elephant's trunk unwound and hung down from its vast head.

"You've done for it," shouted my uncle; "send another shot into its neck and we shall be free."

I was reloading while he spoke, and before the elephant altered its favourable position I again fired.

Less than a minute elapsed, then down it sank on its knees.  It made several efforts to rise but without success -- its strength was fast failing.  I had one more bullet remaining, but I wished to save it for any emergency which might occur.  We had not long to wait before the elephant fell over on its side and lay an inanimate mass.

My uncle quickly descended the tree and I followed his example.  His first act was to pick up and examine his gun.  It having escaped injury he at once reloaded, and then, shaking hands, we surveyed our fallen foe.

"I wish that we could carry these magnificent tusks with us, but that is out of the question," observed my uncle.  "We will, however, try to secure them.  Help me to cut them out."

We set to work; and having fastened all the straps we could muster round one of them, he ascended the tree in which I had taken refuge, and I assisting him, we hauled up one of the tusks, and deposited it safely among the branches.  The other was hauled up in the same fashion, and pretty hard work it was, as each tusk was considerably above half a hundredweight.

"I hope that we shall be able to send for these some day or other, and we are not likely to forget this spot in a hurry," remarked my uncle.

Having cut off one of the elephant's feet we ran a stick through it and started off for the camp.  The day, however, was not to pass without another adventure.  We had not gone half the distance when we saw, above the bushes, the head and neck of a giraffe.  It did not appear to be alarmed; but influenced by curiosity, instead of cantering away, it drew nearer, coming round the end of the clump, evidently wondering what strange creatures we could be.  So interested was it that it did not notice another and more formidable enemy which had been creeping up close behind.  This was a lion, which, engaged in stalking its prey, did not discover us.  We, therefore, could watch at a safe distance what was taking place.  The lion kept creeping on, cautious as a cat, and with movements very similar, when, believing that it had got near enough for its purpose, with a rush and a tremendous bound, it leapt on the back of the giraffe before the latter could use its heels to drive off its foe. With fearful tenacity the savage creature hung on to the shoulders of the terrified giraffe, which bounded forward, and leapt and sprang from side to side in a vain endeavour to shake off its foe.  Not a sound did it utter, but dashed on, with head erect; while the lion was tearing away with its teeth and claws at its shoulders and neck.  There was no doubt from the first which of the two would gain the victory.  Blood was streaming from the neck and flanks of the poor giraffe, which very quickly slackened its pace and then down it came, unable longer to endure the pain it was suffering.  The lion at once began tearing away at the flesh.  Still it kicked, and struggled, but its efforts were useless, and it very quickly ceased to move.

"We must have that lion," said my uncle.

Having examined our rifles we hurried towards the spot where the savage brute was enjoying its banquet, so busily employed that it did not see us.  When at length it was aware of our approach it ceased feeding, and gazed at us with its fore paws on the body of its victim, presenting a truly magnificent spectacle.

We were near enough by this time to take a steady aim.

"Do you fire, Fred, and then reload as rapidly as you can, while I will wait until you are ready."

"But I have no second bullet," fortunately recollecting at the moment that I had expended all my bullets but one.

My uncle handed me a couple, and I obeyed his injunctions.  My bullet passed through the lion's thick mane and crashed into its neck.

Uttering a tremendous roar as it felt the pain, it came towards us. Without a moment's loss of time I reloaded, fearing that, should my uncle's bullet fail to stop it, the brute would be upon us.

Notwithstanding the lion's near approach my uncle waited, and then fired, hitting it between the eyes.  Still it advanced, but, blinded and almost stunned, though it made a desperate bound towards us, its aim was uncertain.  My uncle sprang on one side and I on the other, when, before I had finished loading, over it fell, and lay dead between us.

"A pretty good afternoon's sport," observed my uncle.  "We'll take the liberty of cutting a few steaks from the giraffe which this brute here has hunted for us, and the sooner we get back to camp the better."

The chief difficulty in obtaining the steaks was in cutting through the tough skin of the giraffe, which was almost as thick as that of a rhinoceros.  By employing our axes we soon, however, accomplished our task, and in a few minutes reached the camp, where Jan, who had heard our shots, had made up a large fire in expectation of any game we should bring.

While the elephant foot was cooking we regaled ourselves on some fine slices of giraffe meat, which assisted to stop the cravings of hunger. All night long we were surrounded by the abominable cries of hyaenas and jackals which were collected round the carcases of the slain animals.

It is said that they dare not touch even a dead lion, but at all events when we went out to look the next morning the bones only of the two animals remained.

We now once more reloaded our ox and set out northward.  We remarked that the poor creature, in spite of its long rest, looked thinner, and in worse condition than before.

"Him tsetse do it.  You see, ox die!" exclaimed Jan.

Still the faithful brute stepped on with its heavy load, and we hoped that Jan was mistaken.

At length we came in sight of a broader river than we had crossed since we had left the desert.

We had no doubt that it would conduct us down to the lake, on the borders of which we hoped to find our friends encamped.  How to cross it was the difficulty.  I suggested that we should construct a raft, as the reeds which fringed the bank would supply us with abundance of material.

Not far off was a tree-covered island, the intervening space being filled with reeds.  Leaving Jan and the ox on the shore, my uncle and I set off to reach the island, thinking that we could there more conveniently build our raft and launch it than from the main land.

Plunging in among the reeds we soon found ourselves almost overwhelmed: not a breath of air could reach us, and the heat was so stifling that we almost fainted.  Still, having begun, we were unwilling to give up.

Frequently we could only get on by leaning against the mass of reeds, and bending them down until we could stand upon them.  They were mixed with a serrated grass which cut our hands, while the whole was bound together by the climbing convolvulus, with stalks so strong that we could not break them.

Plying our axes, however, we managed to make our onward way until we gained the island, but here to our disappointment we found that we were thirty yards or more from the clear water, which was full of great masses of papyrus with stalks ten feet in height, and an inch and a half in diameter.  These also were bound together by the convolvulus in a way which made them perfectly impenetrable.  While we stood on the shore of the island the sound of human voices reached our ears, and we saw in the distance several canoes descending the stream.  Each carried three men, two paddling and one standing up with a large harpoon attached to a rope in his hand.  They were in pursuit of some large dark creatures whose heads, just rising above the water, looked like those of enormous cart-horses.

"They are hippopotami!" exclaimed my uncle, "and we shall see some sport presently."

Suddenly, down came the harpoon, and was fixed in the back of one of the monsters, which almost sprang out of the water as it felt the pain of the wound; then off it went, towing the canoe at a tremendous rate after it, the end of the rope being secured to the bows, while the barb to which the rope was attached being shaken out of its socket remained firmly fixed in the animal's body.

We ran along the island to watch the canoe as long as it remained in sight, but it was towed so rapidly that it soon disappeared.  Presently, however, we saw another coming down the stream fast to a second hippopotamus, not only the head but a considerable portion of the body of which was floating above the water.  The men in the canoe were hauling themselves up closer to their prey, preparatory to plunging their lances or harpoons into its body.  I fancied that I could almost distinguish the savage glance of the brute's eyes.  Suddenly it stopped; then, turning round, gave a rush at the canoe.

In vain the blacks slackened the rope, and seizing their paddles, endeavoured to escape from it.  With open mouth the hippopotamus rushed on the boat, and, seizing it in its enormous jaws, crushed it up as if it had been made of paper.

One poor fellow was caught; a fearful shriek was heard; and, directly afterwards, we saw his body, cut in two, floating down the stream.  The other two men had disappeared, and we fancied must also have been killed.  Again and again the animal darted at the canoe, expending his rage upon it.

While he was thus employed the two men rose to the surface and instantly made for the shore, dragging the end of the rope by a path we had not before observed, between the reeds.  With wonderful activity they made it fast to the trunk of a tree.  Directly afterwards three other canoes arrived, and the men, armed with harpoons and heavy spears, jumping on shore, joined their companions in hauling in on the rope attached to the hippopotamus.  In vain the monster struggled, endeavouring to tear itself away from the rope.  The blacks with wonderful boldness rushed into the water, darting their spears at it.  It had seized the shaft of the harpoon, which had broken in two, and was endeavouring to bite through the rope.

Two other canoes now came up and their crews attacked the hippopotamus in the rear.  So engaged were the hunters that they did not observe us. As we watched their proceedings it appeared very probable that in spite of its wounds the hippopotamus would break away.  Seeing this, my uncle unslung his rifle and advanced towards the monster, which had already severed several strands of the rope.  As it opened its vast mouth, he fired down its throat, and it almost instantly, giving another convulsive struggle, rolled over.

His success was greeted with triumphant shouts by the hunters who had only just before discovered us.  Having drawn the body of the hippopotamus up to the dry land, the blacks crowded round us, and by signs and exclamations expressed their admiration of the way in which my uncle had killed the creature.

We tried to explain that we were very happy to have been of service to them, and that we should feel obliged, if, in return, they would ferry us across the river, and guide us to the waggons of the white men who had encamped not far off.

Leaving the hunters to cut up the hippopotamus, and stow its flesh on board their canoes, we returned to where we had left Jan and the ox.  As it was getting late, we agreed to remain where we were until the following day, -- in the meantime to try to shoot an antelope or deer of some sort which would enable us to provide a feast for the natives by whom we might be visited.

I was fortunate enough, while lying down among some rocks near our camp, to kill a springbok, one of the most light and elegant of the gazelle tribe; but its companions, of which it had several, bounded off at so rapid a rate that I had no chance of killing another.  I, therefore, lifting my prize on my shoulder, returned to camp, where my uncle soon after arrived, laden with the flesh of a quagga, which, although belonging to the family of asses, is good food.

Scarcely had we put on some meat to cook, when half a dozen of our acquaintances arrived.  It was satisfactory to find that Jan understood their language.  They appeared to be well-disposed towards us, and our friendship was cemented by the feast of quagga flesh which we got ready for them.  We ourselves, however, preferred the more delicate meat of the springbok.  We kept some of the meat for our next day's breakfast, and offered the remainder to our guests, which they quickly stowed away.

They undertook to convey us down the river the following morning in their canoes, or on a raft, observing that, if we went in the canoes, we must be separated, as each could carry only one of us.  We, therefore, determined to trust to a raft, such as we ourselves had proposed building.  Our guests retired for a short distance from us, and formed a camp by themselves for the night.

I awoke about two hours before dawn, when my attention was attracted to a peculiar noise which I might liken to a low grunting and the tread of numberless feet.  As day broke, I saw the ground to the southward covered with a dense mass of deer moving slowly and steadily on towards an opening in a long range of hills to the east.  They appeared to be in no hurry, but continued feeding as they went.  I aroused my uncle, who pronounced them to be springboks, one of which I had shot on the previous evening migrating for the winter to the northward.  They were beautiful animals, graceful in form, of a light cinnamon red on the back, fading into white on the under part of the body, a narrow band of reddish brown separating the two colours.  As far as the eye could reach, the whole country seemed alive with them, -- not only the plain but the hill-side, along which they bounded with graceful leaps.

Our guests on the previous evening had disappeared, but they quickly came back with a large party of their tribe, and gave us to understand that they could not escort us down to the river for the present, as they must set out to attack the springboks, and hoped that we would accompany them.

This my uncle and I at once agreed to do, and, supplying ourselves with a good stock of ammunition, we set off with the first party that started.  Our friends led us at a rapid rate over the hills by a short cut, so that we might intercept the animals, as they passed through the mountains.  Another party, we found, remained behind, to drive them through, or prevent them turning back when frightened by our presence. We were only just in time, for already the leaders of the herd had made their appearance.  As we approached the mouth of the gorge, while some of the hunters rushed up the hills, and stationed themselves on either side, so as to dart their javelins at the passing deer, others took post at the mouth of the gorge, thus preventing the egress of the animals, without coming within range of their weapons.

Now a scene of slaughter commenced such as I have seldom witnessed.  The leaders of the herd turned to retreat, but were met by the party who had remained on the other side shrieking and shouting, and knocking the handles of their spears against their shields.  Some of the animals tried to escape up the mountains, others dashed forward to our very feet, and many fell down killed by terror itself.  We shot a few, but the slaughter seemed so unnecessary that we refrained from again firing, and would gladly have asked the natives to desist; but while the animals were in their power, they would evidently have refused to do so.

Happily the affrighted deer found an opening, which, from the excessive steepness of the path, had been neglected.  Through this a considerable number made their escape, and were soon beyond the reach of their merciless pursuers.

The natives now began to collect the animals they had slain, and each man returned in triumph with a springbok on his shoulders.

We, not to be outdone, each carried one of those we had shot, and a pretty heavy load it was.  I was thankful when we got back to the camp, where we cooked a portion of the venison.

As we might have felt sure, the natives, having plenty of food, were not at all disposed to move from the spot, and, indeed, continued feasting the whole of the next day.  On the following, they were so gorged that they were utterly unable to make any exertion.  Had an enemy been near, and found them in this condition, the whole tribe might have been killed or carried off into captivity.

We in the meantime explored the banks of the river until we found a convenient spot for forming our raft.  In most places the reeds extended so far from the shore that during the operation we should have had to stand up to our middles in water among them, with the risk of being picked up by a crocodile or hippopotamus, both of which delectable creatures were, in considerable numbers, frequenters of the stream.

As the blacks still showed no inclination to accompany us, Jan volunteered to return for the elephant's tusks and other articles we had left behind, if I would go with him.

To this my uncle somewhat demurred, but, at last, when I pressed the point, he consented to remain in charge of the goods we had brought while we set off on our expedition.



Chapter Five.

At daybreak Jan and I set off, he as usual leading the ox, while I walked ahead with my rifle, ready for a shot.  Our baggage consisted of a couple of skins to sleep on, a stock of ammunition, a small portion of our remnant of flour, tea, sugar, and pepper.  We had no fear of not finding food, as game of all sorts was abundant, provided I kept my health, and was able to shoot it.

I asked Jan what he thought of the ox which looked remarkably thin.

"No good!" he answered; "last till get back, but not more -- den him die."

I trusted that the poor animal would hold out as long as he supposed.

We rested at noon under an enormous acacia, of the younger branches of which the elephants are apparently very fond.  We saw that they were everywhere twisted off to the height of about twenty-five feet, which is as far as an elephant can reach.

Here and there, under the trees, were conical hills twenty feet high, built up for residences by the white ants.  Frequently they were covered with creeping plants which met at the top, hanging back in an umbrella shape, completely shading them.  I shot several doves and other birds to serve us for dinner, and while Jan was cooking them I went in search of fruit, and discovered an abundance of medlars very similar to those we have in England, as well as some small purple figs growing on bushes. The most curious fruit I met with was like a lime in appearance, with a thick rind, but inside was a large nut.  I had to climb a tree to obtain them, for all those lower down had been carried off by elephants who were evidently very fond of the fruit.

As our object was to make as much haste as possible, I was resolved not to go out of the way to shoot any large game, though I kept my rifle loaded with ball as a defence against lions, leopards, rhinoceroses, or hyaenas.

The first day's journey we saw several in the distance, though none came near us.  We formed our camp at the foot of a tree, with a large fire in front of us, and on either side of the trunk we erected a fence of stout stakes in a semi-circular form; so we hoped that we should be able to sleep without being molested by wild beasts.  The ox remained outside, and we knew that he would run to the fire, should danger threaten him.

The usual cries proceeding from an African forest prevented us from sleeping over soundly, and I was awakened by the roar of a lion, which stood on a mound some little distance from our camp, afraid of approaching near our fire, and the palisade which he probably took for a trap.

We had exhausted our stock of wood during the night, and in the morning Jan went out to procure a fresh supply for cooking our breakfast.  I was employed in plucking some birds which I had killed in the evening, when I heard my companion shouting lustily for help, and at the same time, a loud crashing of boughs reached my ears, while the ox came hurrying up to the camp in evident alarm.

Seizing my rifle, I sprang up, fearing that a lion had pounced down upon Jan, while picking up sticks, and I was fully prepared for an encounter with the savage brute.  Instead of a lion, however, I saw an elephant, with trunk uplifted, rush out from among the brushwood.  I sprang behind a tree, as the only place of safety, when what was my dismay, to see, as he passed, Jan clinging to his hind leg.  How the black had got there was the puzzle, and how to rescue him from his awkward position was the next question to be solved.  Should he let go, he might naturally expect to receive a kick from the elephant's hind foot which would effectually knock all the breath out of his body; and yet, should he not get free, he might be carried miles away and perish miserably.  My only hope was at once to mortally wound the elephant.  Not a moment was to be lost if I was to save poor Jan.  Just then the elephant caught sight of the ox, and stopped as if considering if he should attack it.  Whether he was aware that Jan was clinging to his leg or not, I could not tell, as the black's weight no more impeded him than a fly would a man when running.

The ox, instead of endeavouring to escape, presented its head to the elephant, though it trembled in every limb.

Jan, who seemed paralysed with fear, did not let go as I thought he would have done, and his best chance would have been to spring back, even though he had fallen on the ground directly behind the elephant.  I did not like to shout to him for fear of attracting the creature's attention.

Now or never was my time to save the poor fellow.  I stepped from under cover of the tree, and, levelling my rifle, aimed at a spot directly behind the ear.

The huge monster did not move, then presently it began swaying to and fro.  I shouted to Jan to leap off and hurried on to help him.  Before I reached the spot, he had followed my advice, and hardly had he done so, than down came the elephant with a crash, to the ground.  Jan raised a shout of triumph.

"De master hab done well!" he cried out.  I could not help joining him, and even the ox gave a bellow of satisfaction as he saw his huge foe stretched lifeless on the ground.

We at once set to work to extract the tusks with our axes.  Rather than leave them, we agreed to take them with us.  We therefore placed them on the back of our ox, together with some slices of elephant meat which would prevent the necessity of shooting game during the day.

We now pushed forward for the cave where we had left our goods, and met with no adventures worth noticing.  We saw numerous herds of antelopes, giraffes, and a few ostriches.  The latter I would have killed if I could, for the sake of their valuable feathers.  The cave had been untouched, and it was with no small satisfaction that I loaded up the ox with its contents, as we prepared to set off the next morning on our return, intending, on our way back, to obtain the elephant's tusks we had deposited in the tree, which had afforded me such seasonable shelter when attacked by their owner.

We met as before buffaloes, elands, koodoos, and various antelopes.  As I was walking along ahead, suddenly I found my face enveloped as if by a thick veil; and as I was tearing off the web -- for such it was -- I caught sight of a large yellow spider, hauling himself up to the tree above. In the neighbourhood were many other webs, the fibres radiating from a centre point where the greedy insect was waiting for its prey.

Each web was about a yard in diameter, and the lines on which they were hung, suspended from one tree to another, were as thick as coarse thread.  We occasionally met with serpents, but they generally kept out of our way.

One day, during a halt, while seated under a tree, I caught sight of another enormous spider of a reddish tinge.  Never did I see a creature so active.  It suddenly made its appearance from a hole in the bark, and giving a tremendous bound, caught a large moth which it quickly devoured.  With wonderful rapidity it ran about the tree, now darting forward, now springing back.  With a feeling of horror lest it should spring upon me, I removed to a distance.  On looking down on the ground, I saw what I at first thought was a coin the size of a shilling; but on looking closer I discovered that it was of a pure white silky substance like paper, and that it formed the door to a hole.  On trying to lift it up I discovered that it was fastened by a hinge on one side, and on turning it over upon the hole it fitted exactly -- the upper side being covered with earth and grass, so that, had it not been for the circumstance that the inmate had been out, I could not possibly have detected it.  Jan said it was the hole of a spider, probably the creature I had seen engaged in seeking its prey.

While encamped that night, I heard the crashing of heads and horns.  Jan told me it was caused by a troop of buffaloes who were fighting. Presently a loud snorting and puffing reached our ears.  The uproar increased, and he declared that the noise was produced by rhinoceroses and buffaloes quarrelling.  My fear was that in their heady fight the animals might come our way and trample over us, or perhaps the rhinoceroses would attack our poor ox, who was but ill able to defend himself.

While I was looking out beyond our camp-fire I caught sight of a herd of elephants, the huge males going first, followed by the females, on their way down to a large pool where they were going to drink.  I followed them cautiously until they entered the water.

Having satisfied their thirst, they began throwing it over themselves and disporting in the cool element, gambolling and rolling about like a party of schoolboys bathing.  As I could not have carried away their tusks, I did not attempt to shoot one but left them unmolested.  After a while I saw them returning by the way they had come, appearing in the uncertain light like huge phantoms so noiselessly did they stalk over the ground.

It is strange that, huge as the elephant is, from the soft padding of its feet, the sound of its steps is not heard even on hard ground.  Its approach is only to be discovered by the snapping of boughs and twigs as it makes its way among the brushwood.

We were but a short distance from the spot where we had left the elephant's tusks, one of the objects of our expedition.  I felt very sure of the place, as the adventure we had there met with had marked it in my memory.

I was going up to the tree followed by Jan, when I saw an object moving among the branches.  This made me approach cautiously, and fortunately I did so, for on looking up, I caught sight of an enormous leopard, which probably had been attracted by the smell of the flesh still adhering to the roots of the tusks.  As the creature had got possession of the tree, I had first to dislodge him before I could obtain our tusks; that they were still there I discovered by seeing their points sticking out beyond the forks of the boughs where we had deposited them.  I knew the leopard's habit of leaping down on passing animals, and thought it might attempt to catch me in the same manner.  I therefore stood at a distance, but though I shouted at the top of my voice, and threw pieces of wood at it, it held its post, snarling and growling savagely.

"Better shoot him, or he come down when no tinkee," cried Jan, who had remained with the ox at a safe distance.

As we were in a hurry to move on, I saw that the sooner I did this the better, but it was important to shoot it dead, for should I miss or only wound it, it might make its leap before I had reloaded, and attack me and Jan.

I advanced, and taking good aim, pulled the trigger, but what was my dismay to find my gun miss fire, while at the same moment the leopard made a spring from a high bough on which it was perched.  I expected the next instant to feel its fangs in my neck, and be struck to the ground by its sharp claws; but happily its feet caught in some of the creeping vines which were entwined round the tree, and it very nearly came toppling to the ground on its head.  Recovering itself, however, it pitched on a lower bough.

I, in the meantime, endeavouring to be calm, cleaned out the nipple of my gun, and put a fresh cap on; then retiring a few paces while the creature gazed down upon me, about to make another spring, I fired at its head, into which the bullet buried itself, and down it crashed to the ground.

I leaped back, and reloading, stood ready to give it another shot, but this was unnecessary; after a few convulsive struggles, it lay helpless on the ground.  On drawing near I found that it was dead.  The skin being a handsome one, I determined to secure it.  With Jan's assistance, I soon had it off and placed on the back of the ox.  I now ascended the tree, and found that though the ends of the tusks were gnawed, they were not otherwise injured.

With the aid of Jan I lowered them down, and secured them to the back of the ox.  The poor brute was now overloaded, but as we had not far to go, I hoped that it would be able to carry its burden that short distance.

Had I been strong I would have endeavoured to carry some of the load, but I found my gun and ammunition, with the birds I occasionally shot, quite enough for me.  At length, greatly to my satisfaction, we drew near the spot where I had left my uncle on some high ground overlooking the river.  Every moment I thought that our poor ox would give in.

We might, I suspect, have been indicted by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, had we been seen urging on the ox, but we had no choice, for had we abandoned our goods, the natives would have taken possession of them.  At last, as evening was approaching, we caught sight of my uncle's camp-fire.  We shouted, as he did in return, when he came hurrying down the hill to meet us.

"What poor brute have you got there?" he exclaimed, after welcoming us.

When I told him it was our old ox, he would scarcely believe it to be the same animal.  Hardly was the burden off its back, and Jan was about to lead it down to the water, than the poor creature, giving a convulsive shudder, fell to the ground, and in a few minutes was dead, having faithfully performed its duty to the last.  I felt more sad than I could have supposed it possible, as I assisted my uncle and Jan in drawing away the carcase from the camp.  We had not dragged it far, before some natives arrived, who relieved us of all further trouble, saying that they would take it to their camp, and eat it in spite of its having died from the effects of the tsetse poison, which we warned them was the case.

My uncle told me that he had prepared a raft, which would convey us and our goods down the river to where Mr Welbourn's camp was situated, and that he had engaged a couple of canoes and a party of natives to accompany us.  Instead of the howling of wild beasts, we were serenaded during the night by the shouts of laughter and songs of the blacks feasting on the carcase of the poor ox.  It was quite as well, however, that it should be eaten by them, as by jackals, which would have been its fate had it died in the wilderness.

Next morning, assisted by the blacks, we carried our goods down to the river, where we found a curious raft constructed of reeds.  It appeared to me loosely thrown together, somewhat like the top of a floating haystack.  My uncle said that the natives had formed it by throwing on the calm water a number of reeds, which were interlaced together.  Then others were added, until the lower sank by the weight of those pressed upon them, it being built up until it rose to a sufficient height above the surface to bear as many men and as much cargo as it was required to carry.  In the centre was stuck a mast to which a sail made of skins, was twisted, while a long oar projecting astern served to guide it. Notwithstanding the assurances of the natives that it was fit to perform a long voyage, I was glad of the attendance of the canoes.

All things being ready, amid the shouts of the people on shore, we shoved off, and, being towed cut into the stream by the canoes, set sail.  Considering the clumsy nature of our raft, we glided on with great rapidity, the canoemen having to paddle pretty hard to keep up with us.

It was pleasant to be reclining at our ease, and to be borne along without having to exert ourselves.  The voyage, however, was not without its dangers.  Now and then a huge hippopotamus would show its ugly head alongside, threatening to overturn our frail craft, which it might easily have done with one heave of its back.  Occasionally, too, crocodiles would swim by, looking up at us with their savage eyes, showing us how we should be treated should we by any chance be sent splashing into the water.  About mid-day we steered for the shore where our black crew intimated that they intended to dine.

The raft was secured by a rope round the mast and carried to the trunk of a tree.  We, however, were unwilling to leave our goods on board without a guard, and therefore determined to remain where we were and to eat a cold meal; the materials for which we had brought with us.  The water appearing bright and tempting, I was about to plunge overboard, when I felt the raft give a heave.  Directly afterwards, a huge crocodile poked his ugly snout above the surface, warning me that I had better remain where I was.  Two or three others made their appearance soon afterwards in the neighbourhood.  My uncle and I agreed that the sooner we were away from the spot the better, as any of the savage brutes coming under the raft might upset it, and we should be committed to their tender mercies.

We were very glad, therefore, when the blacks, having finished their meal, returned on board, and we once more began to float down the stream.

We were in hopes that at the rate we were proceeding we should meet our friends before the close of the day, but darkness approached, and the blacks gave us to understand that we must go on shore and spend the night at a village of their tribe, where we should be hospitably entertained.  To this we could offer no objection, though it involved the necessity of landing our goods, as we had no fancy to spend the time on the raft, with the prospect of finding it melting away below our feet, and we ourselves left to be devoured by the crocodiles, or perhaps, to have it capsized by the heave of an hippopotamus beneath it.

As we glided on, we saw a collection of bee-hive looking huts on the top of the south bank.  The raft was directed towards them.  The natives, leaping on shore, secured it as before by a rope to a tree growing on the beach.  They then assisted in carrying our property to the shore. Having piled it up in a heap and covered it over with a roof of leaves, they assured us that it would be as safe as if guarded by a hundred men. As they had hitherto shown themselves to be scrupulously honest, we had no reason to doubt them on this occasion; and we, therefore, willingly accompanied them to the village, whence a number of people issued forth to greet us.  They then conducted us to a newly built hut, the inside of which was as clean as we could desire, the floor covered with freshly made mats.  There we could more securely rest than we had been able to do for a long time.  We were, however, not yet allowed to enter it; a feast was preparing at which it was expected we should be present, after which there was to be a dance for our entertainment.  For the feast a fat ox had been killed, part being roasted and part stewed.  Some of both was placed before us, together with huge bowls of porridge, which our entertainers mixed with their fingers, and transferred by the same means to their mouths in large quantities.  They looked somewhat surprised when we hesitated to follow their example, but considering that it would show mistrust, we at last overcame our repugnance.  The porridge itself was certainly not bad, and our hosts laughed heartily as they saw how we burnt our fingers and made wry faces.  The whole was washed down with huge draughts of pombe, a sort of beer, with slightly intoxicating properties.  We did not inquire too minutely as to how it was made.  The feast over, we heard an extraordinary uproar proceeding from another part of the village, a sound between the barking of dogs and people endeavouring to clear their throats.  On going in the direction whence the strange sounds came, we found several men with spears in their hands and anklets of shells fastened round their legs, bending over a small fire, and producing the melancholy noises which had attracted our attention.  Others danced round them rattling their anklets, while a party of women forming an outer semicircle sang a monotonous chant and clapped their hands.  The old men and women, the senior inhabitants of the village, whom we were invited to join, sat on the opposite side, spectators of the performance.  In the meantime the young men and boys were prancing about, now advancing to the girls beating the ground, rattling their anklets, and creating an enormous quantity of dust.

These proceedings had gone on for some time, when a gay youth, evidently the leader among them, snatching a brand from the fire after dancing up to the girls, stuck it in the ground, when he began to leap round and over it, for a considerable time, taking care not to touch it.

After these various scenes had been enacted, a number of young men, representing a war party returning victorious from battle, made their appearance, and brandishing their broad-headed spears, ornamented with flowing ox-tails.  Now they rushed off, as if to pursue an enemy; now returned, and were welcomed by a chorus from the women.

The scene was highly effective; the glare of the fire being reflected on the red helmet-like gear and glittering ornaments of the girls, on the flashing blades and waving ox-tails on the warriors, and the figures of the spectators, with the huts and groups of cattle in the distance, while the howling, chanting, shrieking, and barking sounds were kept up without intermission.  We, at last, making signs to the chief that we were very weary, placing our heads on our hands and closing our eyes, were led ceremoniously to our hut, into which we were thankful to enter. Having closed the entrance we lay down and tried to go to sleep.  The noises which reached our ears showed us, however, that the dance was being kept up with unabated spirit, and I suspect that our hosts formed but a mean opinion of our tastes in consequence of our disappearing from the festive scene.

Next morning, having bestowed a few remaining trinkets to delight the hearts of the black damsels, we wished our hospitable entertainers farewell and continued our voyage, not an article of our property having been purloined.

Our raft clung together far better than I should have supposed, but I suspect, had it struck a rocky bottom, the case would have been very different.  We passed by herds of hippopotami, some with young ones on their backs, and although they sank as we approached, they soon came to the surface to breathe.  On the trees overhead were numbers of iguanas, which, on seeing us, splashed into the water.  The chief canoeman carried a light javelin, with which he speared a couple, the flesh proving to be tender and gelatinous.

Numerous large crocodiles, as we appeared, plunged heavily into the stream, indeed there was everywhere an abundance of animal life.  Had we not been anxious to join our friends, we should have been contented to continue the voyage for several days longer.

Another evening was approaching when we espied beneath a huge tree what looked like a tent and a couple of waggons near it.  We fired off our guns as a signal, and in a short time we saw two white men coming towards us.  We quickly landed in one of the canoes, and were soon shaking hands with Mr Welbourn and his son Harry.



Chapter Six.

Mr Welbourn had a good stock of ammunition, and with the supply we brought it was considered that we had sufficient to enable us to continue the journey northward into a region where elephants abounded. The cattle were in good condition, and, provided we could escape the tsetse and were not cut off by savage enemies, we might expect to obtain full loads of tusks.  Besides three Hottentot drivers and a dozen Makololo, Mr Welbourn was accompanied by a white hunter, Hans Scarff, who had joined him on his way from the coast.  His appearance was not in his favour, for a more sinister countenance I had seldom met with.  He, however, was said to be a bold hunter and a first-rate horseman, and his assistance was therefore likely to prove useful.

The head man of the Makololoes, Toko, as he was called, was a fine, tall, active fellow with an intelligent countenance, who, if not handsome according to our notion, was good-looking for a black, and a brave faithful fellow.  Besides the oxen to drag the waggons, we had eight fine horses, most of them well trained to encounter the elephant and rhinoceros, or any other wild beasts of the forest.

Near our camp a stream of clear water fell into the river, and in the evening Harry asked me to go down and bathe.  Hans said he would join us.

"Are there no crocodiles there?"  I asked, and I told him of the numbers I had seen in the river.

"No fear of the brutes there," answered Hans; "the water is too shallow -- "

"Or hippopotami," I put in.

"Still less likely," said Hans.  "The monsters never come up such streams as these."

We started off, and on reaching the stream separated from each other. While looking out for a clear pool free from lilies, or other aquatic plants, presently.  Harry, who had gone up the stream, cried out -- 

"I've found a capital place.  We can leap into deep water from the bank."

Just then I heard my uncle shout out -- 

"Where are you going, boys?  The crocodiles come up here to lay their eggs.  It is as dangerous a part as any in the country."

At that moment Harry shouted out, "Hulloa!  I'm in!"

I was rushing to his assistance, when I heard a fearful cry from Hans, who, his foot slipping, had fallen into the water.  As he did so, a huge crocodile darted across the stream.

My uncle and Mr Welbourn were descending the bank, and were much nearer than I was.  I was undecided to whose assistance I should run, when, to my horror, I saw the crocodile seize Hans by the arm, before he could regain his feet.  I fortunately had my large hunting-knife in my belt, though I had not; brought my rifle.  Little as I liked Hans, I felt that it was my duty to go to his assistance.  Unless I did so he would be quickly dragged off into deep water, and become the prey of the crocodile.  Seeing that his father and my uncle had already got hold of Harry, drawing my hunting-knife I dashed forward, shouting with all my might to try to frighten the savage brute.  Hans had caught hold of the branch of a fallen tree, which he grasped with his left arm, holding on to it for his life.  Every moment I expected to see him let go, when his fate would have been sealed.  Not for an instant did I think of the danger I was running.  I can scarcely even now understand how I acted as I did.  With a single bound I sprang over the branches close to the head of the crocodile, and seizing the man with one hand, I plunged the knife into the eye of the monster, who immediately opened his jaws, and as he did so, Hans, with an activity I could scarcely have expected, hauled himself up to the top of the bough, where I sprang after him, while the crocodile, giving a whisk of his tail which nearly knocked us off our perch, retreated into deep water, the next instant to turn lifeless on its back, when, floating down a few yards, its huge body was brought up by a ledge of rocks which projected partly out of the water.

"Well done, Fred, my boy," shouted my uncle and Mr Welbourn in chorus.

Having placed Harry on the bank they hurried forward to assist me in lifting Hans off the bough to which he was clinging, and to place him beside Harry.  For some seconds he lay, scarcely knowing what had happened.  On examining his arm, though it was fearfully crushed, wonderful as it may seem, no bone was actually broken.  After a little time he revived, and, accompanied by Harry, we led him back to the camp. My uncle exerted all his medical skill to doctor him, and the next morning, though his arm was useless, he was able to move about as well as ever.  He did not exhibit any special feeling of gratitude to me, but I won the good opinion of the natives, and of Toko in particular.  Had anybody told me that I should have been able to perform the act, I should have declared it was impossible, and all I know is that I did it.

As all the ivory in the neighbourhood for which we had goods to give in exchange had been purchased, we pushed forward to the north-east to a country inhabited by tribes which had hitherto had little or no intercourse with Europeans.  It is not, however, my object so much to describe the people as the adventures we met with.  I cannot exactly say with the naval officer, who, describing the customs of the people he visited, in his journal wrote, "Of manners they have none, and their customs are beastly."  Savage those we met were in many respects, but their savagery arose from their ignorance and gross idolatry.

We travelled in a very luxurious manner, compared to our journey with the single ox across the desert.  As we advanced we saw numbers of large game, and one evening nearly a hundred buffaloes defiled before us in slow procession, almost within gun-shot, while herds of elands passed us without showing any signs of fear.  We at the moment had abundance of meat in the camp, or some of them would have fallen victims to our fire-arms.

The next day, seeing a herd of zebras in the distance, taking my rifle, I started off, hoping to shoot one of them.  As the wind was from them to me, and as there were some low bushes, I expected to get up to them within gun-shot, before they perceived me.  I was not disappointed; and, firing, I wounded one of them severely in the leg.  The rest of the herd took to flight, but the wounded animal went off towards our camp, from which several of our men issued to attack it.

I was walking along leisurely when, hearing the sound of feet in the direction from which I had come, I turned round and saw a solitary buffalo galloping towards me.  The nearest place of safety was a tree, but it was upwards of a hundred yards off.  I had, of course, reloaded, and now got my rifle ready, hoping to hit the brute in the forehead. Just then the thought occurred to me, "What would be my fate should my gun miss fire?"  The buffalo came on at a tremendous speed, but fortunately a small bush in its way made it swerve slightly and expose its shoulder.  Now was the moment for action, and as I heard the bullet strike the animal I fell flat on my face.  The buffalo bounded on over my body, apparently not perceiving me.  I lay perfectly still.  It had got to a considerable distance, when it was met by the men who had come out to kill the zebra, and was quickly shot down.

Toko shook his head when he saw me, exclaiming that I must not go out again without him, lest I should be killed by some savage animal.

"But I have my rifle to defend myself," I observed.

"Your rifle may miss fire sometimes, or you may fail to kill the elephant or rhinoceros you attack better have two rifles.  I will go with you," he answered, in his peculiar lingo.

Our plan was always to encamp near water, and where we could obtain wood for our fires; for such regions were certain to be frequented by a variety of animals.  Sometimes we remained two or three days in the same spot, provided no villages were near; though people were generally grateful to us for destroying the wild beasts, as even the elephants are apt to injure their plantations by breaking in and trampling over them.

Harry and I, who had become fast friends, generally went out together, accompanied by Toko, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback.  One day we had all three gone out on foot, prepared for any game.  That we might be more likely to fall in with some creature or other, we separated a short distance; keeping, however, within hail, and agreeing that, should one of us shout, the other two were to close in towards him.  I was in the centre, Toko on the left, and Harry on the right.

We had gone some distance when I heard Toko shout, "Elephant, elephant!" I uttered the same cry to Harry, but he did not apparently hear me, and, at all events, I could not see him.  After running for thirty or forty yards, I caught sight of Toko up a tree.  He cried out to me to climb another a short distance off, the branches of which would afford an easy ascent.  Wishing to follow his advice, I was running along, when my foot caught in a creeper and I fell to the ground with considerable force, letting my rifle drop as I did so, but in vain attempted to regain my legs, so severely had I sprained my ankle.  I naturally called to Toko to come to my assistance.  He did not move or reply, but continued shouting and shrieking at the top of his voice.  What was my horror just then to see a huge elephant, with trunk uplifted, burst out from among the trees on one side, while, at the same moment, a large lion approached with stealthy steps on the other.  I gave myself up for lost, expecting to be carried off in the jaws of the lion, or trampled to death by the feet of the elephant.  Toko sat immovable, with his rifle levelled at the lion's head, and just as the brute was about to make its fatal spring he fired.  As he did so, I saw the elephant, startled by the sound, swerve on one side, its feet passing close to where I lay, but it did not appear even to see me.  Away it went, trumpeting loudly and crashing through the underwood.

The next instant Toko leaped down from his perch and hurried towards me, when, turning my head, I caught sight of the lion struggling on its back, and attempting to regain its feet.  Toko, lifting me in his arms, carried me a few paces off, and taking up my rifle again approached the lion and shot it dead.  Almost at the same instant the sound of another rifle reached our ears.

"Go and help Harry," I said to Toko; "he may want your assistance."

"I place you in safer place dan dis," he answered; and, again taking me up, he propped me against the root of a large tree close by; then reloading my rifle, he put it into my hands.  He next reloaded his own.

"I must go and help Harry," he said; and away he bounded.

I had wished him to go and assist my friend, but scarcely had he disappeared than the dreadful idea came into my head that another lion --  companion of the one just killed -- might be prowling about and discover me.  In spite of the pain I suffered, I endeavoured to rise on my knees, so that should one appear I might take a better aim than I could lying down.  Still, should my apprehensions be realised, I felt that I should be placed in a very dangerous predicament.  One thing, however, was certain, that it could not be worse than the one from which I had just escaped.  Few people have been situated as I have been, with a lion about to spring from one side, and an elephant appearing on the other.

Doing my best to keep up my spirits, I listened attentively to try and ascertain what was happening to Harry.  Presently there was more loud trumpeting and directly afterwards two shots were fired in rapid succession.  This assured me that Harry had escaped and that Toko had reached the scene of action.  The Makololo was too clever and experienced an elephant hunter to be taken at disadvantage, and I had great hopes that he had succeeded in killing the animal.

I did not forget my fears about another lion, and cast my eyes anxiously around almost expecting to see one emerge from the thicket, while at the same time I looked out eagerly for the return of my friend.

Once more the trumpeting burst forth, the sounds echoing through the forest.  I thus knew that the elephant had not yet fallen.  A minute afterwards I heard the crashing of boughs and brushwood some way off.  I guessed, as I listened, that the animal was coming towards where I lay. The sounds increased in loudness.  Should it discover me it would probable revenge itself by crushing me to death, or tossing me in the air with its trunk.  I had my rifle ready to fire.  There was a chance that I might kill it or make it turn aside.  The ground where I lay sloped gradually downwards to a more open spot.  I expected the next instant that the elephant would appear.  It did so, but further off than I thought it would, and I thus began to hope that I should escape its notice.  It was moving slowly, though trumpeting with pain and rage. The instant I caught sight of it another huge creature rushed out of the thicket on the opposite side of the glade.  It was a huge bull rhinoceros with a couple of sharp-pointed horns one behind the other.

The elephant on seeing it stopped still, as if wishing to avoid a contest with so powerful an antagonist, I fully expected to witness a long and terrible fight, and feared that, in the struggle, the animals might move towards where I lay and crush me.  That the elephant was wounded I could see by the blood streaming down its neck.  This probably made it less inclined to engage in a battle with the rhinoceros. Instead of advancing it stood whisking its trunk about and trumpeting. The rhinoceros, on the contrary, after regarding it for a moment, rushed fearlessly forward and drove its sharp-pointed horns into its body while it in vain attempted to defend itself with its trunk.  The two creatures were now locked together in a way which made it seem impossible for them to separate, unless the horns of the rhinoceros were broken off.  Never did I witness a more furious fight.  The elephant attempted to throw itself down on the head of its antagonist, and thereby only drove the horns deeper into its own body.  So interested was I, that I forgot the pain I was suffering, while I could hear no other sounds than those produced by the two huge combatants.  While I was watching them, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and saw Harry standing over me.

"I am sorry you have met with this accident!" he exclaimed.  "The sooner you get away from this the better.  There is a safer spot a little higher up the bank, Toko and I will carry you there."

I willingly consenting, my friends did as they proposed, as from thence I could watch the fight with greater security.  They, having placed me in safety, hurried towards the combatants, hoping to kill both of them before they separated.

The elephant, already wounded, appeared likely to succumb without our further interference.  There was indeed little chance of its attempting to defend itself against them.  Toko, making a sign to Harry to remain where he was, sprang forward until he got close up to the animals, and firing he sent a bullet right through the elephant's heart.  The huge creature fell over, pressing the rhinoceros to the ground.  Leaping back Toko again loaded, and Harry advancing they fired together into the body of the survivor, which after giving a few tremendous struggles, sank down dead.

The battle over, Harry proposed carrying me at once to the camp, and then returning to bring away the elephant's tusks, the lion's skin, and as much of the meat of the two first animals as was required for the use of the party.  I was very thankful to accept his offer, as I wanted to get my ankle looked to, having an uncomfortable fear that it was broken, in which case my hunting would be put a stop to for many a week to come. He and Toko were not long in manufacturing a litter to carry me, by means of two long poles, on their shoulders.  Having placed me on it they set off for the camp.  Fortunately we had not very far to go.  I hoped that in the mean time we should meet with neither elephants nor lions.

Only under rare circumstances are rhinoceroses to be dreaded, for they are generally mild and well-disposed creatures, and usually take to flight when they come in sight of human beings.

We had gone about half-way, when a lion, bursting out from a thicket close by, stalked across the path some distance ahead.  My bearers placed me on the ground and handled their rifles.

"We'll stand by and defend you, don't be alarmed," cried Harry.

"I'm not afraid of your running away," I answered, "but don't fire at the creature unless it approaches to attack us.  If you only wound it, its rage may be excited, and I to a certainty shall become its victim."

The lion regarded us for a few seconds when -- we raising a loud shout --  it, greatly to my satisfaction, bounded on and disappeared in the wood. Indeed a lion when alone will seldom, especially in the day-time, attack human beings who show a bold front, though it will follow like a cat, as do most other savage brutes, if a man runs from it.

My friends again taking me up, we proceeded, though I own that I peered somewhat anxiously into the wood where the lion had retreated, lest it should change its mind and rush out upon us.

My uncle returned soon after we reached the camp, and at once examined my ankle.  Greatly to my relief he assured me that it was not broken, and that, if he bound it up in a water bandage, I should probably be well in a day or two.  As it was already late, the blacks were unwilling to go through the forest at night for the purpose of bringing in our spoils, for fear of being carried off by lions.  All night long we could hear them muttering and roaring.  Harry suggested that they were mourning for their late companion.  Occasionally the death-cry of some unfortunate deer which they had pulled down reached our ears, while various other sounds, some produced by insects or bullfrogs, or birds, disturbed the silence of the forest.  I, however, managed, in spite of the noise and the pain I suffered, to go to sleep, and in the morning, greatly to my satisfaction, I found my ankle much better than I expected.

As meat was wanted, several of the party proposed to set off at an early hour to bring in some from the animals we had killed; my uncle, Mr Welbourn, and Harry going also.  As I did not like to be left behind, I begged to be allowed to mount a horse and to ride with them.  I should have been wiser to have remained quietly at the camp, but I wanted to revisit the scene of our encounter the previous day.  Jan followed behind with several of the blacks, who were to be loaded with our spoils.  As we neared the spot, I heard my friends exclaiming in various tones -- 

"Where is it?  What has become of the creature!" -- and, pushing forward, I caught sight of the elephant and the dead lion at a distance, but nowhere was the rhinoceros to be seen.  It was very evident that it could not have been killed as we had supposed, and that, having only been stunned, it, at length recovering itself, had made off.

Toko cried out that he had discovered its spoor, and I saw him hurrying forward evidently hoping to find the creature.  The other blacks meanwhile set to work to cut out the tusks, and select a few slices off such parts of the body as were most to their taste, including the feet, the value of which we knew from experience.

While they were thus occupied, my three white friends were busy in flaying the lion.  I kept my eye on Toko, expecting that, should he discover the rhinoceros, he would summon some of the party to his assistance.  I saw him look suspiciously into a thicket, then he turned to fly.  The next moment a huge beast rushed out, which I had no doubt was the rhinoceros we fancied that we had killed on the previous day. Toko made for a tree behind which he could shelter himself.  I called to my friends to draw their attention to the danger in which he was placed, but to my dismay before he could reach the tree the rhinoceros was upon him.  There was no time to leap either to the one side or the other, but as the animal's sharp horn was about to transfix him, he made a spring as if to avoid it, but he was not in time, and the animal, throwing up its head, sent him and his rifle floating into the air to the height of several feet.  The rhinoceros then charged on towards the men cutting up the elephant, when my uncle and his companions, having seized their rifles, began blazing away at it.  Fortunately one of their shots took effect, and before it had reached the blacks, down it sank to the ground.  While Harry hastened on to where Toko lay, my uncle and Mr Welbourn, quickly reloading, fired into its head and finished its existence.

I had ridden up to the Makololo, expecting to find every bone in his body broken.  As I approached, to my satisfaction I saw him get up; and though he limped somewhat, after shaking himself and picking up his rifle, he declared that he was not much the worse for the fearful toss he had received, and was as ready as ever for work.

He soon rejoined the rest of the men, and assisted in packing the oxen with the tusks and meat.  Some of the flesh of the rhinoceros was also cut off, and with the lion-skin packed up.  Rhinoceros meat, though tough, is of good flavour.  The portions we carried off were from the upper part of the shoulder and from the ribs, where we found the fat and lean regularly striped to the depth of two inches.  Some of the skin was also taken for the purpose of making some fresh ox-whips.  We of course carried away the horns, which are about half the value of ivory. Altogether, the adventure which at one time appeared likely to prove so disastrous, afforded us no small amount of booty.



Chapter Seven.

The constant mutterings and roarings which saluted our ears during the night, made us suspect that we should not obtain much game in the neighbourhood, besides which we should run a great risk of being attacked while out shooting.  We therefore struck camp, and proceeded on to the northward.  The country in many places was rocky, and though there were no mountains of any great height there were savage defiles through which we had to pass, the sides of the cliffs being covered with brushwood and creepers, and in some spots with tall trees.  We were not afraid of being attacked by natives, but notwithstanding we always sent out scouts on our flanks and ahead.

We had gone on some distance when Toko, who was leading, came hurrying back.

"I have seen a strange sight, which I would rather not have seen," he exclaimed.

"What is it?" asked my uncle.

"Lions, a whole army of them.  They seem determined to stop our way," he answered.

"If there were a hundred of them they should not do that," replied my uncle.  "We'll have a look at the gentlemen.  We shall soon drive them off if I mistake not."

As it would have been imprudent to carry the cattle and horses into the neighbourhood, a halt was called, and the blacks were left in charge of the animals, while we, with Hans Scarff, prepared to ride forward.

"Stay!" said Harry.  "I think we have got something to send them to the rightabout, if our shouts fail to drive them away."  And going to the waggon he produced half-a-dozen rockets.

"One of those will do," observed his father, "for we may want the rest for another emergency.  However, you can carry a couple in case one should fail."

Led by Toko, we proceeded along the defile, when, on reaching some high ground, we saw, collected together below us among the rocks, an immense number of lions.  There must have been several families, fathers and mothers with their young ones.  What could have brought them together to that spot, it was difficult to conjecture.  Toko declared that they knew we were about to pass that way, and had assembled for the purpose of attacking us.  Of course such an idea was ridiculous; however, there they were, and had we passed close to them, they might have committed serious havoc among our cattle, although we should no doubt have shot down many of them.  They must have seen us, from the way they lashed their tails and muttered; while, from the loud roars which three or four of the elders gave forth, it was pretty clear that they meant mischief.

We, however, rode forward determined to drive them away.  Harry and I, in the meantime, got the rockets ready to fire in case our shouts should fail to produce the desired effect.  As we got nearer there was a general movement among them.  As we shouted they roared in return, apparently not being alarmed by the sound of our voices.

"We must not remain unarmed, so let only three fire at a time, while the others reload," said my uncle.  "Now fire!"

As the smoke cleared away, it seemed doubtful whether any of the shots had taken effect, as the lions did not move from the spot they occupied.

"I suspect they are waiting for the appearance of a herd of `gemsboks,' and that they will not give up the chance of catching their prey," observed my uncle.

"We must disappoint them then," said Mr Welbourn.  "Harry, get one of your rockets ready, and pitch it into the middle of them directly after we fire our next volley."

We had got the tube fixed and placed at the proper elevation.  We had to wait until those next to fire had discharged their rifles, when two of the lions were evidently badly wounded, but even this did not make them take to flight.  Harry then applied the match to the rocket which pitched in the midst of the congregated lions.  The effect was electrical.  Seized with a panic, away they all scampered over the rocks at a greater rate than I had ever before seen lions run.  None stopped for the others.  One with his spine injured lay on the ground.  Two others dropped before they had got far, while the remainder were soon out of sight.

"The brutes will not come back to this locality," exclaimed my uncle. "We must now put the other ones out of their pain."

A rifle ball sent through the head of each quickly did this.  Rapidly skinning them, we left the carcases to be devoured by the birds of prey, which almost before we got out of sight appeared in the air; for although hyaenas and jackals are said to keep aloof even from a dead lion, the vulture tribes possess no such awe for the monarch of the wilds.

Returning to where we had left our cattle, we at once moved forward, anxious to get out from among the rocky defiles as soon as possible. Scarcely had we emerged from them, than we saw in the distance an enormous herd of deer, which Mr Welbourn at once pronounced to be "pallah."  As they approached we drew on one side before we were discovered.  First came a stag, a magnificent animal of a bay colour, fading into a whitey-brown, with elegantly, somewhat harp-shaped horns, marked with rings, and a black semi-circular mark on the croup by which it could be at once distinguished.  Its feet were of a jetty hue. Though it might have seen us, it continued walking on in a sedate manner, the rest following their leader with a confidence which showed that they must put implicit trust in him.

My uncle and Hans, at once dismounting, crept towards the herd; and, waiting until the greater number had passed, fired together, when three of the animals fell dead.  The remainder, instead of turning to fly, dashed forward to fill up the gaps in their line, the whole moving on at a much greater speed than before.  Two others, however, were killed before the herd made their escape through the pass towards which they were directing their course.

Had we not driven away the lions, probably many more would have been killed by them.  We at once carried off the five which were destined for provisioning our party, and loaded our waggons with their skins and horns.

We were now approaching a part of the country where we hoped to find a greater number of elephants than we had yet met with, our chief object being to obtain their tusks; although nothing came amiss, rhinoceros horns, skins, or ostrich feathers; the latter especially, from their small bulk, were really of more value than elephant tusks.

We were now crossing a wide plain with rocks.  Here and there were ant-hills, by the side of each of which grew a dark-leaved tree called the "Mollopie."  Near our camp was a rain-pool, at which our animals were watered.  Jan here captured a large frog in which, when he cut it open, for the purpose of preparing it for cooking, he found a whole mouse, two or three ants, and several other insects.

In the morning our people informed us that they had heard the roaring of a lion during the night at a neighbouring pool; and as there was a great likelihood of his paying a visit to the camp, to make a feast off our oxen, we determined to dispatch him before going out to hunt.

As we approached the pool, the noise was again heard.

"He must be in a thicket close by," exclaimed Harry.

But every thicket round was well beaten, and no lion appeared.  At last I heard Harry laughing heartily, and saw him pointing to the opposite side of the pool, where I caught sight of a big frog poking his head above the reeds.  There could be no doubt of it.  Though he could not swell himself to the size of a lion, Mr Bullfrog had managed to imitate very closely his voice, so we returned to camp feeling somewhat ashamed of ourselves, Harry every now and then giving way to a burst of laughter.

In the open country, where little shelter is to be found, lions are not often to be met with, and as they can be seen long before they approach, no danger is to be apprehended from them.  One of the men who had remained behind followed, bringing one of the bullfrogs which he had captured in the pool.  The body, which we measured, was nine inches in length, by five and a half wide; and the hind legs, from toe to toe, eighteen inches.  On being cut open a young bird which it had lately swallowed was found in its inside.

I, having completely recovered the use of my foot, arranged with Harry that we should make another expedition together in search of game.  We agreed that Jan should accompany us, and just as we were starting Hans offered to go.  We would rather have dispensed with his company, as he was not a favourite with either of us.  Mr Welbourn, my uncle, Toko, and two or three Makololoes were to set off in another direction.  They charged us not to go beyond a vlei or pool, which we had heard of from the Makololoes, about twelve miles to the northward.

This, however, gave us a very wide scope, and we fully expected to come back with plenty of game of some sort.

We went on for some distance without meeting with any live creatures, though we crossed the spoor of numerous elands, buffaloes, giraffes, and occasionally of elephants.  Neither Hans nor Jan knew more of the country than we did, but Harry said that he had brought a compass, so that we should have no difficulty in finding our way, even should clouds gather in the sky or night overtake us.  When, however, he came to search for the instrument in his pocket, it was not to be found.

"Never mind," he observed, "as the sky is bright, the sun will guide us by day, and the stars by night, even if we are kept out, and there is no reason why we should be if we turn back again in good time."

On we went, therefore, intending on arriving at the vlei, to wait until some animals should come to drink, which they were sure to do, unless there were other water-holes in the neighbourhood.

We had brought very little food, expecting to be able to supply ourselves with meat and fruits.  From the appearance of the country we had no doubt that we should meet with melons, even though we might not come across water before we arrived at the vlei.

We had, according to our calculation, gone about two-thirds of the distance without having shot a single animal, when the weather began to change.  Clouds gathered in the sky, and a thick mist swept across the face of the country, such as occasionally, though not often, occurs in that latitude.  We agreed, however, that by turning directly back we should have to traverse the same region we had just passed over, without finding game, and we should thus be disappointed in obtaining food. This was not to be thought of.  I would be far better to go on to where we should have every chance of finding it.  Hans concurred with us, and, as Jan was always ready to go forward, on we went.

In consequence of being shaded from the rays of the sun, we were better able to travel than usual during the hot hours of the day.  We had reached the part of the country where we had expected to find the vlei; but, even though Jan mounted to the topmost boughs of the tallest tree we could find, when he came down he declared that he could not discover water.

We therefore again pushed on, until we reached a rocky hill, to the summit of which we climbed.  Not a pool could we see either to the north, east, south, or west.

We were now getting both hungry and thirsty, for we had exhausted the water we had brought in our bottles.  We were convinced, however, that we must be near the vlei, and that some rise in the ground probably hid it from view.  While looking about we caught sight of some animals of the deer tribe, and Harry and I arranged to go down to try and kill one of them, while Hans and Jan were to continue the search for water, and, should they find it, they were to meet us at the foot of the hill, from which they started.

Keeping ourselves among the rocks and shrubs and tall grass, we made our way in the direction we had seen the deer.  As we got nearer Harry pronounced them to be ourebis.  We were afraid that we should have no chance of getting within shot, for we saw them gliding rapidly along, often bounding several feet into the air, then galloping on again, and once more bounding on.

"I'll try a dodge I once saw practised," whispered Harry.  "Do you lie down with your rifle ready to fire behind yonder bush, and I'll go forward and show myself.  They have a good deal of curiosity in their nature, and I'll try to excite it."

He then placed his rifle and coat and hat on the ground, and creeping a little forward, to one side of where I lay, he suddenly rose with his feet in the air, supporting himself on his hands.  How he could manage to maintain that position so long surprised me.  I should have had the blood rush into my head and dropped down in a minute had I made the attempt.

All the time I was watching the ourebis; which, no longer leaping about, remained quiet for some seconds, and then with slow and stately steps advanced towards the curious object.  I had time to examine them minutely.  Their colour was a pale tawny above, and white below.  The horns straight and pointed, and, as far as I could judge, five inches in length.  The animal itself is of no great height, standing not more than two feet from the ground, though when it lifts up its head it looks much taller.  The female of the pair which approached was hornless.  On they came, closer and closer.  I was afraid that Harry would drop down and frighten them away before they had got near enough to enable me to take a sure aim.

I was in as good a position as I could desire, for, though the bush effectually concealed me, I could see them clearly.  I dared not, however, move my rifle in the least degree, for fear it should touch the leaves and make the animals suspicious.  "Do not fire until they begin to move away, I want to get them up close to me," said Harry, in a whisper.

The animals still, in spite of the danger, came on, until they were not twenty yards off.  At length, it seemed to me, by the way they moved their ears, that they were on the point of starting.

I fired, the buck dropped on his fore-legs, and at the same instant Harry threw himself on his feet, lifted his rifle and fired at the doe before she had got ten paces off.  Down she also came utterly helpless, and was quickly put out of her suffering by Harry.  The buck instinctively attempted to defend himself with his horns, but seizing one of them, I deprived him of existence.

We had good reason to be satisfied with the result of Harry's experiment.  He told me that not only the ourebis but several other deer, if attracted in the same way by their suspicions or curiosity being aroused, can be thus shot.

We lost no time in cutting open our deer, so as to lighten the loads, and the better to preserve the meat.  Each was as much as a man could carry on his shoulders.  We were unwilling, however, to leave any part behind.  Believing that we could carry them better whole than cut up, we staggered along with our burdens, fortunately not having far to go.  On arriving at the spot agreed on, we found that our companions had not returned.  We therefore set to work to collect fuel for a fire, and to cut up one of the animals.  So parched had we become, that we could scarcely refrain from drinking their blood.  I had always found, however, that blood rather increased than diminished thirst.  We were both by this time well versed in wood-craft, and quickly divided the animal in the most scientific fashion.  While we were employed in this manner, we frequently looked round to ascertain if the two men were approaching, but they were not to be seen.

Having finished our task, while I was making up the fire, Harry climbed to the top of the rock, that he might obtain a wider look-out.

"I can see them nowhere," he said, when he came down, "but I caught sight of an animal which, if I mistake not, is a big lion following our spoor, or probably it is attracted by the scent of the deer.  As he is coming this way, we must be prepared for him: though he might not condescend to eat a dead deer, he may take it into his head to carry off one of us living subjects.  He is not likely to give us any undue notice of his approach."

Harry agreed therefore to keep watch while I continued the operations on which I was engaged.  I soon got some forked sticks, which I ran into the ground to hold the spits, and on these I placed the venison to roast, but hungry as I was I felt that without water I could scarcely get down the food I was cooking.  Evening was approaching.

"I say, Fred, if those fellows don't come soon, we must set off by ourselves, and look out for water.  Perhaps some may be found among the rocks, or if not, we must cut some wooden spades and dig for it.  Those deer wouldn't be inhabiting these parts if water wasn't in the neighbourhood."

"It will be too late to commence any search tonight," I observed.  "It is already nearly dark, and the chances are that the lion you saw just now will pounce down upon us, if we go far from the fire.  I would rather endure thirst than run that risk."

"Still we must have water," exclaimed Harry; "but you stay here and look after the venison, and I'll just wander to a short distance.  I do not suppose the brute will find me; and perhaps, you know, it was not a lion after all I saw: it might have been a buffalo or a brindled gnu."

"You said positively it was a lion," I remarked; "for your own sake, as well as mine, I beg that you will not wander from the camp."

Still Harry, pointing to his mouth, insisted on going.  Just as he was about to set off, a loud roar, not twenty paces off, reached our ears.

"What do you say now?"  I asked.  "You don't mean to assert that that was the cry either of an ostrich or a bullfrog."

"I wish that it were the latter," he answered; "for then there would be a chance of finding water.  However, I'll stay in camp and try to endure my thirst until those fellows come back -- and they're pretty sure to find water."

I did not like to say that I was not quite certain on that subject.  I had hopes, however, that even should they have failed to find it, we should not perish, as I trusted before long we might have a shower of rain, although none had as yet fallen from the cloudy sky.  Some venison which I had put close to the fire was by this time cooked, but it was with the greatest difficulty that we could get down even a few mouthfuls.

"I cannot eat another morsel," cried Harry, putting down his knife.  "If those fellows don't arrive soon, dark as it is, I must set off by myself to try and find water; depend upon it, there is some not far off, or that lion would not come here," and he threw himself, utterly overcome, on the ground.

I tried to cheer him up, and made another attempt to eat some venison, but had to give it up after nibbling at a piece; yet I felt that I could have swallowed a hearty meal, if I could have obtained a draught of water, however tepid and full of insects it might have been.

We were sitting a short distance from the fire with our rifles in our hands, prepared for the reception of the lion, should he venture to invade our camp, when Harry exclaimed, "Hark!  I hear footsteps: they must be those of Hans and your black fellow."

We listened; and I hoped that Harry was right.

"Let us shout!"  I exclaimed.

We both together raised our voices.  Our hail was answered from a distance.  The night air had brought the sound of footsteps much further than I should have supposed possible.  It was some time before, by the light of the fire, we saw the rough, uncouth figure of Hans, followed by Jan.

"Have you brought water?" was the first question Harry asked.

"Yah! we have brought water, and have seen plenty of elephants -- fine country for shooting, and we will go there to-morrow."

"Never mind the elephants and shooting now; hand me the water," cried Harry, eagerly.

Hans gave Harry his skin bottle, and Jan hurried up with his to me.  I swallowed the liquid eagerly, hot and nauseous as it was, full, I suspect, of living creatures; but it tasted like nectar, and I half emptied the bottle at a draught.

"Now I am ready for the venison!" cried Harry.

"So am I, indeed," said Hans; "for we haven't had anything to eat once we left you, and are well-nigh dying of starvation."

"As we were of thirst," I remarked, handing Hans and Jan a large piece of venison each.  They devoured it eagerly, and Harry and I then turned to and were able to eat a good meal.

"I should like to get some sleep," said Hans; "we will tell you to-morrow of our adventures."

"We are in no hurry to hear them," said Harry; "but I tell you, one of us must keep a watch, or we may have an unpleasant visit from a lion, who is prowling about in the neighbourhood."

"The cowardly brute won't come near us," said Hans, drowsily.  "The chances are it was a rock you saw in the dusk, or it might have been a jackal."

"But we heard it roar," said Harry.

"Oh, then it was a bullfrog," cried Hans, rolling himself up in his cloak and lying down.

"Bullfrog or lion, there it is again!" exclaimed Harry, jumping up and seizing his rifle.

There was no doubt about the matter; though the voice of an ostrich at a distance may sound like that of a lion, the roar of the king of the forest is unmistakable when close at hand.  Even Hans was convinced, and was quickly on his feet.  It was very certain that we should get no rest that night, unless we could dispose of the intruder.  The lion-skin was also of value, and we could not allow him to escape with impunity.  We all advanced together, resolved forthwith to shoot the brute; that we should see him directly we had no doubt.  A short distance off, between our camp-fire and the spot whence the roar proceeded, was a pile of low rocks, a spur from a neighbouring hill.  We had just reached it, when we caught sight of the lion who had emerged from behind a thicket a little way ahead.  He seemed at once to look upon us as his foes.  Had it been in the day-time, he would probably have slunk away; but night was his season for activity; and, lashing his tail and again roaring loudly, he advanced across the open space below the rocks.  Now was the critical moment: should we fail to kill him, he might make a desperate spring and knock over one of us.  It was settled, therefore, that Harry and Jan should fire first, and then Hans and I, should they fail to kill the brute: we to try what we could do, they, of course, in the meantime, reloading.

The grand principle in attacking wild beasts is never to allow the whole of the party to remain unarmed for a moment.  The lion did not appear quite to like the look of things.  He advanced cautiously, showing his whole vast proportions, his huge shaggy mane, and the afterpart of his body looking thin and small, but even that was of the size of a full-grown donkey.  Twice he stopped, and each time uttered a tremendous roar.

"He smells us, if he cannot see us," said Harry.

Still the creature appeared doubtful whether he would spring towards the suspected point.

"Now, Harry, let's see what you can do," I whispered.

"I shall be glad if I can knock him over the first shot," he answered.

Harry and Jan's rifles went off at the same moment, and we could hear their bullets strike, but neither brought the lion to the ground.  His rage overcame his fears; and lashing his tail and again roaring, he was about to spring on us, when Hans and I, taking steady aim at him as he rose from the ground, sent our leaden messengers of death through his body.  He must have leapt up half-a-dozen feet, falling right over on his head, where he lay struggling for a few seconds; but before we could leap over the rocks and get near him, he was dead.  We signified our satisfaction at the victory by a loud shout.

"We shall now sleep soundly," said Hans, giving the animal a kick with his foot.

We repaired to our camp and made up the fire.  Though Hans declared that there was no necessity for remaining awake, Harry and I agreed to keep watch and watch until the morning, not feeling at all certain whether another lion, or perhaps a leopard, might pay us a visit; or a herd of elephants, buffaloes, or rhinoceroses, might come our way and trample us to death, while enjoying our balmy slumbers.



Chapter Eight.

When people know that their lives may depend upon maintaining a blazing fire, they must be foolish indeed if they allow themselves to slumber at their posts; but I confess that I had great difficulty, during my watch, in keeping my eyes open, after the exertions of the day and the hunger and thirst I had endured.  I felt that my only chance was to get up and walk about with my rifle in my hand.  I did not, however, go far from the fire, as the smoke drove the mosquitoes and other insects away from its immediate vicinity; and I knew also, that at any distance from the flames I was as likely to be seized by a savage animal as I should be did no fire exist.

I could hear every now and then the mutterings and occasional roars of lions, with the cries of hyaenas and jackals, and the calls of various night-birds.  Altogether the concert had a somewhat depressing effect, accustomed though I was by this time to the noises proceeding from an African forest.

At last the time I had agreed to watch came to an end, and I roused up Harry, charging him to keep a bright look-out.

"Do not let yourself drop off for a moment, old fellow," I said; "as long as any prowling animal sees you moving about around the fire he'll not venture to make an attack; but should you slumber for a moment, it is impossible to say what he may do."

"I do feel awfully drowsy, I own," answered Harry, rubbing his eyes and yawning; "still I'll do my best.  It is a shame that fellow Hans won't stand watch as he ought to do.  I only hope that another lion will come roaring close up to the camp, for the sake of making him get on his legs.  He knows that neither you nor I would sleep on our posts, so he rests in perfect security, throwing all the trouble on us."

Harry and I talked on for a little time, I hoping that he would thus be thoroughly aroused; then I lay down on the spot he had occupied, pretty close to the fire, with my rifle by my side ready for instant use.

It appeared to me that I had not been asleep five minutes when I heard Harry exclaim -- 

"Fred, rouse Jan.  Up with you, and get ready for battle."

I seized my rifle and sprang to my feet, as wide awake as ever I was in my life, and there I saw, not six paces off, a creature with glaring eyes; not a lion, however, but looking unusually large as it emerged from the darkness into the light of the fire.

It crouched as if for a spring; at the same moment I heard Hans shriek out.  For an instant I glanced round, and caught an indistinct sight of another big cat-like creature stealing towards the rear of the camp.

"You and Jan must look out after that brute, and we'll attend to this one," I shouted.

As I spoke, the leopard, for such it was, notwithstanding our cries, --  Harry, I should have said, had begun to bawl away as loudly as I was doing, -- made a furious spring towards him; but though he was shouting lustily, he remained as cool as a cucumber, holding his rifle ready.

We fired, and both our balls took effect, when the leopard literally turned, with its feet uppermost, and fell right down into the centre of the fire, where it lay struggling convulsively, utterly unable to rise. Directly afterwards I heard the report of a pistol, and, while hastily reloading, I saw that Hans had shot the other leopard through the head.

As we did not wish to lose the skin of the one we had shot, Harry again firing gave it its quietus; we then seizing it by its hind legs dragged it out of the fire, and Jan's knife soon finished the other.

We thus gained two magnificent leopards' skins: the fire had but slightly injured the one we had killed.

"There is some use in keeping watch at night, Hans," observed Harry; "what would have become of us if I had not been awake?  Those brutes would have been in our midst before we were able to lift a hand in our defence.  As it was, I caught sight of only one of them stealing towards us, and had barely time to rouse up the rest of you, so that if Fred hadn't been very quick, the brute would have been down upon us."

"All right," answered Hans, "such a thing is not likely to happen a second time in a night, so I suppose we may now go to sleep in quiet."

"I don't suppose anything of the sort," replied Harry; "there are no end of lions and leopards prowling about, and you would have heard them if you hadn't snored so loudly.  It will be your turn to keep watch, and I intend to rouse you up in half an hour."

"Yah, yah," answered Hans, placing his head on the ground, and going off to sleep again.

As I thought would probably be the case, the scent of the dead leopards attracted packs of hyaenas and jackals, who serenaded us with their horrible yells and howls for the remainder of the night, though the blazing fire we kept up prevented them from approaching.

Notwithstanding Harry's threat, he did not wake up Hans, who would probably again have composed himself for sleep, and we might have been left to the tender mercies of the hyaenas.

In the morning we took the skins off the two leopards; and cleaned and packed them up so as to be easily transported.  As Hans claimed the skin of the leopard he had shot, he had to carry it, while Jan carried ours. We then started off for the vlei.  It would be too late in the morning, we calculated, by the time we could reach it, to shoot any animals; and we should have to wait till the evening, when they would be likely to come down to drink at the pool.  We should not, therefore, have hastened our footsteps, had we not been anxious to obtain a fresh supply of water; for the small stock Hans and Jan had brought was exhausted, and we were now almost as thirsty as we had been on the previous day.

Hans walked on ahead without speaking; but as he was never very talkative, we were not surprised at this.  At last he turned round, and told Jan that he must carry his leopard-skin.

We thought this too much of a good thing.  Jan appealed to us.

"Certainly not," answered Harry.  "You claimed all the skin as your property.  You are bound to carry it, or leave it behind if you like, but Jan shall not be compelled to carry it."

Hans turned round and walked on sullenly, but presently I saw him drop his burden, and then present his rifle at Harry.  Fearing that Hans was about to murder my friend, I dashed forward and struck up the weapon, which the next instant went off, the bullet almost grazing Harry's hat.

"We must overpower the man," I said, making a sign to Jan, and we all three threw ourselves upon him, and prevented him drawing his knife, when he would, I suspect, have run amuck among us, as the Malays frequently do when exasperated.

How to treat the madman -- for such he appeared to be -- it was difficult to say.  He was immensely strong, and we had to exert ourselves to keep him down.  Jan proposed to kill him, and was drawing his knife for the purpose when we interfered.

"We shall have to do it, I fear, if we cannot bind his hands behind him," said Harry.

"No, no; we must deprive him of his rifle and ammunition, and he will thus be compelled to follow us."

"If he wanders away into the desert, his fate will be certain," observed Harry.

"He has brought it upon himself," I remarked; "here, Jan, take my rifle-strap; slip it round his arms and draw it tight, -- be quick about it.  Now, Harry, get another strap round his legs."

All this time Hans was struggling violently, without uttering a word. Having succeeded in doing as I proposed, we had him completely in our power.  He grinned fearfully and foamed at the mouth; indeed, he almost seized poor Jan's bare arm in his teeth, and had not Harry given him a severe blow he would have succeeded.

"Now let's try to get him on his feet, and we will then slacken the strap sufficiently to enable him to walk, though not to allow him to run away," I said.

Hans was very unwilling at first to move, but at length we got him to walk along, though he appeared like a man in a dream, -- not knowing what he was doing.  Jan assured us that he could find the way to the water-hole, and we therefore proceeded in the direction he pointed out. It was a question, however, whether we should remain to shoot there, or, having supplied our bottles, return with our unfortunate companion to the camp.  As he seemed strong enough to carry the leopard-skin, we replaced it on his shoulders.  Every now and then he would attempt to run; but the strap round his legs quickly brought him up.  Our progress was of course very slow, until at length the vlei was reached.  We passed on our way several trees of considerable size overturned by elephants; many of them being ten inches in diameter, it must have required great strength to uproot them.  Others were broken short off, a little distance from the ground, by the elephants.  This showed us that the country was frequented by the animals, and that if we had patience we might be able to shoot a number.  While lying in ambush, however, it would be necessary to remain perfectly silent, as they would be alarmed by the slightest noise.

At length the water-hole came in sight, and eagerly hurrying forward we quenched our thirst and refilled our bottles.  Hans did not refuse to drink, and appeared somewhat better afterwards; but there was a roll in his eye which made us unwilling to set him at liberty.  Not to alarm the elephants, we retired to a distance and lighted a fire, where we cooked the venison we had brought with us, which, although somewhat high, was still eatable; we then lay down to rest under the shade of a wide-spreading tree, making Hans sit by us.

Harry and I, wishing to obtain some sleep, told Jan to watch our prisoner; and as he had had more rest than we had the previous night, we hoped he would keep awake.

At length I opened my eyes, and, on looking round, what was my dismay to see Jan fast asleep, and to find that Hans was not there.  I aroused Harry.  We had placed our prisoner's rifle and knife close to us, and they were safe.  He could not be far off; so calling Jan -- who looked very much surprised at finding what had happened -- we started off, hoping to discover the poor wretch.  The feeling of anger with which we had before regarded him was now changed into compassion.  Should he have had any evil intentions, could he have got his arms free, he might have brained us as we slept.  However, it seemed doubtful whether he had been able to get more than his legs at liberty.  The strap which secured his elbows was nowhere to be seen.  We traced his spoor, but this disappeared along an elephant track -- for even Jan failed to discover the marks of his footsteps.  The night was approaching, and we lost all hope of discovering him.  We therefore took up our position in the thicket we had selected, close to the path the elephants pursued when going down to the pool.  We here fully expected to shoot two or three animals.  We then proposed returning next morning to the camp, in order to bring two or three of the men with us to make further search for Hans.

We had not long taken up our position, when we caught sight of the huge forms of several elephants coming through the forest, along the path which we had discovered.  We saw them sweeping their trunks backwards and forwards over the ground, evidently suspecting something wrong.

Thirst impelled them forward, however.  They approached close to where we lay hidden, and I was just about to fire at the leader, who had magnificent tusks -- Harry having agreed to take the next in order -- when a loud shout rent the air, and a figure started up directly in front of the animal.  It was Hans.  His arms were still bound, but he kept leaping about, utterly fearless of the elephants before him.  I hesitated for a moment, when the thought struck me, -- should I kill the elephant, I might save the life of the unhappy being who seemed to be courting his fate.  I pulled the trigger.  I could hear the ball strike, but what was my horror to see the animal rush forward, and the next moment trample Hans Scarff beneath his feet.  A single shriek escaped the miserable man, and then all was silent.  Excited as I was, I did not notice that Harry fired at the second elephant at the same moment.  His bullet must have entered the animal's brain, for it sank a helpless mass on the ground.  The rest of the herd, alarmed by the fate of their leaders, turned round, and with loud trumpeting rushed away into the forest.

The first elephant, in the meantime, lifted up the body of his victim, whom he dashed violently to the ground; and then, staggering a few paces, came down with a crash and lay motionless.

We hurried out of our ambush to render assistance to Hans; but he was dead, every bone in his body being broken; even his features could not be recognised.  We could not blame ourselves for the occurrence, though grieved at his sad fate.

We now purposed returning to our last camp, where we had left our fire burning.  Jan begged leave to cut off some pieces of the elephant's flesh to cook for supper.  This he did forthwith, in a more rapid way than we could have accomplished the task.

Covering up the body of Hans with some thick bushes, we left it where it lay, in order to prevent the hyaenas and jackals from getting at it, and returned to our fire.

We had not long been seated round it, talking over the events of the day, when Jan, starting up, declared that he saw the light of a fire in the distance.

Harry and I looked in the same direction.  There was no doubt about the matter.

"Who can they be?" exclaimed Harry.

"Perhaps they are natives," I answered.  "If so, we must be careful how we approach them."

"I think it is more likely that they are our friends coming to search for us," said Harry.  "They will be surprised at our not appearing yesterday, and may have pushed forward a party who, if on horseback, would soon be up with us."

I at length agreed that such was probably the case, and we accordingly settled at once to go towards the fire.  We should probably, even at a distance, be able to discover whether or not it was made by our friends. Jan was of our opinion.

Having hastily finished our meal, we made our way in the direction we proposed.  On getting near the fire, Jan offered to go forward and to bring word while we lay hid, so that we might retreat if necessary before we were discovered.

When I was in the forests of Africa, I always remembered that while I was stalking an animal, a lion or leopard might be stalking me; and we therefore, while we waited for the return of Jan, kept our eyes about us, and our ears open to detect the slightest sound.

We had longer to wait than we expected.  At length we heard a rustling of leaves near us, and Jan's voice exclaiming -- 

"Dey de Capt'n's party, and Toko, and two, three, Makololoes; dey all got horses!"

This was good news.  As we went along he told me that he had not informed them that we were near, as he wished to give us the pleasure of announcing ourselves.

In a few minutes we were in the midst of our friends, and our appearance afforded my uncle great relief.  They had come across our camp, and found the bodies of the lions, and had some misapprehensions that after all we might have been carried off by others.

He was, of course, much shocked at the fate of Hans, though, he observed, that it was better he should have died thus, than have committed murder or some other mischief, as from his uncertain temper it was very likely he would have done.

The Makololoes, on hearing that we had killed two elephants, were eager to go at once and obtain some of the flesh; but my uncle persuaded them to remain until the next morning, promising that they should then have an abundance of meat.

Although expeditions on foot have their advantages, Harry and I came to the conclusion, when we again found ourselves mounted, that we should prefer in future going out on horseback.  My uncle told us that he expected the waggons would camp where we then were, so that we might load them with the tusks and skins we might obtain.

Directly breakfast was over we rode to the scene of our encounter with the two elephants, neither of which had been disturbed.  The tusks were soon removed, and the Makololoes cut away enough flesh for a whole army. A grave was then dug, and the body of poor Hans buried.  This done, we followed the spoor of the elephants, intending to kill them while feeding in the day-time, and afterwards attack them as they came down to drink.

We had not ridden far when Toko, who was ahead, came back with the intelligence that he had discovered four or five in an open glade, plucking off the branches and leaves of their favourite trees; and that by keeping along through the wood we might come upon them without much risk of being discovered.  Almost a minute afterwards we came in sight of the animals, when we at once dismounted to watch them and arrange our plan of proceeding.  While some Makololoes held our horses, my uncle, Harry, and I crept along not far from the edge of the forest, so as to get in front of the elephants we saw feeding, while Mr Welbourn, Toko, and one of his followers made a wider circuit, with the intention of taking them on the other side should they move in that direction.  We hurried on, eager to get in front of the animals before they should move away.  They now offered unusually good marks to our rifles.  My fear was that their sharp eyes might detect us before we could get near enough to fire.  My uncle advised each of us to select a tree up which we could climb, or whose trunk was of sufficient thickness to afford us protection should the elephants, discovering us, make a charge.

As the forest was tolerably thick, they could not move as rapidly as in the open ground.  We hoped, therefore, to have time to escape should our bullets fail to kill them at the first shot.  There were three magnificent fellows feeding close together, and several others beyond them.  The latter had fallen to the share of Mr Welbourn and his party, and we agreed to devote our attention to the three nearest.  We proceeded with the greatest care, in Indian file.  The slightest sound, even at a distance, caused by a stumble or the breaking of a twig, would attract the attention of our expected prey.

We at length could see their trunks lifted above their heads to reach the higher branches, the rest of their bodies being invisible, and of course they could not see us.

Having taken up our positions, one in front of each elephant, we crept forward, bending down as low as we could so as to escape detection as long as possible.  At the same time we looked out for trees to serve as places of refuge.  Activity and presence of mind are necessary when a person is hunting wild beasts, but especially when elephant shooting.

I lost sight of my uncle, who was on my left, but I could just see Harry, who was on the opposite side, his head appearing above the grass and shrubs.  I had made up my mind not to fire until I heard the report of my uncle's rifle.  At last I could see the huge ears of an elephant, just in front of me, flapping up and down.

I knew that the moment would soon arrive when I must fire or be discovered by the elephant.  I crept on a few paces further, then rose on my knees.  At the moment that I heard the crack of my uncle's rifle, I lifted my own weapon and fired, aiming full at the creature's broad chest as high up as I could, so as to clear the head.  Before the smoke -- which was kept from rising by the branches -- had cleared away, a loud trumpeting was heard.  The moment it began Harry fired, but I could not see the result.  I sprang to my feet, so as to escape behind a tree I had marked, fully expecting to have the elephant I had shot charge furiously at me; but it did not, and though I retreated some paces I could still see its head.  It seemed to be looking about to discover the enemy who had wounded it.  No long time passed before it caught sight of me, and then on it came.  I could also hear a loud crashing among the boughs to the right, produced, I had no doubt, by the elephant at which Harry had aimed.  On reaching the tree I instantly began to reload, hoping to have time to give the elephant another shot as he passed me; for, though he had seen me for a moment, I knew that he would go straight on without looking behind the tree.  But, even before he had got up to the spot, down he fell on his knees, crushing several young trees.  At the same moment I heard Harry cry out, and leaving my own prize I dashed forward to his assistance.  I was just in time to see the elephant, with his trunk uplifted, close to Harry, who had not had time to reload or take shelter behind a tree.  I fired, aiming behind the ear of the elephant, when down it came, as mine had done, prostrate on the ground.  If my uncle had been equally successful, we should have made a grand haul.  Without stopping to finish off our elephants, we hurried in the direction we supposed him to be, reloading as we went.  We uttered a loud shout to attract his attention.  It was replied to by a tremendous roar; and, instead of an elephant, what was our surprise to see an enormous lion lashing its tail and looking up at the branches of a tree, among which we discovered my uncle; and he must have had a narrow escape, for he was only just beyond reach of the brute, who might, it seemed to us, by making a desperate spring, have struck him down.  We had now to look out for ourselves, for should the lion discover us, unless we could kill him at once, he might tear us to pieces. Fortunately another tree of considerable girth, and in the position we desired, was close at hand.  We retreated behind it.  As the lion turned his head and we thought might be looking for us, we both fired.  To our great delight we rolled him over where he stood.

"Bravo!  Well done!" cried my uncle, descending the tree.  "We'll now go after my elephant."

Leading the way, without exchanging further words, he dashed out of the forest.



Chapter Nine.

On getting out from among the trees we caught sight of an elephant going along at full swing across the plain.  There seemed but little chance of our overtaking him, but my uncle urged us to persevere, for by the large blotches and splashes of blood which we met with, it was evident that he was wounded.  It was pretty hot work, as we were loaded with our ammunition and our rifles, but we were encouraged to proceed by finding that the elephant was slackening his pace.

"We shall catch him before long!" exclaimed my uncle.  "On, on.  If that lion hadn't interfered, I should have shot him at once; but the brute's lair must have been close to where I stood, and I ran a fearful chance of being seized by him."

We did not see what had become of the other elephants, and we concluded that either Mr Welbourn had disposed of them, or that they had run into the forest to conceal themselves.  However, we soon saw that the attempt to overtake the elephant on foot was useless.  We therefore made a short cut back to where we had left our horses.  Each of us mounting one, guided by the spoor, we immediately made chase.  It was far more satisfactory to be on horseback than on foot.  Following the spoor, we quickly again came in sight of the elephant, which was moving slowly on. Seeing us, he lifted up his trunk and, trumpeting loudly, seemed about to charge.

My uncle, notwithstanding, rode forward and fired.  The ball struck, when immediately, turning the horse's head, he galloped off, taking the way towards the camp.  He had not gone far, however, before the elephant stopped, and Harry and I coming up, both fired, when down it came to the ground, and was dead before my uncle reached it.

"A good day's sport, my lads," he exclaimed in high glee.  "We shall soon have the waggons loaded if we go on in this way.  Fred, you go to the camp to bring up the oxen to load with the tusks and meat, while Harry and I will look after the other elephants and the lion."

I had taken a good survey of the country, so that I believed I could find my way, and without hesitation set off.  I had gone but a short distance when a troop of giraffes hove in sight, and beautiful objects they were, with their heads elevated on their long necks.  Influenced by the propensity of a hunter I dashed forward in pursuit.  Suddenly, my horse swerved on one side, and I saw that he had narrowly escaped a pitfall.  Almost directly afterwards, two of the giraffes sank into other pits, and on turning round I saw that the animals were pursued by a party of natives, who had them thus completely in their power.

On examining the pit into which I had so nearly tumbled, I perceived that it was about twelve feet in depth, with a bank of earth about seven feet high left in the centre, broad at the bottom, and narrowing towards the top.  The fore-legs of the giraffe had sunk into one side of the hole, the hinder legs into another, the body resting on the narrow bank, so that the creature in spite of all its struggles could not possibly extricate itself.

I left the natives to take possession, and rode on endeavouring to avoid the pit-falls, of which I had little doubt there were many on my way.  I had, of course, to go much slower than I should otherwise have done. Though two or three times I nearly got caught, I safely reached the camp.  Stopping merely to take some refreshment, I again set off with the oxen, to bring in the produce of our chase.  We found that it was necessary to be quick about it, lest the natives should find that we had killed the elephants and appropriate the tusks.  They, however, had hitherto been so busily employed in chasing the giraffes that they had not discovered the elephants.  We took possession of the tusks, and as much of the meat as our party could consume.

Mr Welbourn had been almost as successful, having killed two fine elephants and a couple of deer.  Next day we continued our journey northward.  In passing over the plain, while Harry and I were riding on ahead, we caught sight of an animal occasionally rising out of the ground and then disappearing.

"That must be a beast caught in a trap or pit-full," said Harry; "let's go and see what it is."

On reaching the spot we found that he was right in his conjectures.  He told me that the animal was a quagga, which somewhat resembles a well-shaped ass.  In vain the quagga tried to get out by the most desperate efforts.  Sometimes its fore feet almost touched the top of the bank, but again and again it fell back.

"I should like to take possession of the animal," said Harry, "it doesn't appear to be at all injured, and if we could manage to break it in, it would make a capital riding horse.  If you'll watch the pit, I'll go and get some of the men to come with ropes."

To this I agreed, and he soon returned with Toko and two other men, bringing not only ropes, but a large sack and a saddle.

"What are you going to do with those things?"  I asked.

"You shall see," he replied.  "It was Toko's idea."

The quagga looked very much astonished at seeing itself surrounded by human beings, and as before, it endeavoured to escape from the pit.

As it did so, Toko, who had fastened the sack to a loop at the end of a long stick, drew it over the quagga's head, so as to prevent its biting, which it would have done had it been able to see.

A halter was fixed round its mouth, and ropes were passed under its body, by which it was drawn out.  As soon as it found itself on firm ground, it began to throw its legs out in all directions, but Toko held it fast by the halter.  At last, wearied by its exertions, it stood perfectly still.  The moment it did so, Toko made a sign to his followers, who clapped a saddle on its back, and drew tight the girths.

"Capital!" cried Harry.  "I have got a first-rate steed at small cost, and I'll soon show you what it can do."

Before I could dissuade him from making the attempt, he, with his usual impetuosity, leapt on the quagga's back, and, seizing the bridle, told Toko to let go.

What Harry might have expected occurred.  Off started the quagga, full gallop, towards the herd from which it had been separated by falling into the pit.  I feared from the vicious nature of the animals, that, seeing some strange being on the back of their companion, they would kick it and its rider to death.  In vain I shouted to Harry to stop his steed and come back: that was more than he could do.  So telling Toko to mount his horse, I set off in pursuit.

The moment the herd of quaggas saw us coming, away they galloped at a furious rate.  There were not many streams, but over the rocky beds of watercourses, through dense thickets, up hills, down valleys, on they went.

Our horses began to show signs of fatigue, and I was afraid Harry would be carried away into the wilderness.  To attempt to throw himself off would have been madness, and yet while the quaggas were running, there was little chance that their companion would stop.

We had ridden so far that I knew our friends would be anxious about us, for they had not seen us disappear, and no one in the camp would know what had become of us.

To abandon Harry was not to be thought of, and we therefore pushed forward in the hopes of at length coming up with him and stopping his wild steed.  The difficulty was solved in an unexpected way.  Suddenly in front of the herd of quaggas appeared a large party of people armed with spears and darts.  Uttering loud shouts, the blacks began to send their missiles among the herd.  The quaggas were thrown into the greatest confusion, some going on one side, some on the other, others turning in the direction from which we had come.  At length the shouts and cries around it brought Harry's quagga to a standstill, and enabled us to get alongside.  I advised him to dismount.

"No, no!" he answered.  "I have got my steed and intend to him, and if you ride near he'll go well enough."

Harry was right.  The brute, pretty well tired out, went with perfect quietness, and submitted to be tethered with a strong rope and hobbles round its legs, so that there was no chance of its breaking away.

"I'll tame him!" cried Harry.  "Tell them, Toko, no one must on any account bring him food -- I alone will give it him."

By this time the natives, who had killed half-a-dozen quaggas, had come close to us.  We considered that it would be prudent, if not an act of politeness, to thank them for stopping the quagga; and Toko, who was our spokesman, so explained matters, that the hunters expressed their happiness in seeing us, and invited us to their village.

We should have excused ourselves, on the plea of having at once to return to camp; but, as the day was already drawing to a close, and even Toko declared that during the darkness he should be unable to find his way back, we accepted the invitation, and set off with our new friends, who were in high spirits at the thoughts of the quagga flesh they were about to enjoy.

Their huts were larger and cleaner than any we had yet seen; and we found that, although the people were hunters, they were also agriculturists, and possessed pretty extensive plantations at the back of the village.

The women were immediately set to work to prepare the feast; and in a short time the whole population was banqueting.  We, of course, soon knocked off, and begged permission to rest in one of the huts.  We had scarcely however gone to sleep, than we were aroused by a tremendous hubbub; and, rushing out, we found all the women on foot, engaged in seizing their children, whom they had hauled out of their beds, or rather up from the mats on which they lay, and were belabouring them unmercifully with rods.  On enquiring the cause from Toko, he told us that news had been brought that an immense herd of elephants was approaching the plantations.  The object of beating the children was to frighten away the animals.  This was, for one cause, good news for us, as we hoped to obtain full cargoes for our waggons.  We at once offered to go out and shoot the elephants, if the natives would guide us to the trees in which we could take up our posts for the purpose.

We soon found plenty of volunteers, and, guided by them, we each reached a tree in the neighbourhood of the plantations, near which they assured us the elephants were sure to pass.  We gladdened their hearts by telling them that they should have the meat, provided we retained the tusks for our share.  The noise, however, continued; the women shrieking, and flourishing their rods, the children howling, dogs barking, and the men shouting at the tops of their voices and waving fire-brands.  Our fear was that the elephants would be frightened, and turn back; but scarcely had we climbed up the trees, each of us accompanied by several natives, than we caught sight, through the gloom, of the dusky forms of an immense herd of elephants emerging from the thicker part of the forest.  We at once, taking aim at the leaders, fired, hoping to kill some and turn back the rest.  Two fell, and the herd halted, apparently too much astonished to tell what had happened.

This gave us time to reload, when again the animals came on, passing by the fallen bodies of their companions.  Taking steady aim we again all fired; and, beyond our most sanguine expectations, three more elephants sank to the ground, each shot through the head.  Whether or not the shrieks in front distracted their attention and made them regardless of the sound of our shots, I cannot say; but the animals scarcely stopped for a moment, though some of them trumpeted notes of alarm, and advanced with apparent caution.  The rest stopped lazily, waving about their huge trunks.

I was very thankful that we were high enough up the trees to be out of their reach.  Though several passed, us before we had reloaded, others followed, and three more bit the dust.  Neither did this stop the onward course of the elephants; for, breaking down the fences which enclosed the plantations, they swept across, seizing the fruit with their trunks, and transferring it to their mouths.

Again and again we fired together.  The cries of the inhabitants did not stop their advance, though it tended to turn them on one side, where, meeting with several huts, they trampled them down as if they had been built of cards.  Had it not been for the exertions of the people, the whole village would have been destroyed; which Toko assured us, had frequently in other instances been the case.

As soon as the elephants had passed, we descended, and as they showed no inclination to turn back, we pursued them, firing as we could make certain shots, thus killing I am afraid to say how many more, lest my account might not be credited.

The remainder of the herd then swept on, though we would not give up the chase until we had expended nearly all the ammunition we had with us. At length we returned to the village, where we found the people taking the loss of their crops very philosophically, as they considered that the abundance of elephant meat would make them ample amends.

"I hope the poor people will not get a surfeit," remarked Harry.  "I suspect in a few days they'll wish the carcases at Jericho, or at all events, at a distance from their village.  Our horses and the quagga would have fared ill, had the elephants come across them."

After a few hours' rest, we bade our friends goodbye, and mounted our steeds, promising to return for the tusks, which we reminded them were ours.

Harry wisely kept a sack over his animal's neck, and Toko and I rode on either side to guide it.  The creature went wonderfully well, and sooner than we had expected we came upon the waggons.  The news we brought was highly satisfactory, and without a moment's delay the oxens' heads were turned in the direction of the village.

The people received us as old friends, and to encourage them to help us we promised them a reward for each of the tusks they brought in.  They had already begun to butcher the elephants which had fallen in their plantations, and in every direction round the huts strips of flesh were hung up to dry, creating an odour far from pleasant.  They lost no time in bringing in the tusks.  Harry and I were highly complimented on our performance.  The tusks being cleaned and stowed away, our waggons were nearly full: another day's successful hunting would enable us to turn our faces westward.  We accordingly promised to reward our hosts if they would bring us information as to the direction the herd had taken. Harry and I had been congratulating ourselves on the prospect of a quiet night's rest in our tent between the waggons; but we had not been long asleep when we were aroused by a tremendous clap of thunder which seemed to break directly over our heads, while almost immediately afterwards, there came a most fearful shrieking and shouting from the village close to which we were encamped.  Slipping on our coats, we hurried out.  As we did so a curious sight met our gaze.  The whole of the male population were on foot, armed with bows, and arrows; and as the lightning darted from the black clouds we saw them shooting away at them as fast as they could place their arrows to the string.

As may be supposed, we kept carefully behind the savages lest we might be struck by the arrows, which we had heard were poisoned.  The thunder rattled and roared, the lightning flashed, and the men shrieked and howled.  I asked Toko what it all meant.

"They're shooting at the storm-clouds to drive them away," he answered.

"Do you think it will produce that effect?"  I asked.

"Who knows?" he replied.  "They fancy so, and are therefore right to try and get rid of the storm, and drive away what they believe would do them harm."

I told Toko that the powerful Being who rules the heavens would not be influenced by such folly, though he would be ready to hear the prayers of the smallest child.  He seemed to take the matter far more lightly than I should have expected.

"They are poor ignorant savages," he remarked, "who have not the advantage of living with white men."

The storm swept by, and the poor people were satisfied that their shooting had driven it away.

Next morning, inspanning at an early hour, we proceeded in the direction we concluded the elephants had taken.

While camping at noon, some of the natives who had gone on ahead as scouts, brought us the satisfactory intelligence that the herd were feeding in a wood about eight miles off; and that as a stream ran by, they were certain to go down to drink in the evening; when, if we took proper measures, we should be able to kill as many more as we wanted. We lost no time, therefore, in proceeding onward, and as the ground was pretty level we made good progress.

We camped at a part of the stream where we could draw water; and where, from the rocky character of the bank, the elephants were not likely to come down and drink.  On one side it was a swamp, between which and our camp we could leave our horses at liberty to feed, one or two men only being required to watch them.  As soon as these arrangements were made, we set off to search for the spoor of the elephants, so that we might place ourselves in ambush on one side, as we had before done, to shoot them as they approached or returned from the water.

As we made our onward way, we caught sight of numerous elephants feeding at their ease in various directions.  If they were part of the herd which we had lately attacked, they had soon recovered from their alarm. We took up our posts in satisfactory positions, hoping that, before the night was over, we should have bagged the full complement of tusks we required.

I do not suppose the detailed account of our various proceedings would prove interesting.  Suffice it to say, we were not disappointed.  Harry, I, and Toko shot one elephant apiece, and my uncle and Mr Welbourn each shot three, they using explosive bullets, which never fail to kill the animals they wound.

At length, frightened by the destruction of their companions, the remainder of the herd retreated, and we, leaving the bodies until next morning, returned to our tent.

As Harry and I were pretty well knocked up with our exertions of the previous day, we remained encamped while natives were employed in bringing in the tusks.

After breakfast we strolled out with our guns, hoping to get some wild fowl in the marsh, for we were somewhat tired of feeding on elephant's flesh.

We had killed several birds, and on our way back we stopped to look at the horses and quagga, which were feeding in perfect harmony.  The latter having a bandage round its eyes, and it being hobbled, Harry went up to it, and spoke gently in its ear.

"Take care!"  I exclaimed, "he'll give you an ugly bite."

As I spoke the quagga turned his head and very nearly caught him by the arm.

It was a lesson to Harry not to pet his favourite in future, and I advised that he should muzzle it until its temper should become softened.

We were standing talking, when suddenly the horses began to prance and kick up their heels.

"Hallo! what are those?" exclaimed Harry, turning round.

We then saw, emerging from the marsh, where they had been wallowing, a couple of huge rhinoceroses, who seemed to look upon the horses and us as intruders they had a right to drive off their domains.

It was not without some difficulty that we got out of their way.  Clumsy as the animal looks, and short as are its legs, it can move with wonderful rapidity over the hard ground.

As our guns were only loaded with small shot, it would have been useless to fire at them.  The horses could take pretty good care of themselves, though they exhibited their fear of the savage-looking creatures by scampering off in all directions.

Meantime, having withdrawn our small shot, we were ramming down bullets as fast as we could.  Although the horses could escape, the poor quagga, with its legs hobbled and its eyes covered, had but a poor chance.  The leading rhinoceros had singled it out as the object of attack; and, before Harry and I could fire, rushing furiously forward, it pierced the poor animal through with its formidable horns, pinning it to the earth. When too late to save the quagga, we both pulled our triggers, when the animal, still dragging the body of its victim on, rushed forward several paces before it dropped.

We, of course, reloaded, but before we could fire, the other rhinoceros might be in the midst of the camp and commit all sorts of damage. Fortunately, at that moment, Toko, who had just arrived with a party of men carrying the tusks, his rifle being loaded with ball, with a well-directed shot prevented the catastrophe we feared by killing the rhinoceros just before it reached the waggons.

We had an evening of rejoicing, for by the addition of our rhinoceros horns, our waggons were piled up to the very top; and my uncle expressed some apprehension that the axles might break down with the weight of the unusual load before we arrived at the coast.

We lost not a day in proceeding thither.  On reaching Walfish Bay, we safely embarked the valuable produce we had collected.

So ended the first series of my adventures in Africa.  I have, however, since made several other expeditions to various parts of that hitherto little-known continent, of which I may some day give an account to the world.

<eob>

A Struggle For A Fortune

By

Harry Castlemon



Chapter I.

About Money.


It was in a little log cabin with a dirt floor and a stick chimney which occupied almost the whole of one side of it, situated a few miles from Pond Post Office, a small hamlet located somewhere in the wilds of Missouri, that the opening scene of this story took place. There were four occupants of the cabin, sitting around in various attitudes, and they all seemed to be looking at a fifth person, Jonas Keeler by name, who was standing in the middle of the floor with a whip in his hand and a fierce frown on his face. Something was evidently troubling this man Jonas, and, if we listen to a few scraps of the conversation that passed between him and his wife, perhaps we can ascertain what it was.

"And is there any thing else that you want?" inquired Jonas, in a tone that was fully as fierce as his frown. "It beats the world how many things I have to get when I go to town. It is coffee here, and flour there, until I have to have a memory as long as this whip-stock for fear that I will forget some of them."

"But, father, we have got to live somehow," said his wife, who was seated on a rickety chair. "We can't grow fat on air."

"To be sure you can't, but it seems to me that you might make things last longer. We wasn't in this fix before the war. Then we had a house and something that was fit to eat; but ever since the rebs and the Yanks have got in here and burned us out, things is all mussed up and I don't know which way to turn."

"Why, father, you have money now," said his wife.

"Where did I get money? Not much I ain't. It has been this way ever since that old man Nickerson came here to board. I didn't agree to take him for nothing, and I would not have done it if you hadn't showed signs of getting up on your ear."

"I know you didn't. He gave you one thousand dollars when he first came here, and you said it would be more than enough to keep him as long as he lived."

"But I did not suppose he was going to last forever, did I? He has chawed that up in tobacco long ago; and every time I go to town I am getting him a plug out of my own pocket."

"Do you mean to say that he has used up a thousand dollars in three years?" asked Mrs. Keeler, in a tone of astonishment.

"Now look at you. You seem to think that amount of money will last forever. He has chawed that up and more, too. He must have had more than a thousand dollars when he came here. The folks down to Manchester used to say he was worth ten thousand dollars. What did you do with all that money, old man?"

This question, addressed in no very amiable tone of voice, was spoken to a person who was seated in a remote corner of the cabin as if he was anxious to get out of reach of the speaker. He was a very aged man, with white locks that came down upon his shoulders and hands that trembled in spite of all he could do to prevent it, and there was something in his eyes and face which he turned toward Jonas that would have appealed to any heart except the heart of Jonas Keeler. The old man was not in his right mind. He had worked hard and laboriously, his hands showed that, for the little money he possessed -- Jonas said it was more than a thousand dollars -- but those days were passed now. Something, no one could have told exactly what it was, had operated on his mind until he hardly knew what he was doing. But there was one thing he did know and that was that during the last year his supply of tobacco had been extremely limited. What Jonas did with the thousand dollars that he gave him when he first came to his cabin and took up his abode with him, no one ever knew. Some believed that he had invested it in a mortgage while others thought he had it stowed away so that he could draw on it whenever necessity required it. At any rate his money went somewhere, and Jonas never got him a thing when he went to town without finding fault about it.

There had been a time when this Mr. Nickerson who lived a short distance from Manchester, was thought to be the richest person in all that county. Every thing he had about him went to show it. His horses were the fattest, his beef cattle brought the most money and his farm was nicely kept up. But the war broke out about this time, and Mrs. Keeler often wondered what had become of old man Nickerson who lived twenty miles away. He had been the husband of her sister, but since her death he had lived alone on his farm. He often said that he would not go into either army, he had no hand in bringing on the war and those who were to blame for it could settle the matter among themselves, and the consequence was he was robbed by both Union and Confederates. Every thing he had in sight was gone except one thousand dollars, which he finally gave into the hands of Jonas Keeler with the understanding that the amount was to support him while he lived.

"I don't much like the idea of giving up my money," said Mr. Nickerson, after he had taken a long time to think the matter over. "If I keep it with me I can get tobacco and other little things that I need; but now that I have let Jonas have it, -- I don't know; I don't know. The first thing I know that thousand dollars will all be gone, and then what will I do? We'll see what sort of a man Jonas is to live up to his word."

Jonas Keeler did not believe in war either, and he tried by every means in his power to keep out of it. He hid in the woods when either army came near him, and of course he lost everything he had. The Confederates stole his horses and cattle, and the Union fellows said if he were not a rebel he ought to be, and burned his house over his head. But Jonas had the thousand dollars to go on and with this he was remarkably content. He kept along until the war closed and then he was ready to set out and make his living over again; but he found that it was a hard thing to do. It was tiresome work to get up where he was before, he never grew any richer, and Jonas, from being a quiet and peaceable man, became sullen and morose, did not like to hear anybody talk of spending money, even though he knew he must spend some in order to live, and finally got so that his family were afraid of him. There was one thing that he never could get through his head: Mr. Nickerson had never said anything about what had become of the rest of his money, and Jonas finally came to the conclusion that it was concealed somewhere, and he wanted to know where it was.

"You need not talk to me about that sum being all the old man had," said he, when he had held one of his long arguments with his wife. "He had more money than that and I know it. What did he do when Daddy Price took him off into the army? He buried it; that's what he did with it."

"But the rebels must have got it," said Mrs. Keeler. "You know they went all over his house and took everything there was in it."

"But they never got any money," said Jonas. "The old man hangs onto a dollar until the eagle hollers before he will give it up, and if they had found anything he would not fail to say so. He has got that money hidden somewhere, and I wish I knew where it was. He makes me so mad when he denies it, that I have half a mind to take him by the scurf of the neck and throw him out of doors."

"Don't do that, Jonas; don't do that," said Mrs. Keeler in alarm. "The old gentleman is getting feeble, I can see that plainly enough, and the only way you can do is to treat him kindly."

"Good gracious! Ain't that what I have been doing ever since he has been here?" demanded Jonas in a heat. "I tell you that his tobacco money is pretty near gone, and when it is all gone he will not get any more. It is high time he was quitting that bad habit."

Mrs. Keeler made no remark when she heard this. The idea that a man ninety years old could cease a habit that he had been accustomed to all his life, was absurd. Jonas himself really delighted in a good smoke. How would he feel if he were deprived of that privilege? Furthermore, his wife did not believe that all Mr. Nickerson's money was gone. She was certain that Jonas could find a good deal of it if he looked around and tried.

This conversation took place some time previous to the beginning of our story. Mr. Nickerson's thousand dollars were nearly gone, at least Jonas said so, and at the time we introduce them to the reader it was all gone, and the old man did not know what he would do next. He had not a bit of that staff of life, as he regarded it, remaining, and now Jonas wanted to know where he had hidden the rest of his money. He had held a long talk with the old man down to the stable but could not get any thing out of him. That was one thing that put him in such bad humor.

"What did you do with all that money, old man?" repeated Jonas, when Mr. Nickerson looked up at him with a sickly smile on his face.

"What money?" inquired the old gentleman, as if he had never heard of the subject before.

"Aw! what money!" said Jonas; and when he got into conversation on this matter he nearly always forgot himself and shouted out the words as if the man he was addressing were a mile away. "I mean the money you had stowed away in your pocket-book where the soldiers could not find it; the money we were talking about down to the barn. Where did you put it?"

"I gave you every cent I had left," was the reply. "If there was any more the rebels have got it. Say, Jonas, are you going to get me a plug of tobacco when you go down town?"

"There it is again. No, I ain't. Your money is all gone, and you will have to do without it from this time on."

Jonas started toward the door as if he were in a hurry to get out, but before he had made many steps he suddenly paused in his walk, gazed steadily at the dirt floor and then turned to Mr. Nickerson again.

"Don't you remember where a dollar or two of that money went?" said he; and he tried to make his voice as pleading as he knew how. "If you could remember that, I might find you a plug or two of tobacco while I am down town."

"There was no more of it in the purse other than the money I gave you," said the old man, once more resting his forehead on his hands and his elbows on his knees. "That was all I had left to give you. You saw the inside of the purse as plainly as I did."

"But you must have some other that was not in the purse," said Jonas. "Where did you put that?"

"All I had was there in my pocket and you have got that. I want a plug of tobacco, too."

"Well, you don't get it out of me this trip," shouted Jonas. "If you won't tell where your money is you can go without tobacco."

Jonas went out, climbed into his wagon and drove off while the old man raised his head from his hands, tottered to the door and watched him as he was whirled away down the road. Then he came back and seated himself on the chair again.

"Jonas still sticks to it that I had more money in that purse than I gave him," whined Mr. Nickerson. "I hid it under the doorstep before Price took me away to the army. He knew that I was not able to do anything toward driving the mules, I was too old; but he took me along just to let me see that the Confederates ruled this State instead of the Union people. He set me to getting the mules out of the mud holes they got into, but in a few days he saw that I was not of any use at that, so he discharged me where I was all of one hundred miles from home, and left me to get there the best I could. I made it after awhile, although I suffered severely while I was doing it, found my thousand dollars right where I had left it and came up here and gave it to Jonas, consarn my picture. He said it would be enough to get me all the tobacco and clothes I needed, and now it is all gone. What I am going to do beats me."

"I have not got a cent, Mr. Nickerson," said Mrs. Keeler. "If I had I would give it to you in a minute. I have not seen the color of any body's money since the war."

"I know you haven't, Mandy," said Mr. Nickerson. "I have not any kith nor kin of my own, but you have always been good to me, and some day -- "

The old man started as if he had been shot, looked all around him, his gaze resting on the faces of the two boys who stood near the door listening to what he had to say, and then hid his face in his hands and burst into a loud cough, doubling himself up as if he were almost strangled. Perhaps the boys were taken by surprise -- and perhaps they were not; but Jonas's wife was really alarmed.

"Why, Mr. Nickerson, what is the matter?" she inquired.

"Oh, it is nothing. It will pass off in a few minutes. I get to coughing that way once in a while."

"Especially when you are going to say something you don't want to," murmured one of the boys under his breath. "And some day you are going to pay mother for her goodness to you. I wish I knew what you meant by that."

The boys turned and left the cabin, but they did not go in company with each other. In fact, they tried to get as far apart as possible. There was something wrong with them -- a person could see that at a glance. What these young fellows had to make them enemies, living there in the wilderness with not another house in sight, shall be told further on.



Chapter II.

A Friend In Need.


"Nat, what do you reckon he meant by that?"

"Meant by what?"

"Why he said that mother had always been good to him, and that some day -- then he went off coughing and didn't say the rest."

"I don't know, I am sure."

"I reckon he has got some money stowed away somewhere, as pap always said he had, and that when he is gone mother will come into it. By gracious! I wish I could find it."

"Would you take it away from your mother?"

"Yes, sir, I would. I would take it away from any body. I need some clothes, don't I?"

"You would have to go down to Manchester if you got any money, and that is a long ways from here."

"I don't care; I would find it if I was there. Are you going to get him any tobacco?"

"Me? What have I got to buy him tobacco with? You talk as if I had lots of money hidden away somewhere."

"'Cause if I see you slipping away any where and I can't find you, I will tell pap of it when he comes home. You know what you will get if I do that?"

"Well, you keep your eyes on me and see if I slip away any where except down to the potato patch," said Nat, indignantly. "That is where I am going now."

The two boys separated and went off in different directions, Nat wending his way to the potato patch and the other going toward the miserable hovel they called a barn to finish his task of shelling corn.

"What a mean fellow that Nat Wood is," said Caleb Keeler, as he turned and gave his departing companion a farewell look. "That boy has got as much as four or five dollars hidden away about this place somewhere, and I tell you I am going to find it some day. Then won't I have some clothes to wear? I've got a pair of nice shoes which pap made him give me, but I will have more if I find that money. Dog-gone him, he has no business to keep things hidden away from us."

These two boys, Caleb Keeler and Nat Wood, cherished the most undying hatred to one another, and as far as Nat was concerned, there was reason for it. It was all on account of his lost shoes, and they had been taken away from him a year ago. The weather was getting cold, every morning the grass and leaves were wet and it was as much as a bare-footed boy wanted to do to run around in them, and Nat had prepared for it by going down to the store one evening and purchasing a pair of brogans and two pairs of stockings. He fully expected to get into trouble on account of them, and sure enough he did. The next morning he came out with them on, and his appearance was enough to create astonishment on Caleb's part who stood and looked at him with mouth and eyes wide open.

"Well, if you haven't got a pair of shoes I never want to see daylight again," said Caleb, as soon as he had recovered from his amazement. "Where did you get them?"

"I bought them," said Nat.

"Where did you buy them?"

"Down to the store."

"Where did you get your money?"

"I earned it."

"You did, eh? Well, you ain't been a doing any thing about here to earn any money," declared Caleb, after he had fairly taken in the situation. "If you have money to buy a pair of shoes you can get a pair for me too. How much did they cost you?"

"Two dollars."

"Have you got any more of them bills?"

"Not another bill," said Nat; and to prove it he turned his pockets inside out. There was nothing in them except a worn jack-knife with all the blades broken which nobody would steal if he had the chance.

"I don't care for what you have in your pockets," exclaimed Caleb, who grew angry in a moment. "You have got more hidden around in the bushes somewhere. You want to get two dollars between this time and the time we get through breakfast, now I tell you. I will go down to the store with you."

"Well, I won't do it," said Nat.

"If you don't do it I will tell pap."

"You can run and tell him as soon as you please. If you want shoes, go to work and earn the money."

Caleb waited to hear no more. He dropped the milk bucket as if it were a coal of fire and walked as straight toward the house as he could go. He slammed the door behind him but in two minutes he reappeared, accompanied by his father. Things began to look dark for Nat.

"There, sir, I have lost my shoes," said he. "If Uncle Jonas takes these away from me he will be the meanest man I ever saw. They are mine and I don't see why I can not be allowed to keep them."

When Jonas came up he did not appear so cross as he usually did. In fact he tried to smile, but Nat knew there was something back of it.

"Hallo, where did you get them shoes, Natty?" was the way in which he began the conversation.

"I got them down to the store," was the reply, "and Caleb wants me to buy him a pair; but I have not got the money to do it."

"Don't you reckon you could find two extry dollars somewhere?" said Jonas.

"No, nor one dollar. I will tell you what I will do," said Nat, seeing that the smile of his uncle's face speedily gave way to his usual fierce frown. "I will tell you right where my money is hidden and then Caleb can go and find it."

"Well, that's business," said Caleb, smiling all over.

"If you will do that then me and you won't have any trouble about them shoes," chimed in Jonas, once more calling the smile to his face. "Where have you got it? How many years have you been here, Natty?" continued Jonas, for just then an idea occurred to him. "You have been here just eleven years -- you are fourteen now -- and you have kept that money hidden out there in the brush all this while. Now why did you do that?"

It was right on the point of Nat's tongue to tell Jonas that he did not have the money when he came there, but he knew that by so doing he would bring some body else into trouble; so he said nothing.

"I was older than you and knew more, and you ought to have given me the money to keep for you," continued Jonas. "If you had done that you could have come to me any time that you wanted a pair of shoes, and you could have got them without the least trouble."

"Won't you take what there is left in my bag after you see it?" asked Nat, hopefully.

"That depends. I want first to see how much you have in that bag. Where is it?"

"Caleb, you know where that old fallen log is beside the branch near the place where we get water?" said Nat. "Well, go on the off side of that and you will see leaves pushed against the log. Brush aside the leaves and there you will find the bag."

Caleb at once posted off and Jonas, after looking in vain for a seat, turned the milk bucket upside down, perched himself upon it and resumed his mild lecture to Nat over keeping his money hidden from him for so many years. He was the oldest and knew more about money than Nat did, he was a little fellow when he came there -- when Jonas reached this point in his lecture he stopped and looked steadily at the floor. Nat was only three years old when he came to take up his abode under the roof of Jonas Keeler, to be abused worse than any dog that ever lived, both by Jonas and his son Caleb, and how could he at that tender age hide away his money so that Jonas could not find it?

"Wh-o-o-p!" yelled Jonas, speaking out before he knew what he was doing.

"What is the matter?" inquired Nat.

"Nothing much," replied Jonas. "I was just a-thinking; that's all. If Nat was only three years old when he came here to live with me," he added to himself, "he couldn't have had that money. Somebody has given it to him since, and it was not so very long ago, either. Whoop!" and it was all he could do to keep from uttering the words out loud. "He has got it from the old man; there's where he got it from. And didn't I say that the old man had something hidden out all these years? He didn't give me a quarter of what he saved from the rebels. Now he has got to give me that money or there's going to be a fracas in this house. I won't keep him no longer. You can bet on that."

At this point in his meditations Jonas was interrupted by the return of his son who was coming along as though he had nothing to live for, swinging his hand with the bag in it to let his father believe that there was nothing in it that he cared to save.

"What's the matter?" inquired Jonas.

"I have found the bag but there is nothing in it, dog-gone the luck," sputtered Caleb. "There is just a 'shinplaster' in it and it calls for two bits. Where is the rest of your money?" he added, turning fiercely upon Nat.

"That is all I have," replied Nat. "It was in that bag, wasn't it? Then I have no more to give you."

Jonas took the bag, glanced at the shinplaster and put it into his pocket. The smile had now given away to the frown.

"Say, pap, ain't you going to give that to me!" asked Caleb, who began to see that the interest he had taken in unearthing Nat's money was not going to help very much.

"No; you can't get no shoes with that money. I will take it and get some coffee with it the next time I go to town. Is this all the money you have left, Nat?"

"Every cent; and now you are going to take that away from me, too?"

"Of course; for I think it is the properest thing to do. You don't ever go to church -- "

"And what is the reason I don't? It is because I have not got any clothes to wear," said Nat, who plainly saw what was coming next.

"That's neither here nor there," said Jonas. "Caleb goes to church, and he would go every Sunday if he had the proper things."

"You bet I would," said Caleb.

"So I think that if you don't go to church and Caleb does, you had better take off them shoes. Take them off and give them to Caleb."

"Now, Uncle Jonas, you are not going to make me go bare-footed this cold weather," said Nat, anxiously. "If Caleb wants shoes let him go to work and earn them."

"I can't go to work about here," said Caleb. "There's nobody will hire me to do a thing."

"Because you are too lazy; that's what's the matter with you," said Nat, under his breath.

"Take off them shoes," said Jonas.

Nat hesitated, but it was only for an instant. Jonas was not the man to allow his orders to be disobeyed with impunity, so he arose from his seat on the milk bucket with alacrity, disappeared in a little room where he kept a switch which he had often used on the boys when they did anything that Jonas considered out of the way, and when he brought it out with him he found Nat on the floor taking off his shoes.

"You have come to time, have you?" said the man with a grin. "So you are going to take them off and give them to Caleb, are you?"

"I am going to take them off because I can't well help myself," said Nat, boldly. "If I was as big as you are I would not take them off."

"None of that sort of talk to me," said Jonas, lifting the switch as if he were about to let it fall upon Nat's shoulders. "You would take them off if you were as big as a mountain."

When he had removed his shoes Caleb picked them up and in company with his father started toward the house. He wanted to put them where they would be safe, and Nat stood there in his bare feet watching him until he closed the door behind him.

We have not referred to the relationship which Nat bore to Jonas Keeler, but no doubt those into whose hands this story falls will be surprised to hear it. Jonas was his uncle, and, by the way, Mr. Nickerson was no relation to any body under that roof. Nat's father and mother were dead; his father was killed in the rebel army. Jonas found him in Manchester and brought him home "to keep him safe and sound;" at least that was what he said; but those who knew Jonas thought that the reason was because he suspected that Nat was heir to some money which would some day turn up in his favor. He did not see where the money was to come from, but he believed it, and that was enough. The truth of the matter was, Nat did not have a cent. After he had been there for some years Jonas began to think so too, and from that time his treatment of Nat was anything but what it ought to be. It was only when Mr. Nickerson began to take an interest in him that Nat had anything that he could call his own. He did not like the way Nat was abused -- he was in his right mind then and hale and hearty in spite of his years -- and took pity on him and determined to help him. That was where Nat's money came from, and the way he happened to get it was this:

One day, when Jonas went to town, Mr. Nickerson watched his opportunity and followed him out to the field where he was at work alone. Nat greeted him very cordially for he was always glad to see him. Mr. Nickerson was the only one except Mrs. Keeler, who had a kind word to say to him, and Nat remembered him for it.

"Do you know what I would do if Jonas abused me as badly as he does you?" said he.

"No, sir, I don't," replied Nat.

"I would sit down and rest. He has gone away to town now, and when he comes home he can't tell whether you have been at work or not."

The boy leaned on his plow handles -- he was eight years old and ought not to have been required to do that sort of work -- and looked at Mr. Nickerson without speaking. He wanted to see if the man was in earnest.

"Jonas knows just how much I ought to have done, and when he comes home and finds that I have not got it all done, he will use that switch on me."

Mr. Nickerson saw that there was some sense in this reasoning, and after kicking some clods out of his way and looking toward the house to make sure that there was no one watching him, he went on to say -- 

"Jonas uses you pretty rough, does he not?"

"Well, I will be a man some day, and then I will take it out of him, I bet you," said Nat; and when he uttered the words he clenched his hands and his eyes flashed as if there were plenty of spirit in him.

"But that is going to be a long time for you to wait. If you had money do you think you could hide it where Jonas and Caleb could not find it?"

"But I haven't got any," said Nat.

"But I say supposing you had some; could you keep it out of their reach?" said Mr. Nickerson, when he saw Nat's eyes brighten when he thought of all the fine things that money would buy for him. "If you don't keep it out of their way you will get me into trouble."

"Were you going to give me some money?" stammered Nat.

"I had thought some of it," said the man, lowering his voice almost to a whisper and glancing again toward the house. "I have some money but I dare not keep it. Last night while I was awake, I saw Jonas come in very quietly and go through my trousers' pocket; but he did not find any money there. If he had looked under the head of my bed close to the wall, he would have found two hundred dollars."

While Mr. Nickerson spoke he had drawn a well-filled book from his pocket, opened it and showed to the astonished boy a whole lot of greenbacks which he had stowed away there.



Chapter III.

"Mental Reservation."


Nat had never seen so much money before in his life. He thought if he were worth that much that he would drop the plow handles then and there and take to the woods.

"Where did you get so much?" he stammered at length.

"I worked for it, and that's the way Jonas will have to get every cent he makes," said Mr. Nickerson. "What would you do if you had all this money?"

"I would go down to the store and buy some new over-alls," replied Nat, pushing out one leg so that Mr. Nickerson could see the gaping rent in his knee. "They haven't been mended since I put them on."

"Yes; and then when Jonas comes home he would see the new over-alls and would want to know where you got them. That plan would not work at all, for the first thing you know you would get me into trouble as well as yourself. Now I am going to give you half of this, because I think you are too smart a boy to let it fall into the hands of any body else."

"But what shall I do with it? If you think Jonas will notice my new clothes when he comes home, I can't buy any."

"I don't give it to you to buy good clothes with. In fact you had better let them alone. But when I was of your age I liked to have something to eat when I went to town of a Saturday afternoon -- some candy and nuts and such like things."

"Were you ever a boy?" said Nat, in surprise. The idea that that old, gray-headed man could remember so long ago as that fairly took his breath away.

"Oh, yes; I can remember when I was a boy, and it don't seem so very far off, either. I was a young boy, bare-footed as yourself, but I always had money. My father let me have it all, and I never thought of running away from him to get a chance to spend it. You don't get much candy, I suppose?"

"No, I don't. I hardly know what it tastes like."

"Well, you go down town and ask the grocery man to change one of these bills for you. You see they are all fives, and if you don't spend more than ten cents at a time and keep the rest hidden away, it will be long before any body finds out that you have got any money."

As Mr. Nickerson spoke he glanced toward the house again, looked all around to make sure that there was nobody in sight, and placed a handful of bills in Nat's grasp, reaching down by the side of him so that no one could see him do it.

"Oh, Mr. Nickerson, you don't know how much I thank you for -- "

"Yes, I understand all about that. But there is something else that I want to talk to you about. I want you to get me some tobacco with that money."

"I'll do it, and Jonas and Caleb won't know a thing about it. I will hide it where they will never think of looking for it."

"That is what I wanted," said Mr. Nickerson, with a pleased smile on his face. "But you must be very careful. Don't take but one bill at a time, and then if anybody should see you and take it away from you, they won't get all the money."

Mr. Nickerson turned abruptly away from him and walked toward the house, and Nat, feeling as he had never felt before, seized the plow handles and went on with his work. He glanced up and down the field and toward the house to satisfy himself that Caleb was not in sight, and when he went by a little clump of bushes that grew at the lower end of the lot he dropped the plow, took the reins off his neck and ran toward a fence corner and took his bills from his pocket.

"I guess this place will do until I can find a better one," he muttered, as he scraped away the leaves and placed his treasure within it. "By gracious! It is always darkest just before day-light. And how do you suppose that Mr. Nickerson knew that I was planning to run away from Jonas? Now I tell you that he had better keep a civil tongue in his head or the first thing he knows when he calls me in the morning, and comes to my bed to use that switch on me because I don't get up, I won't be there. But then I can't go as long as Mr. Nickerson lasts. He will want me to get some tobacco for him."

Nat laid ninety-five dollars in the hole which he had dug for it, placed a chunk over it so that the leaves would not blow off and with a five-dollar bill safe in his pocket he returned to his work. He wanted to yell, he felt so happy; but when he raised his eyes as he turned his horse about, he saw Caleb standing in the upper end of the clump of bushes, regarding him intently. How long had Caleb been there and what had he seen? There was one thing about it: If he knew, the secret of that money he would have the hardest fight of his life before he placed his hands upon it.

"What's the matter with you?" said Caleb, who did not fail to notice the look that came upon Nat's face.

"There is nothing the matter with me," said Nat. "I don't see why I should do all the work and you sitting around and doing nothing."

"What was old man Nickerson doing out here so long with you?" asked Caleb, who did not think it worth while to go into an argument about the work that Nat had spoken of. "He was here with you for half an hour, and you had all this piece of ground to be plowed up before pap came home. And you stayed here and listened to him, too."

"Where were you?" asked Nat.

"I was around in the barn where I could see everything you did," replied Caleb, with a knowing shake of his head.

"What did you see him do?"

"I saw him talking to you; that's what I saw him do. You wasted fully half an hour with him."

Nat drew a long breath of relief and felt considerably more at ease when he heard this, for if that was all that Caleb had seen, the secret of his money was safe. He had not seen Mr. Nickerson when he passed his hand down by his side and placed the bills safe in Nat's hands.

"What was he talking to you about?" demanded Caleb.

"About certain things that happened when he was a boy," returned Nat. "If you wanted to hear what he said you ought to have come out and listened. But I must go on or I will not get this piece plowed by the time your father comes back. Get up here, you ugly man's horse."

"Now you just wait and see if I don't tell pap of that," said Caleb, who grew angry in a moment. "I learn you to call pap's horse ugly."

"I didn't say he was ugly. I said he belonged to an ugly man; and if your father did not look mad when he went to town, just because Mr. Nickerson wanted some tobacco, I don't want a cent."

The horse, after being persuaded by the lines, reluctantly resumed his work and Caleb was left there standing alone. There was something about Nat that did not look right to him. He always was independent, and acted as though he did not care whether Caleb spoke to him or not, but just now he seemed to be more so than ever.

"I wish I knew what was up between that boy Nat and old man Nickerson," said he, as he started out toward the barn. "Every move that old man makes I think he has got some money hidden somewhere about here. Pap thinks so and so do I. I just keep a watch of Nat more closely than I have heretofore, and if I can find his money -- whoop-pe!"

Jonas did not find any fault when he came home that night, for Nat, by keeping the horses almost in a trot, had got the field plowed, the team unharnessed and fed before he returned. He found fault with him and brought his switch into play more than once on other matters, but during the five years that elapsed he never said "money" to him once. During these five years he always kept his money concealed, and every time he went to town he always bought a goodly store of tobacco for the old man. And nobody ever suspected him or Mr. Nickerson, either. Of course, during this time, Jonas became more sullen and ugly than ever, and worse than all, Nat could see that there was something having an affect upon his old friend, Mr. Nickerson. Either it was his age or the treatment he received that had a gloomy impression upon him, but at any rate Mr. Nickerson was losing his mind. He no longer talked with Nat the way he used to, but was continually finding fault with his money and where it went to so suddenly that he could not get any more tobacco to chew to help him while away the hours. Jonas encouraged him to talk this way for somehow he got it into his head that Mr. Nickerson would some day forget himself, and that he would tell where he had hidden his money; but not a thing did he get out of him. The old gentleman was apparently as innocent of any thing he had concealed as though he had never heard any thing about it.

"You may as well give that up," said his wife, after Jonas had tried for a long time to induce him to say something. "If he had any money when the war broke out, the rebels have got it."

"Not much I won't give it up," declared Jonas, turning fiercely upon Mrs. Keeler. "If this old place could talk it would tell a heap. I have hunted it over and over time and again, but I can't find any thing. I tell you I am going to get rid of him some day. I will send him to the poor house; and there's where he ought to be."

When Nat heard Jonas talk in this way it always made him uneasy. As soon as it came dark he would go to the place where he had hidden his tobacco and money and take them out and conceal them somewhere else, carefully noting the spot and telling the old man about it.

At the end of five years his money was all gone, and then Nat was in a fever of suspense because he did not know where he was going to get some more tobacco for Mr. Nickerson and candy for himself; and when he was asked for more he was obliged to say that his tobacco money had all been exhausted.

"Well, I expected it," said Mr. Nickerson. "But it has lasted you a good while, has it not? There's some difference between you and Jonas. I gave him all of a thousand dollars when I came here -- "

Nat fairly gasped for breath. He wondered what Jonas could have done with all that money.

"It is a fact," said the old man. "He told me that it would keep me in spending money as long as I lived, and now it has been gone for several years. You had a hundred dollars, and it has lasted until now. You go out to the barn and in about half an hour I will be out there."

Like one in a dream Nat made his way to the tumble-down building that afforded the cattle a place of refuge in stormy weather, and looked around for something to do while he awaited Mr. Nickerson's return. If we were to say that he was surprised we would not have expressed it. Was the old man made of money? It certainly looked that way, for when a hundred dollars was gone he simply said "he had expected it" and went out to find more. In a few minutes he returned and placed another package of bills in Nat's pocket.

"Do you know you told a lie to Jonas every time he asked you about this money?" said Nat.

"No, I did not," said Mr. Nickerson, earnestly. "I told him that I did not have any more money for him; and I didn't have, either. I have not got a cent about me."

Nat was not old enough to remember the form of oath administered by the United States government to all its employees -- "do you solemnly promise without any mental reservation" -- for if he had been he would have seen how Mr. Nickerson got around it. Jonas did not administer this form of oath, Mr. Nickerson had a "mental reservation" that he had some money hidden but he did not say anything about it. He supposed that he was living up to the truth.

"I did not have a cent," repeated the old man. "He could have searched me all over and not found any. When he asked me if I had any more concealed somewhere in the bushes, I found some way to avoid it. It is all right. I have not lied to him."

With a hundred extra dollars in his pocket Nat thought he was able to buy himself a pair of shoes when the weather became cold. He bought them and as we have seen they were taken away from him and given to Caleb, because Caleb went to church and Nat did not. He had to wait a long time before Jonas bought him some foot-wearing apparel out of some of Mr. Nickerson's money, and then he invested in them because he was fearful that his neighbors would have something to say about the boy's condition, going about in all that sloppy weather with nothing to wear on his bare feet. This brings us down to the time when our story begins, when Jonas got into his wagon and drove toward town and Nat went to the potato patch to finish picking and digging and Caleb to the barn to complete his task of shelling corn.

We left Mr. Nickerson sitting in company with Jonas's wife, bemoaning his loss of tobacco and trembling for fear of something he had said in regard to what he would do with his money in case he were done with it.

"I wish I had some money so that I could give you some of it when I am gone," whined the old man. "For I shall not last much longer."

"Oh, yes you will," returned Mrs. Keeler. "You will last many years yet. There is Mr. Bolton who is almost a hundred years old."

"But he gets different treatment from what I do," said Mr. Nickerson. "He has tobacco every day in the week, if he is a mind to ask for it. And he did not give his son one thousand dollars to keep him while he lived."

"Well, I can't help that," said Mrs. Keeler, with a sigh. "Your money is all gone, at least Jonas says so, and I don't see what else you can do."

"I don't either," said the old man; and as he spoke he got upon his feet and staggered toward the door. "Thank goodness I have a little money left," he added to himself. "I must go and get me some tobacco. I have to be all by myself when Jonas is here, or else he would see me chewing it and would want to know where I got it. I hate to be so sly about everything I do."

Mr. Nickerson left the house without any hat on, he was so wrapped up in his troubles that he forgot that he had a hat, and tottered toward the barn where Caleb was at work shelling corn. Caleb looked up when he heard his footsteps but when he saw who it was he went on with his work, paying no heed to him. The old man went by and just then an idea occurred to Caleb.

"I wonder if old Nickerson is going after some tobacco?" said he, laying down his ear of corn and rising hastily to his feet. "He thinks I am blind and Nat does, too; but I have seen him chewing tobacco plenty of times when he has asked father to get him some and he would not do it. I guess I'll keep an eye on him."

That was easy enough to do, for Mr. Nickerson did not pay much attention to what was going on near him. He stepped hastily out of the barn and followed along after him until he saw him enter the little clump of bushes at the lower end of the potato patch. He did not dare go any farther for fear the rustling of the bushes would attract the old man's attention, but kept on around the clump until he reached a place where he could see the whole of the field without being seen himself. Mr. Nickerson presently appeared, kept on to a certain fence corner in which he was lost to view.

"Dog-gone my buttons! He has got some money there," whispered Caleb, so excited that he could scarcely stand still. "If he hasn't got money he has some tobacco, and I will just take it when he goes."

While he was wondering how he was going to work to find out what Mr. Nickerson had found there, he cast his eyes toward the upper end of the field and saw that Nat had ceased his work, was standing with his hands resting on his hips and closely watching Mr. Nickerson. He made no attempt to stop him, and according to Caleb's way of looking at it, that was all the evidence he wanted to prove that Nat was in some way interested in what was hidden there.

"Now what is to be done?" said Caleb to himself. "Nat must know what is concealed there. I declare I have two fellows to fight now."



Chapter IV.

A Keepsake.


Caleb stood and thought about it. He could not go to the fence corner where the old man was while Nat was in plain sight, and he must think up some way of getting him away from there. It is true that he might have waited until darkness came to conceal his movements, but Caleb was a boy who did not believe in doing business that way. He wanted to find out what was in that fence corner, and he must find it out now. He could not afford to wait until night came.

"You must come away from there, Mister Nat," said he, as he crouched down behind the bushes and made his way toward the house. "You must come away in five minutes, for I am not going to run any risk of your slipping up and hiding that thing, whatever it is, that the old man has found."

In a few minutes he reached the house and went directly to the water-pail in order to quench his thirst; but there was no water there.

"Mother, send Nat down to the branch after some water," said he.

"Suppose you go yourself," was the reply. "Nat is busy digging potatoes."

"I can't go. I am busy getting that corn ready for pap to take to mill tomorrow. I am so thirsty I can't speak the truth. Nat can go as well as not."

"Bessie, go out and call Nat to get some water," said Mrs. Keeler. "I suppose he will have to go."

Bessie went, and as soon as she was clear of the house Caleb bent his steps toward the barn and from the barn to the bushes, where he arrived just in time to see Mr. Nickerson come out of the fence corner, biting a plug of tobacco as he came.

"That's all the tobacco you will get out of that pile," chuckled Caleb, as he rubbed his hands together. "I will take it all and give it to pap."

Presently Bessie was heard calling Nat. The latter threw his hoe spitefully down and went to obey the order, and as soon as he was out of sight Caleb arose from the bushes and ran for the fence corner. He had taken particular pains to mark the corner, and in fact there was little need of it, for the old man's marks were plainly visible there. He found the leaves raked to one side, a little hollow exposed but there was nothing in it. Caleb threw himself on his knees and made the cavity larger, but there was not a thing that rewarded his search.

"There was just one plug of tobacco left and he got it," said Caleb, who was very much disappointed. "And there's no money in it either. Now had I better tell pap or not? There is a heap of skirmishing going on here, the first thing you know, and if I keep watch perhaps I can find some money. I guess I'll think about that for awhile."

Being anxious to reach the cover of the bushes before Nat should return, Caleb did not stop long in the fence corner, but made all haste to get out of sight. And he was none too soon. The bushes had hardly closed up behind him before Nat came into view.

When darkness came the boys began to do their chores and Jonas returned from town. One could always tell Jonas when he was half a mile away because he shouted at his horses as though they were hard of hearing. Mr. Nickerson heard him coming and went down to the barn to meet him.

"Did you get any tobacco for me, Jonas?" said he, in a whining voice which had of late years become habitual with him.

"No, I did not," roared Jonas. "You won't tell me where your money is, and you can go without tobacco. I wish there was something else you liked as well as you do that weed, and I would shut down on that too."

"I shall not be with you long," began Mr. Nickerson. "I feel that I am going -- "

"Aw! Get along with, that," interrupted Jonas, who hung one of his harnesses on its peg and then turned savagely upon the speaker. "You have always got something the matter with you when you don't get any tobacco."

"I have a keepsake for you up at the house," continued the old man. "If you will come up there when you get through I will give it to you."

Jonas began to prick up his ears at this. He wished now that he had brought the old gentleman some tobacco; but as he had not done it, he made all haste to smooth matters over as well as he could.

"I didn't mean anything, Mr. Nickerson," said he, coming forward to shake him by the hand. "But I met with a heap of bother while I was down town to-day, and I absolutely forgot all about your tobacco. Never mind; I will send Nat down after it."

"Thank you. Thank you," said the old man. "It will be a heap of comfort to me. You don't know how long the time seems without it."

"Yes, I know. I like a smoke pretty well, and I would not give it up to please anybody. Now you run along to the house and in a few minutes I will be there. A keepsake," he muttered to himself. "It is money, I know. I believe I took the right course when I shut down on that man's weed."

It was astonishing what that word "keepsake" made in Jonas's feelings. He had but two expressions which came to his face -- the smile and the frown. No one to have seen him as he finished putting out his team, would have thought that a frown ever came on his countenance. He was all smiles, and once or twice he forgot himself so as to try to strike up a whistle. This attracted the attention of Caleb who was amazed at it.

"What's the matter with you, pap?" said he.

"There is nothing the matter with me," replied Jonas, cheerfully. "When a man does right he always feels happy. That's the kind of opinion you want to grow up with. If you make everybody around you jovial, of course you are jovial yourself."

"Are you happy because you didn't get the old man what he wanted?" continued Caleb, who would have given everything he had to know what had brought about that wonderful change in his father's appearance. Caleb knew that he could bring the frown back to his face in short order. He had but to mention that the old man had a plug of tobacco in his pocket, and that he had seen him dig it out of the fence corner; but something told him that he had better keep quiet. He was going to keep close watch of Nat and Mr. Nickerson now -- he did not know how he was going to do it, for he kept close watch of them already -- and perhaps they would lead him to the place where they had concealed some money.

"Yes, sir, that is a point that I want you to remember all your life," Jonas went on. "I forgot all about Mr. Nickerson's tobacco, and that was the reason I didn't bring it. But I will make up for it after supper. Have you milked, Caleb? Then pick up your pail and let's go up to the house. A keepsake," Jonas kept saying to himself, as he walked along. "He knows that I want money worse than anything else, and that was what he meant. The idea that he should keep money in that house so long, and I was looking everywhere for it!"

Jonas was in a hurry, anybody could have seen that and he kept Caleb in a trot to keep pace with him. When he opened the door he greeted his wife with a cheerful "hello!" and picked up his youngest child and kissed him. Mrs. Keeler was as much amazed at his actions as Caleb was. She stood in the middle of the floor with her arms down by her side and her mouth open, seemingly at a loss to comprehend his movements.

"Now, then, where is Mr. Nickerson?" said Jonas, pulling an empty chair toward him.

"Mr. Nickerson," said Caleb to himself. "There is something in the wind there. He never called him Mr. Nickerson before unless he had something to make out of him. He was always 'that old man' or 'that inspired idiot' when he wanted him to do errands for him. What's up, I wonder?"

"I forgot all about his tobacco," said Jonas, seating himself and repeating what he had said to Caleb. "I had a heap of trouble down town, but I will send Nat down after it as soon as we get a bite to eat. Ah, Mr. Nickerson, you are on hand, I see. What's this?"

The old man had in his hand the "keepsake" which he intended to give to Jonas. It was a book bound in cloth. It had been well-read evidently, for some of the leaves were loose and one cover was nearly off. But the leaves were all there, and there was something in it that Jonas did not know anything about; if he had known it he would have received it very differently.

"What is that?" asked Jonas.

"It is the keepsake I promised you," said Mr. Nickerson. "Take it, read every word of it and you will find something in it before you get through that will make you open your eyes and bless your lucky stars that you have been so good to me."

Jonas took the book and ran his thumb over the leaves. He turned the back of the book toward him and read the name "Baxter's Saints' Rest" on it in gilt type. The expression of intense disgust that came upon his face when he looked at the book set Caleb to snickering, and even Nat, who was leaning against the door post a little distance away, smiled in spite of himself.

"And is this the only keepsake you have got to give me?" shouted Jonas.

"It is the only one," said Mr. Nickerson. "Read it carefully, every word of it, and you will thank me for giving it to you."

"Where's the money?" exclaimed Jonas, who could not get that thing out of his mind.

"You have got all the money I have to give you. I gave you a thousand dollars -- "

Jonas became furious all on a sudden. With a muttered exclamation under his breath, he drew back the book with the intention of throwing at the old man's head; but he stayed his hand in time. Then he turned it upon Caleb; but the boy had rushed out of the door and was safe. But Nat stood there, he had not moved at all, and instantly the book left Jonas's hand and flew with terrific force at the boy's head. It struck the door post and bounded out of doors, and Nat slowly straightened up and went after it. It was a work of some difficulty to pick it up, for the leaves were scattered in every direction, but Nat got it done at last and went away with it.

"Jonas, Jonas, you will be sorry for that," said Mr. Nickerson, who covered his face with his hands.

"Get out of here! Get out, you inspired idiot!" roared Jonas, striding up and down the cabin as if he were demented. "Don't you dare come into this house again."

"Oh, father!" exclaimed Mrs. Keeler.

"Shut up your yawp, old woman," said Jonas, turning upon her. "That was the keepsake he had to give to me, was it? I thought it was money, dog-gone it, and here he comes and presents me with a book! He shan't stay in my house no longer."

Mr. Nickerson went out and tottered to the barn, and when Nat found him there a few minutes later he was doubled up with his elbows on his knees, but his jaws were working vigorously. If there was nothing else which could comfort him, he found it in his tobacco.

"Here's your book, Mr. Nickerson," said Nat, who, if he had been big enough, would have resented the way the old man had been treated. "Shall I take it back and put it among your things?"

"No; never mind that now. Jonas has told me that I can not go into his house again, and he may rest assured that I will never do it."

"He did not mean what he said," exclaimed Nat. "He is all over his passion by this time."

"It is too late. He will never see a cent of my money. Did you put those leaves all in just as you found them?"

"I tried, but I reckon I did not succeed very well."

"Did you find anything that did not belong there?"

"I found two leaves that were pasted together," said Nat, and he grew excited at once when he saw the expression that came upon Mr. Nickerson's face. "Did you know about those two leaves?"

"Have you brought them with you?"

"I have. I would have left the whole book behind before I would them, for I knew they meant something," said Nat, producing them from his pocket the leaves of which he had spoken. "Now, by holding it up to the light this way," he added, "in order to see what was in them, I can see through the leaves, and I can see a third piece of paper in there."

"Yes; and there is something on that paper, too," said the old man rising to his feet and going toward the door. "We must first make sure that there is nobody coming; for you have a fortune right there in your hands."

"A fortune?" gasped Nat.

"It was the money I had in the bank at the time the war broke out," said Mr. Nickerson, who, having looked up and down the place and toward the house to satisfy himself that he and Nat were safe from intrusion, returned to his seat. "It is all in gold, too."

"How-how much is there of it?" said Nat, who did not know whether to believe the story or not.

"As much as three or four thousand dollars; perhaps more; I did not count it. You see I drew this money at different times, and as fast as I got it, I hid it. When the rebels came there and took me away, they searched the house high and low for some money that they supposed I had, but it was not in the house; It was out in the field. You see this black line?" he continued, taking the two leaves and pointing with his shivering finger to one of the marks on the inclosed paper. "By the way, you don't want to take this out until you are already to go to work, for fear that somebody may steal it from you. Well, you go to the house -- "

"But how can I tell where it is?" cried Nat. "Those men cleaned you out. They thought they would get something by doing that."

"They didn't, so they might as well have left me my house. However, it don't matter much now. I shall never live in it again. You can tell where the house stood, even if it isn't there now, can't you? You go to the corner of that house nearest the woods, hold this paper before you and follow as straight a course as you can down the hill and across the break until you come to a brier patch. It is made up entirely of briers, for I cut them down and put them there. Then leave that to your right and go thirty yards and you will strike a stone, as big as you can lift, which does not look as though it had ever been touched. But it has been, and you can pry it up if you want to. When you get that stone out of its place, you dig down about two feet, and there you will find it."

Nat listened with all his ears, but there was one thing that did not look right about it: The old man talked about the place and the way to find it as though there had never been anything the matter with him at all. If there was something wrong about his mind, Nat failed to see what it was. He talked as though he were reading from a book.

"But what makes you give all this to me?" said Nat at length. "You don't act as though you had any interest in it at all."

"I am not going to last long, and I know it," said Mr. Nickerson. "I have neither kith nor kin in this land, or in any other so far as I know, and since Jonas does not want the money, why you can have it. I know enough about law to know that there is nobody can take it away from you. If you could, I say if you could without too much trouble, call and see Jonas's wife after you get the money, and give her one thousand dollars, I could rest easy. Could you do that much for me?"

"Of course I can. I will give it all to her if you say so."

"No, I don't want you to do that. I know you would give it all to her, because you are an honest boy. You have been good to me during the years I have been here, never had anything cross to say to me, you don't like Jonas, and neither do I. Mandy has been good to me, too, but you see if I give her this money Jonas will have a chance to take it. I don't want him to see a cent of it."

"But Mr. Nickerson, what was your object in pasting your description in the book this way? The book might have been stolen."

"But it was not stolen. As many as fifty soldiers, Union and Confederate, have had that book in their hands, and when they came to turn it up and see what the title was, they threw it aside. No soldier wants to read a book like that. It is growing late and I must lie down somewhere."

"Come into my room and turn into my bunk," said Nat. "You will sleep well there."

"Jonas has turned me out of his house and I am going to stay out," said Mr. Nickerson, with more spirit than he usually exhibited. "I will lie down here and die in his barn."

"Don't talk that way, Mr. Nickerson," said Nat; and some way or other he could not get it out of his head that the old man was in earnest. "If you are going to stay here I will go up and get a couple of blankets and a pillow for you. I will see you all right in the morning."

He laid the book beside the old man, folded up the two leaves and put them into his pocket and hurried toward the house. Somehow he did not feel exactly right about Mr. Nickerson.



Chapter V.

Jonas Tries to Make Amends.


It is hard to tell what Jonas Keeler's feelings were as he paced back and forth in his narrow cabin, his eyes flashing, his hands clenched and his lips framing to himself words that he dared not utter aloud. He was disappointed -- sorely disappointed because Mr. Nickerson, who knew that he wanted money, that he thought of nothing else, had presumed to present him a book for a keepsake. Sometimes he felt so angry at him that he had half a mind to go out, find the old man and throw him over the bars. His wife said nothing for some minutes, but seeing that Jonas was getting madder instead of better natured, she ventured to put in a word or two.

"Father, you didn't do right in talking to the old man the way you did," said she, hardly knowing how her words would be received.

"The old fool!" hissed Jonas, throwing his hat into one corner and burying both of his hands in his hair. "What did he want to give me a book for when he knows how badly I need money? I am sorry that I was so good natured with him afterward."

"But father, there was something in the book," continued Mrs. Keeler, a sudden idea occurring to her.

Jonas stopped quickly and faced her, a queer expression on his face.

"There may have been something in the book that told you where his money was. That is if he has got any money; which I don't believe."

Jonas began to see the matter in a different light now. He pulled a chair close to his wife's side and sat down in it.

"Do you think there was money in the book?" he almost whispered.

"No, I don't. You threw the book with force enough to tear it all to pieces; but there may have been a paper or something else in the leaves which told where his money was hidden. But between you and me, I would not put the least faith in it."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because the old gentleman is not in his right mind. You have talked about money, money and nothing but money ever since he has been here, and you have finally got him in the way of believing that he has some."

"Well, I don't know about that. The old fellow talks plainly enough sometimes, and then again he rattles on and you can't make head or tail of what he says. But I wonder if there was anything in that book? If there was anything there, it must have been put in years ago, when the old man was right in his top story."

"It would not do any harm for you to find out. You can tell him that you did not mean anything by what you had said -- "

"That depends upon whether I do or not," said Jonas hastily. "I will wait until I see what is in that book first. If there is a plan in there which tells where to go to find the money, but you say he hasn't got any, why then I will be kinder good natured with him; but if there is nothing there, he can just keep out of my house; and that's all there is about it."

Jonas thought that by this time Mr. Nickerson had gone to bed, so he went out and started toward a little lean-to, it could scarcely have been called any thing better, which was the place where the old man slept. There were leaks in the roof and sundry cracks through which the severe winds could seek entrance, but that was not the kind of sleeping place Jonas had in the cabin. There everything was tight, and there were a few articles of furniture scattered around, such as a table and chairs and a wash stand. In place of a shake-down he had a regular bed-stead and the blankets and quilts on it were abundant to keep him warm in the coldest weather. It was dark in the lean-to, but Jonas knew the way. He groped his way up to the shake-down but there was nobody in it. In fact the bed had not been slept in at all.

"By George! I reckon the old fool took me at my word," said Jonas, as he turned toward the door. "I did not think the fellow had so much pluck. I wonder where he is!"

He bent his steps this time toward the lean-to which Nat called his room. It was a little better than Mr. Nickerson's and but a very little better. It was tight but there was no furniture in it; the dirt floor did duty as chairs and washstand. Whenever Nat got up in the morning and desired to perform his ablutions, there was the branch handy, and it was but little trouble to go down there. It was dark in here, too, but a slight feeling among the bed clothes showed Jonas that somebody had been there. The pillow was gone, and so were the quilts that Nat usually spread over him.

"This beats my time all hollow," said Jonas, pulling off his hat and wiping his forehead. "If he should go out among the neighbors -- but then he can't have gone that far. Nat is going to make him up a bed somewhere."

Jonas's next trip was to the barn, and there he found Mr. Nickerson stretched out on a rude bed which Nat had made for him, and a lighted lantern throwing a dim light over the scene. Jonas first impulse was to find out what had become of that book. It was there, lying on the pillow close beside Mr. Nickerson's head. Nat was seated on the floor a little ways from him, but he did not say anything when Jonas came in.

"Hello!" said the new-comer, with an attempt to appear cheerful. "What you laying down out here for? Why don't you get up and go to your own room?"

"You have told me once that I need not come into your house any more," said the old man, in his usual whining tone, "and I am going to take you at your word. I shall never go into your house again."

"Shaw!" said Jonas, with a sorry effort at a laugh. "You didn't pay any attention to what I said, do you? If I had brought your tobacco you would be all right now; but I was bothered so with a heap of things that happened while I was down town, that I forgot all about it. I didn't mean nothing. Is this the book you were going to give me for a keepsake!"

"Oh, yes, that's the one."

"What does it say in it?" continued Jonas; and Nat could see that he was turning over the leaves very carefully.

"I wanted you to read it all, every word of it, and perhaps it would have done you some good."

"Well, get up and go into the house. The old woman has got some hot tea left for you, and you will sleep better there than you will here. Have you got a programme, or whatever you call it, so that I can find where your money is hidden!"

"No, there is nothing of the kind there," said Mr. Nickerson, with a movement which showed plainly that he wished Jonas would go away. "There is nothing but reading in the book."

Jonas was getting angry again. Nat could see that by the looks of his face.

"Are you sure there is nothing in it?" he asked, in a voice which trembled in spite of himself.

"Not a thing. You can examine it and see for yourself. I shall not last long -- "

"I don't want to hear no such talk as that. You will last longer than I will, I bet you. Nat, have you got any of this book stowed away about your good clothes?"

"No, sir, I have not," answered Nat, rising to his feet. "You can search me and see."

Nat was perfectly safe in making this proposition. We said he had put those two leaves into his pocket; so he did; but he had taken pains to conceal them since. In a remote corner of the barn were some corn huskings which Caleb had left there as he was working at the grain to be taken to the mill. Underneath that pile were the two leaves that Jonas wanted to find.

"That's the way you always serve me when you think I have got anything you want," said Nat boldly. "You took a quarter away from me that I had left after buying my shoes, and I haven't seen it since."

"Of course I did. It was the properest thing that I should have the handling of all your money; but any more such talk as that will bring the switch down on your shoulders in good shape. You hear me? There's nothing but reading in this book, you say old man?"

"That's all, and you would not have it when I offered it to you. I gave you a thousand dollars which you promised -- "

"Aw! shut up about that," said Jonas, rising to his feet; for in order to hold conversation with Mr. Nickerson he had kneeled down by his side. "There's nothing in here that tells about the money?"

"No, no, there is nothing of that kind, I have not got any money. I am a poor, feeble old man and shall not last long -- "

"I will bet you won't," roared Jonas, livid with rage and shaking his fist in the old man's face. "You won't get a bite of anything to eat until you tell me where that money is; you hear me?"

"I don't expect it; I never have expected it. I shall die before morning -- "

Jonas did not wait to hear any more, nor did he say anything further about Mr. Nickerson getting up and going to his own room. He did stop long enough to throw the book at Nat, but Nat was on the alert and the missive did not touch him. It ruined the book so far as reading was concerned. The remaining leaves were torn out of it and scattered all over the floor, and it was useless for anybody to think of putting them together again.

"Thank goodness, he has gone at last," said Mr. Nickerson, with a long drawn sigh of relief. "I expected he would come here."

"So did I; and I took my leaves and hid them under this pile of corn," said Nat. "Now I wish there was something else that I could do for you."

"There is nothing, nothing. I shall not be here much longer to bother him, but he will think of me when I am gone. Nat, you must try to get that money. Don't you let anybody see that paper. Hide it carefully so that no one can find it. Good night. I want to sleep now. Come in in the morning and see me."

"I will do it," said Nat getting upon his feet and shaking the old man cordially by the hand. "I shall not wait until morning, either. You may want something or other during the night."

Nat went away feeling heavy hearted over what had just occurred. Something, he did not know what told him that the old man would never live to see the sun rise again. He felt guilty in going away from him, but Mr. Nickerson had requested it and he did not see what else there was to be done.

"I won't take my clothes off at all when I lie down," said Nat, going into his lean-to and shutting the door behind him. "And to think that I am rich and going to be rich through his death! I wish the old man was in perfect health and was going off with me. I would make his life be as peaceable as I knew how."

Nat's brain was so upset with all that had happened that he could not think very readily, but he did not ponder upon anything so much as he did upon what the old gentleman had said to Jonas: "I shall die before morning." That was bringing the matter pretty close to him, and he resolved that he would not go to sleep at all; but his work with the potatoes had wearied him, and almost before he knew it he was in the land of dreams. He awoke with a start and it was broad day-light. To roll off his shake-down, seize his hat and make his way to the barn was the work of a very few minutes. Everything seemed quiet and still there. With cautious haste he opened the door and saw Mr. Nickerson lying on his shake-down just as he left him the night before. He wanted to say something to him but he did not dare. He drew a step closer and one look was enough. With frantic speed he ran to the house, pushed open the door and seized Jonas by the shoulder.

"Wake up, here," he said, in a trembling voice. "The old man has bothered you for the last time. He is dead."

Jonas was a sound sleeper and it was a hard task to awaken him; but there was something so thrilling in Nat's words that he was on his feet in an instant. He looked at the boy as though he did not know what he meant.

"Mr. Nickerson lies dead down in your barn," said Nat, earnestly. "He told you last night that he would die before morning, and sure enough he has."

"Why-I-You don't mean it!" exclaimed Jonas, his eyes wide with excitement.

"Don't stop to talk, Jonas," said Mrs. Keeler nervously. "Did you see him, Nat?"

"I have just come from there."

"Then go along and see if you can do something," urged his wife. "Maybe he ain't dead."

Jonas had by this time hurriedly put his clothes on, and he led the way to the barn with top speed, stopping only to call Caleb on the way. Everything was as Nat had left it the night before. There was "Baxter's Saints' Rest" with the leaves all torn out of it, lying by the dead man's head, and it seemed as though the old man had not moved a finger since Nat bade him good night.

"Well, sir, he has gone up," said Jonas; and Nat looked to see some little twinge of remorse in his tones. But there was not a particle that he could see, not even an expression of regret.

"Yes, he is gone, and now what remains for us to do? We can't let him lie here," said Nat, as he looked at the withered form of the old man.

"Say, Nat, don't you say any thing about his being out here where the neighbors can hear it," said Jonas, with a scowl, pulling Nat up close to him and whispering the words in his ear. "If you do, remember that switch."

"I am not at all afraid of your whipping me," said Nat, wrenching his arm out of Jonas's grasp. "You have done that for the last time. You had better make arrangements to do something with Mr. Nickerson's body, if you are going to."

Jonas stood and looked at Nat as if he could scarcely believe his ears. The rebellion, which he had been working up for so long, had come suddenly and promptly, too, and the man was afraid of it. What was Nat going to do? There was but one thing that came up in Jonas' mind and that was money. It dawned upon him that Mr. Nickerson had possibly taken the boy into his confidence and Jonas saw that if such were the case he must keep quiet in order to find out what it was.

"I don't mean to harm you, Natty," said he, but his looks certainly belied him, "but you can see for yourself how the neighbors will talk if they find out that the old man had been sleeping in my barn."

"I understand all about that," said Nat. "You need not fear of my saying any thing. You had better shut up Caleb's mouth if you want the thing kept secret."

Jonas evidently thought so too. He took Caleb off on one side and held a very earnest conversation with him, and after this, with Mrs. Keeler's help, who came down to the barn as soon as she was fairly dressed, they made out to carry the old man's body up to the house and lay it on Jonas's bed. Nobody passed along the road while they were doing it. When the neighbors came there they would think that Mr. Nickerson had died in that room; they would not think of the barn at all. When this much had been done Nat was sent off post haste on a mule for the doctor, and Caleb was commanded to go around to those who lived close by and tell them of the bereavement that had come upon the house of Jonas Keeler during the night. After that Jonas seated himself upon a chair in the cabin, folded his arms, dropped his chin upon his breast and waited for the neighbors to come.

After that each one had his particular duties to perform, though the neighbors did the most of it. Jonas was too weak and dispirited to do any thing, even to doing the chores, and left it all to Caleb, who went about wondering if the old man's taking off was going to work any change in his circumstances. Nat's first care was to find the two leaves that were pasted together and hide them where there was no possibility of any body's hunting them out. Then he settled down to think about his future. Mr. Nickerson was gone, and what had he to keep him longer under Jonas's roof? He had seventy-five dollars in money, he had kept a strict account of that, and what was there to hinder him from going down to Manchester and making an effort to enrich himself? It required long study, but by the time the funeral was over Nat had decided upon his course.



Chapter VI.

Nat Sees a Friend.


"There's just this much about it," said Nat, when Mr. Nickerson had been laid away in a little grove of evergreens behind the barn, and the neighbors had gone home one after the other and the family had returned to the house, "it is going to be something of a job for me to go down there and get that money. In the first place there is Jonas, who will be furious when he finds that I have run away from home, especially if he thinks I am going to make something by it. He will follow me night and day, and I can't make a move of any sort without he will see it. Then he will bring me home and won't I ketch it, though?"

This bothered Nat more than any thing else. He wanted some little time to think seriously about the way to beat Jonas at his own game, and went into the barn, drew a milk-stool to the threshold so that he could see anybody that approached him from the house and sat down to go over the points again.

"I have got to have help," thought Nat, "and there is only one boy in the settlement that I can trust; and when it comes to that, I can't trust him, either. He is a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow, and worse than all, I dare not tell him what I am looking after. I must go it alone if I can; but if I find that I can't do it, I must see Peleg Graves about it."

Come to look at the matter Nat was in bad straits, and that was a fact. Of course there were plenty of boys he could have got to assist him, but the trouble was he did not know any of them. He and Caleb were much alike in this respect. The families around them were a little better off than they were, nobody liked Jonas on account of his shiftless ways, and his boys, Nat and Caleb, had been brought up to follow very much in his footsteps, and his bad example had a deteriorating effect on their character -- they were like dogs without a master. That was the way Nat looked at it, and it was the source of infinite annoyance to him.

"Whenever I go down town I can just go alone," Nat had often said to himself. "All the boys there have their friends who are glad to see them. It is 'Hello, Jim!' or 'Hello, Tom!' here and there and everywhere; but if any one looks at me he seems to say: 'What you doing here, Nat? You have not any business to come to town.' And I have more money to spend than any of them. But Peleg has never been that way. He has always seemed glad to see me, but I think the candy I was eating had something to do with it."

After long reflection Nat finally made up his mind that he would call upon Peleg and see what he had to say about it; but there was one thing on which he was fully resolved: He would not let Peleg know what they were searching for until they found the money. He was not going to stay about Jonas's house any longer -- that was another thing that he had decided upon; and something happened just then to make him adhere to this decision. The door of the house opened at this point in his meditations and Caleb came out. Of course he was very solemn, almost any body would be if one had died so near him, but he came along toward Nat as if he had something on his mind.

"Well, Nat, your friend has gone at last," said he, by way of beginning the conversation.

"That is a fact. He was the only friend I had about the house."

"You will not have any more money to buy tobacco for him, will you?" asked Caleb. "What are you going to do?"

"How did I get any money to buy any tobacco for him?" inquired Nat. That was just what Nat had been doing for a number of years, but how did Caleb find it out?

"Oh, you can't fool me," said Caleb, with a laugh. "I saw him go into the fence corner the day before he died and take a plug of tobacco out of there. I did not say any thing to pap about it, for I did not know but it was some secret business that you and old man Nickerson had. I did not want to go back on you -- "

"If he found any tobacco there he must have got it himself," said Nat, for he did not care to listen any more to the falsehoods Caleb was about to utter. "I don't know any thing about it."

"Aw, now, what is the use of fooling in that way? I would like to know how Mr. Nickerson could have got any tobacco for himself. He has not been to town in two years to my certain knowledge. You got it the last time you were there and stowed it away where he could find it."

Nat was amazed at this revelation. In spite of all his cunning Caleb had succeeded in getting upon his secret at last. If the latter told his father of it he would feel the switch sure enough; that is if he stayed about the premises. Without making any reply he picked up his stool, moved it back where it belonged and made ready to walk out of the barn.

"You see I am on to those little tricks of yours," said Caleb. "Don't go yet for I have something to say to you. Now I will tell you this to begin with, Nat Wood: You know where Mr. Nickerson had the rest of that money hidden."

"What money?" asked Nat, innocently.

"The money he had hidden when he came here," Caleb almost shouted, doubling up his fists as though he had more than half a mind to strike Nat for professing so much ignorance. "Pap says you know where it is and he is going to have it out of you, too."

"I will bet you he don't," said Nat to himself. "That money is mine and if I don't have it, it can stay there until it rots."

"Now I will tell you what we will do, Nat," continued Caleb, dropping his threatening manner and laying his hand patronizingly on Nat's shoulder. "Me and you will keep this still from pap, and go down to Manchester and dig up that money. Oh man alive, won't we live high -- "

"You seem to think it, if there is any of it at all, is in the ground," interrupted Nat.

"Where else should it be put? If it is in the ground no one can stumble on it while he is roaming around through the woods. I will go with you and will start now, if you say so."

"Well, if you are going down to Manchester to look for that money, which I don't believe is there, you can go," said Nat. "But I will stay here. I am not going to dig around unless I can make something by it."

"Oh, come on now, Nat," said Caleb, coaxingly. "You know where it is and I will bet on it."

"If you do bet on it you will lose whatever you bet. But I have already had my say. I won't go down to Manchester with you."

"If you don't go I will tell pap," said Caleb, growing angry again.

"You can run and tell him as soon as you please. If I could see the money sticking up before me this minute I would not give you a cent of it. It does not belong to you."

"Then I bet you I am going to tell pap," said Caleb, who was so nearly beside himself that he walked up and down the barn swinging his hands about his head. "You will get that switch over your shoulders before you go to bed tonight. Whoop-pe! I would not have the licking you will get for anything."

Caleb marched away as if he were afraid he would forget his errand before he got to the house, and Nat leaned against the door-post and watched him. There was one good reason why Caleb would not tell his father of the tobacco hidden in the fence corner, and that was the fear that the switch would be used upon himself. Why had he not told his father of it when he came from town? Jonas was in just the right mood to use that switch then, and he would have beaten Nat most unmercifully until he got at the full history of the tobacco money. But Caleb had let it go for three days now, and perhaps Jonas felt differently about it. Nat did not know this. He stood there in the door of the barn waiting for Jonas to come, but he waited in vain. Nat was doing some heavy thinking in the meantime, and he finally concluded that he would go and see Peleg and have the matter settled before he went any further. With a parting glance at the house he put the bushes that lined the potato patch between them, broke into a run and in a quarter of an hour he was at Peleg's barn. Peleg was there. He was engaged in getting some corn ready to go to the mill and he was husking it.

"Well, Nat, where are you going to find another friend like Mr. Nickerson was to you?" was the way he greeted Nat when he came into the barn.

"I don't know," was Nat's reply. "I am left alone in the world. There is nobody who cares a cent whether I live or die."

When Peleg saw what humor Nat was in, how solemn he talked about the loss of his friend, he faced about on his seat and looked at him. Any boy who had been in Nat's place would have been satisfied that Peleg could not be trusted, and would have turned away from him to look elsewhere for a friend. He was not a bad looking boy, but he had a kind of sneaking, hang-dog way with him that did not go far toward making his friends. But he had friends and that was the worst of it. It was a sort of policy with Peleg to agree to every thing that any body said to him. He did that with an object, and Nat always thought that he listened with the intention of learning something. Perhaps if we follow him closely we shall see how nearly he drew Nat on to tell him all about the money and the plans he had laid for obtaining possession of it.

"'Shaw! I would not talk that way," said Peleg, throwing an ear of corn into the pile. "You have got friends enough here. There is Caleb and Jonas -- "

"I reckon you don't know what sort of friends they are to me," Nat interposed.

"Well, between I and you, I have often thought that they might have used you a little better," said Peleg, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. "Jonas uses that switch on you most too much."

"Yes, and he has done that for the last time. I am not going to stand it any longer."

"What are you going to do -- run away from home?"

"I am going to run away from Jonas. I don't call that my home -- I never had one; but I want to get away and make my own living."

"That's right, my boy; that's right. You will make a better living than you do there. Look at the clothes you wear!"

"I will have better before long," said Nat, crossing one leg over the other when he saw that Peleg was looking steadily at the huge rent in his overalls.

"Say," whispered Peleg, getting upon his feet and approaching his face close to Nat's. "Did old Nickerson leave you any money? You need not be afraid to talk to me about that," he continued, seeing that Nat looked down at the ground and hesitated. "They say that the old man was, or had been, powerful rich, and if he was a friend to any body in that house he ought to be to you."

"I know he was my friend. He always had something kind to say to me."

"I knew it; I knew it all the time. Say! Jonas has not used up all that thousand dollars that the old man gave him?"

"What do you know about that?" asked Nat, in surprise. "Has Jonas been talking about it?"

"I won't say that he has or that he hasn't," said Peleg, with a knowing shake of his head. "I don't mind telling you, for I know it won't go any further, that I have heard something about it. You would not expect me to say more without breaking my word, and that is something I never do. But I tell you that he has got a heap of that thousand dollars left."

"That's what I have often thought. Where has he got it hidden?"

"That's another thing I must not tell you, but I know where, or at least I can come within a thousand miles of it, where he hides it. You see I know a heap of things that people don't think I do. If you should tell me that you know where that money is -- "

"But I don't," said Nat. "I know where some of it is -- that is the most of his fortune is concealed."

"Aha!" said Peleg while a smile, a very faint smile which nobody would have noticed, overspread his face. He did not give utterance to this expression but said it to himself, while Nat himself, always on the lookout for some such signs, did not know how extremely delighted he was by it. Peleg was in a fair way to learn all about it. "If you should tell me where this money is hidden," he went on after controlling himself, "I would die before any one should find out from me the exact spot. You see the way the thing works with me is this: If a person tells you a secret, that is yours to keep. Don't tell any body of it; and in a very short time people will learn that you can be trusted."

"I don't know just where this money is," said Nat, and he hesitated a long while before he said the next words. "I know where the papers are."

"What papers!"

"The papers that tell where the money is hidden."

"Where are they?"

"I have got them safe and I should like to see any body find them."

"That's right; keep them safe," said Peleg, although he was much disappointed because the papers were not instantly produced. "Don't you let a living soul into it unless you find some one to tell the secret to."

"I am going down to look those papers up now," said Nat.

"Down where?"

"Down to Manchester," replied Nat; whereupon that same smile came upon Peleg's face once more. He was thinking how he was going to work to get a sight at those papers.

"It is going to be no easy task to go down there and find the papers all by myself," continued Nat, walking back and forth across the floor and wondering how in the world he was going to propose the matter to Peleg. "You see the minute I go away Jonas will suspect something, and if there is any point he will go for it will be Manchester."

"That's a fact," said Peleg, a bright idea striking him. "And if he found you there your chance of digging up the papers would be up stump. When do you want to go?"

"I would go now, this very night, if I had some one to go with me. I would find the money, if there is any, and go away where I am not known."

"That is just what I would do," replied Peleg, with sundry motions of his head which he thought added emphasis to his words. "Then nobody can ask you where you got so many stamps."

"I don't fear for that," said Nat, hastily. "I want everybody to know where I got them. I will get away and put them in the bank; then I should like to see any body get hold of them."

"That's the idea. When you once get it into the bank it is safe. You say you want somebody to help you. That shows you are wise. If there is any body on top of this broad earth who will be up to tricks, it is that Jonas Keeler."

"There is Caleb," suggested Nat. "He won't come out where any body can see him, but he will sneak around in the bushes. Jonas and Caleb will go together."

"Oh, Caleb," said Peleg, contemptuously. "Caleb is a fellow to be -- Well, I reckon we would best look out for him too," he added, for it suddenly occurred to him that the more persons Nat had against him the greater need he would have for somebody to protect him. "If there is any body can get away with Caleb, I am the one. There ain't any scheme that boy is up to that I can't see through. I will go halvers with you on that money, or rather the papers that will tell where it is hidden, when we get it."

"Then you and I can't hitch," replied Nat, surprised at the proposition. "I can not pay any such sum as that."

"What for?" demanded Peleg. "You are going to make as much as three or four thousand dollars by it."

"I don't know what I will make and I don't care. It will be enough to take me away from the house in which I now live, and that is all I want. I might as well go home."

"Well, what will you give? Maybe you think it is fun to go down there and beat Jonas and Caleb when they are trying to get the money or the papers away from you? I shall want good pay for doing that."

"I will give you good pay; more than double what you can make here. I will give you a dollar a day, payment to begin when we strike Manchester."

It was now Peleg's turn to be astonished. He stared hard at Nat to see if he was in earnest, and then went back to his seat and began husking corn.



Chapter VII.

Mr. Graves Is Astonished.


There were two very badly disappointed boys in Peleg Graves's barn that day, and each one thought that he had good grounds for it.

"The little fule!" said Peleg, spitefully snatching up an ear of com which happened to be nearest to him. "Here he is, almost rolling in wealth, and he won't go halvers with me on that money. A dollar a day! Well, that is more than I could get for shucking corn or digging potatoes these times, and now Peleg, I want to ask you a question: Did you make a mistake there? I reckon you did. Suppose he makes a go of it and finds the papers -- 'Shaw! I can see through a ladder as plain as he can. The papers are the money; that's what's the matter. And suppose he finds it with my help, what is there to hinder me from getting up some dark night and taking the money -- Whoop-pee! Why did not I think of that?"

"I reckon I may as well go home, and I am sorry that I ever came up here," said Nat to himself, as he walked listlessly about the barn floor. "I have put Peleg on his guard now, and he will make another one that I will have to fight in order to get that money. Peleg would go halvers with me on that money! I will give him a dollar a day and that is every cent I will give him."

"Are you off, Nat?" inquired Peleg, facing around on his stool again.

"Yes, I might as well," replied Nat, who had started for home. "You want altogether too much for helping me."

"Well, now, hold on. Don't go yet. Maybe you and I can come to some understanding. You don't think it is worth while to watch Jonas and Caleb, but I tell you -- "

"Yes, I do. But supposing I don't find the money? Then I can't pay you a thing."

"That's so," said Peleg, for the thought was new to him. "I did not think of that. Now see here; I will tell you how we will fix this thing. You want me to stay with you until you find the money, don't you?"

"Of course I do," said Nat.

"Well, you give me a dollar a day -- But hold on. Have you got any money at all? I had better know that before we start."

"Oh, yes, I have as much as -- as ten dollars, and I will give you your pay every night."

"Where did you get ten dollars?" asked Peleg, who was very much surprised. "Why don't you buy a new pair of overalls?"

"I have my reasons. They are good ones, too. Are you going with me or ain't you? We have some other little matters to decide, and it is getting along toward dark."

"If you say so we will go tonight," replied Peleg, getting upon his feet again.

"What will you say to your folks?"

"I will tell them that I am going out after the cows, or any thing else that I think of. My folks won't trouble us, I will bet on that. But we have got to have something to eat."

"I have thought of that, and I can buy everything we want in Manchester -- every thing except the meat. You have a gun -- "

"Yes; but we must get some powder and shot for that. I am all out."

"We can do that, too. Now I will tell you what I have decided upon."

The two boys drew closer together and for fifteen minutes there was some whispering done between them. At the end of that time it was all over and the boys departed satisfied -- at least one of them was.

"I am afraid I made a mistake in coming here at all," was what Nat said to himself. "I ought to have gone on and done the best I could by myself. Peleg is up to something and he will bear watching. Do you suppose he means to run down and tell Jonas about my running away?"

This thought created consternation in Nat's mind and he faced about and looked at the barn in which he had left Peleg. But if the truth must be told, Peleg had no intention of going near Jonas. He was too sharp to throw away the easy means he had of making a fortune by doing that. When Nat went away he leaned against the hay-mow, or rather the place where it would have been if there had been any hay there, and broke into a silent but hearty fit of merriment.

"Peleg, the thing you have often wanted has come to you at last," he whispered, walking to the door and peeping slyly out to see if Nat had really gone. "Your fortune has come to you at last. Now what be I going to do; for I must get away from here as soon as it comes dark. In the first place I will go in and tell pap about it."

Peleg hurried to the house without taking pains to shut the barn door, and broke into the living room where his father and mother were sitting engaged in smoking. This was the way in which they always passed their time when they could find nothing better to do, and that happened very frequently.

"Have you got that corn all shucked?" inquired his father.

"Naw; and what's more, I ain't a-going to shuck no more to-night," replied Peleg.

"What's to do now?"

"Well I will tell you," said Peleg, drawing a chair without any back close in front of the fire. "I have got a chance to make a fortune; but if I tell you what it is you must go halvers with me, or I shan't tell you a thing."

Mr. Graves and his wife were both amazed. They took their pipes from their mouths, straightened up and looked hard at Peleg to see if he were in earnest.

"You remember old man Nickerson, I reckon, don't you?" continued Peleg. "Well, he's gone dead, you know, and he has willed a whole pile of money, or papers and such things which shows where the money is, and Nat wants me to go down to Manchester with him and help dig it up."

"Who teld you about this?" demanded Mr. Graves.

"Nat was here not two minutes ago and he told me himself. He's going as soon as it comes dark."

"Now the best thing you can do is to run over and tell Jonas about it," said Mr. Graves, knocking the ashes from his pipe and getting upon his feet. "The idea of that little snipe having a whole pile of money -- it is not to be thought of."

"Well, I just ain't a-going to say a word to Jonas about it," said Peleg. "They isn't any body knows about that money excepting you and me. I am going to have it all."

Mr. Graves looked hard at his son again and finally took his chair once more. He saw in a moment what Peleg was up to, but he wanted to hear the whole plan.

"What you going to do? How be I going to help you?"

It did not take Peleg many minutes to make his father understand what he had decided to do, and in fact there was not much for him to explain. He was going to get his gun and go over to Nat's house and wait until he was ready. When he came out he was going to join him, and together they would go to Manchester and camp out until they found the papers which would tell them where the money was concealed. After that was done he would be ready to begin operations. Mr. Graves might blacken up his face to resemble a negro, come up and overpower them and take the money, or he might watch his opportunity and approach the camp while the two boys were away buying provisions.

"Who told you about this?" said Mr. Graves, who was lost in admiration of Peleg's cunning. It sounded like some novel that he used to read in his schoolboy days.

"Nobody didn't tell me of it," said Peleg. "I got it all up out of my own head. Don't you think it will work?"

"Of course it will. How long are you going to stay down to Manchester?"

"I didn't ask him about that; probably not more'n three or four days."

"But you have got to live while you are looking for the papers. Have you got any thing cooked, S'manthy?"

"That's taken care of, for Nat is going to support us. He has as much as ten dollars that he is going -- "

"Where did he get ten dollars? It looks to me as though that boy has been stealing."

"Couldn't old man Nickerson have given him that sum while he was alive? That boy has come honestly by his money, and, look here, pap, don't you fool yourself. If Nat has got ten dollars he has got twenty dollars; and don't you forget it."

"Do you reckon that old man Nickerson gave him all that money?" said Mr. Graves, who was profoundly astonished at Nat's wealth.

"I don't know where else he could have got it. Now I want some clothes to take with me and my gun. What be you going to do, pap, when we find that money?"

"You have got to find the papers first."

"Now just listen at you," said Peleg, with evident disgust. "There ain't no papers there. When we find the place where the thing is hidden, it will be money, and nothing else. Nat ain't got no papers. You hear me?"

"Then I reckon I had best wait a while until I see you again," said Mr. Graves, reflectively. "If you find the money I want to take it all."

"How much will that be, Peleg?" said the woman, who had been so surprised at this conversation that she had taken no part in it. "It will be as much as three or four hundred dollars, won't it?"

"Three or four hundred fiddle-sticks!" said Peleg. "Old man Nickerson was worth a power of money, and if he has got any hidden it all amounts to three or four thousand dollars."

"Good lands!" gasped Mrs. Graves, settling back in her chair. "I can have some good clothes with that. Three or four thousand! I reckon I'd best fill up for another smoke."

Peleg began to stir about and in a short time he had collected his wardrobe, which did not amount to much seeing that he carried the whole of it in an old valise, and his gun that was going to furnish them with game while they were looking for the money. It was about as worthless a thing as ever was fashioned in wood and iron, but still it managed to bring down a squirrel or rabbit every time Peleg went hunting.

"Now if any body comes here and wants to know where I am, you can tell him that you don't know," said Peleg, as he slung his bundle on his single barrel and put the whole on his shoulder. "You had better come down that way to-morrow, pap, but let me tell you one thing: You had better keep out of sight. If Nat so much as suspects that there is somebody watching us, he will quit the work right then and there, and we shan't find any money."

Mr. Graves said that he would take abundant care of that, and Peleg opened the door and went out. There was no "good-by" about it. As soon as he was gone Mr. Graves proceeded to fill up for another smoke.

"That there is a powerful good boy who has just went out," said he. "What on earth should we do without him? I tell you, S'manthy, we are going to be wonderful rich in a few days from now. I know of three or four horses that I want -- "

With this introduction Mr. Graves went on to enumerate the various horses and cows and farming utensils he needed and must have to make his calling as agriculturist successful, and when he got through his wife took up the strain, and by the time that twelve o'clock came they had not only three or four thousand dollars of Mr. Nickerson's money laid out, but they had some more thousands besides. It is hard to tell what they did not provide for. They had a new house built up, the weeds all cut down, an orchard in full bearing where the worthless brier patch used to stand, and every thing fixed up in first-class shape. But they got tired of this after a while, and went to bed.

"Pe-leg!" shouted Mr. Graves, when he awoke at daylight. "It is high time you was up. Well, now, what am I calling him for? He is a long way from here by this time, and, S'manthy, perhaps he has got onto that money after all."

"He could not have found it before he got where it was," suggested Mrs. Graves. "He must camp out some time, else why did he take his gun with him?"

"That's so," said Mr. Graves, after thinking a moment. "I don't feel like myself at all this morning; do you, S'manthy? Now I have got to get up and build the fire; but I don't mind that. In a little while we'll have somebody to build it for us. Who's that coming there?" added Mr. Graves, who, as he drew on his trousers, went to the window and glanced up and down the road. "If there ain't Jonas I am a Dutchman. He wants to see what has become of Nat."

"You won't tell him, of course?" said his wife.

"Mighty clear of me. I don't know where he is and neither do you."

The silence that followed on the inside of the cabin was broken at last by the hasty crunch of earth and stones outside the door, and then Jonas laid his heavy hand upon it.

"Who's that?" shouted Mr. Graves.

"It is me; don't you know Jonas?" answered a voice. "Get up here. I want to ask you a question."

"All right. I will soon be there. Now, old woman, you cover up and don't open your head while he is here."

In a few minutes Mr. Graves opened the door and the two men greeted each other cordially.

"Howdy, Jonas. What started you out so early? How's all your family?"

"My family is all right, but I am just now hunting for that boy, Nat. Ain't seen anything of him, have you?"

"Nat? No; has he run away?" asked Mr. Graves, accidentally letting out the very thing which he was afraid his wife would mention to Jonas if she were allowed to talk. "I mean -- you have been using that switch on him lately," he hastily added, after he had caught his breath.

"No, I hadn't, but I wish I had," declared Jonas, for the idea of Nat's running away was the very thing that was uppermost in his mind. "I have used that boy altogether too well; and now that old man Nickerson has gone, he has cleared out."

"Well, now, what does the fule boy want to run away for?" said Mr. Graves, looking down at the ground. "He will want some money, if he is going to do that."

"He has plenty of it, or thinks he has," said Jonas, angrily. "You ain't seen Peleg around here lately, have you?"

"Peleg? No, he has gone out after the cows," said Mr. Graves; and a moment later, as if to show how very much mistaken he was, one of the cows in the barnyard set up a prolonged lowing as if to inquire why somebody did not come out and milk her. "I declare, there's the cows already," added Mr. Graves, not at all abashed. "That boy is around here somewhere. Pe-leg," he shouted, looking around as though he expected Peleg to appear.

"You needn't call to him that way, pap, 'cause he ain't there," said Mrs. Graves under the bed clothes. "Didn't you hear him say that he was going fishing to-day?"

"That's so; so I did. What do you want of Peleg, Jonas?"

"I just wanted to know if he could tell me where Nat was; but if he ain't here, of course he can't tell me. You're sure he ain't gone to Manchester along with Nat?"

"No," said Mr. Graves, as if he were surprised to hear it. "What does he want to go down to Manchester for? If he don't come home pretty soon I will go after him."

"Nat has got an idea that there is some money down there, and he has gone after it. If he only knew it, I have got all the money that was there long ago."

Mr. Graves was really surprised now.

"The old man did not have but a thousand dollars, and he gave that to me to spend for him," said Jonas. "When that boy gets through looking I hope he will come back."

The speaker went away without saying another word, and Mr. Graves stood in his door and watched him go. If Jonas told the truth Peleg had his journey for nothing.



Chapter VIII.

The Storekeeper Speaks.


Very different were Nat Wood's feelings as he walked slowly toward the place he called home. He was certain that during the last hour of his life he had made a bad mistake in that he yielded to his first impulse and took Peleg into his confidence. But the thing had been done, Peleg knew that the money was there, or somewhere about Manchester, and now he had to watch his corners very closely in order to succeed at all.

"There is one thing about it," said Nat, as he went up behind the bushes which stood between the potato patch and the house. "I will keep a close watch of Peleg, and if I have any reason to suppose that he is working for himself, I will lead him off the track and go somewhere else. Peleg is a pretty sharp boy, but I don't believe he can get ahead of me."

While Nat was thinking this matter over he drew up behind the bushes and took a long and earnest survey of the house. There was no one stirring around it. Having made sure that no one was watching him Nat hurried to a fence corner, not the one that Mr. Nickerson went to in order to get his plug of tobacco, but another one that lay further off, and after a few minutes' search arose to his feet with two articles in his hand which he hastily crammed into his pocket. One was a roll of money -- he did not look it over for he knew how much there was in it -- and the other was the two leaves of "Baxters' Saints' Rest," still pasted together, which told him where the money was concealed. The money was what he had left from the sum Mr. Nickerson had last given him for the purchase of tobacco.

"I don't see what is the need of my taking these two leaves with me," said Nat, as he pushed the remnants of the twigs and bushes back to the place which they had occupied before. "Peleg might find it and then know as much about the money as I do. I reckon I had best get that in my head and then destroy the leaves."

To think with Nat was to act. He produced the two leaves from his pocket, seated himself upon the ground and tore them open. The stray leaf, the one on which the diagram that showed where the money was concealed, fell out; and although it was pretty dark so that he could barely trace the lines, they were made with a heavy lead pencil, and furthermore there were but two lines on the page. The first led from a pile of rubbish -- Nat did not know what else to call it; it probably intended to represent the ruins of Mr. Nickerson's house -- to a second pile of rubbish, which was doubtless intended to show the pile of briers. The second line ran across a little wavering stream which was intended to stand for the brook, up to another pile, and there it stopped. If Nat could only find that pile, his fortune was secure.

It did not take Nat long to make himself master of this diagram, and hastily putting the leaves back again, he buried them in the hole from which he had taken them out, smoothing over the leaves so that no one would suspect that anybody had been there.

"So far so good," said Nat, with a long-drawn sigh of relief. "I don't believe that either Jonas or Caleb will find them there. Now the next thing is something else."

It was to separate ten dollars from his roll of bills so that he could show them to Peleg when he came to pay for the various things at Manchester. If he showed more than that amount something would be added to Peleg's suspicions, and no doubt it would lead to an open rupture. The rest of the bills he stowed away in his hat, pressing them down tightly between the outside and the lining, and holding them there by means of a pin which he took from his sleeve. His work was all done now, and he was ready to meet Peleg as soon as he put in an appearance. But in order to make sure that he had not been watched Nat drew along the fence corner into the bushes, until he came within sight of the house again. There was no one there, and no one in the barn, either; so he concluded that he had done this part of his work without being seen.

"If I can get through with the rest without having some one to see me, I shall be glad of it," said Nat, going past the house and out to the bars. "Good-by, old home, for it is the only home I have had since I can remember. I hope some day to have a place that I can call my own."

His soliloquy was interrupted by the appearance of a person on the road who moved and acted in a way that showed him that the time for operations had come. It was Peleg. He carried his single barrel over his shoulder, supporting an old-fashioned valise which contained his change of underwear.

"Well, I am all ready," said Peleg, in a whisper.

"So am I," said Nat.

"Why, you have not taken a thing with you," said Peleg, when he looked around to see Nat pick up something. "Are you going to come back here after your clothes?"

"All the clothes I have in the world I have got upon my back," said Nat, holding up both hands and turning slowly around so that his companion could see him. "I am ready to go if you are."

"You must have a clean shirt if nothing more. What will you do when the one you have on now is all soiled?"

"I will take it off and wash it."

"You will?" exclaimed Peleg, in unbounded astonishment. "Don't you have no women to do that sort of work? My mother always washes my clothes."

"Well, you are lucky to have a mother. I have had none since I can remember. I have to do all such little things myself."

"This beats me. What did you say to Jonas?"

"Not a thing. I have not seen him since I saw you."

"Have you got your papers?" said Peleg, who was particularly anxious on that score. "You had better give them to me; because when Jonas overhauls us he will search all your clothes."

"Let him search," said Nat, turning upon Peleg and looking at him as closely as he could in the dark. "I have got my papers, but they are right in here," he added, touching his forehead with his right hand. "He won't get them out of there."

"Well!" said Peleg, looking down at the ground they were so rapidly leaving behind. "That's a pretty way to do business. You have got me to help you in looking for that money, and you had ought to let me into the whole of it."

"In other words, I must tell you my secret, must I?" demanded Nat, stopping in his headlong gait. "I did not agree to do that. You may go back on me the first thing."

"No, I won't; I pledge you my word that I will stay by you. Now if you don't tell me all of it I won't go."

These were very pleasant words to Nat Wood. He had been wondering all the time how he was to be rid of Peleg, and now he was going to accomplish his object without half trying. Peleg stopped when he uttered this threat, but Nat kept on as fast as ever.

"I tell you I won't go if you don't tell me just what you are going to do and all about it," said Peleg, taking his bundle off his shoulders.

"All right. Then stay where you are. I can get along without you."

"You forget Jonas and Caleb," said Peleg, raising his voice as to reach the ears of Nat who was rapidly widening the distance between them. "Who is going to watch them while you are doing the digging? The little fule," muttered Peleg, raising his bundle to his shoulder again and hurrying after Nat. "What has come over him to make him so mighty independent all at once? A little while ago he was just begging me to go with him; but now he wants to shake me off altogether. Hold up, Nat."

But Nat was past holding up for Peleg or anybody else. He kept on his way without changing his pace, and when at last Peleg overtook him he had passed a half a mile down the road.

"What's the use of you being in such a hurry, Nat?" panted Peleg. "I can't keep up with you if you go so fast."

"I've got to hurry in order to get to my camping grounds before daylight," replied Nat. "If you want to go with me, come on; if you don't, stay back."

"But, Nat, it ain't right for you to do all the work by yourself," said Peleg.

"I don't intend to do it all. You must do some of it, if you go with me. I won't pay you a dollar a day for doing nothing."

"Of course. I expect to do some of it; but how can I know what to work at unless you tell me something."

"I will tell you what I want as soon as we come to our camping ground, and that ought to satisfy you," said Nat, who plainly saw that he was not going to get rid of Peleg so easily. "I may want you to watch for Jonas while I work."

"Well, if you do that, it will be right into my hand," said Peleg, to himself. "Only I would rather watch for pap. If I see him, I won't let you know a thing about it."

Seeing that Nat was neither to be frightened nor coaxed into revealing his secret, Peleg finally gave up the attempt in disgust, and hurried along by Nat's side toward Manchester. Nat had but little to say to him for he was thinking over what was to be done when they once reached their camping grounds. He must be rid of Peleg in some way, and the more he thought about it the more he saw that his success depended entirely upon his finding the money alone and unaided.

"If ever a boy deserves kicking I am the one," Nat kept saying to himself. "Why didn't I leave Peleg alone husking his corn? He would have been safe there, but now he has got onto my back and I can't shake him off. Can I get him to go back to the store after some provisions, while I look for the money? That's a plan worth thinking of."

The way to Manchester seemed wonderfully long, it is always long if one is anxious to reach a place, and it was after daylight when they came within sight of it. Fortunately the stores were open and the boys had no difficulty in buying what they wanted. The first thing was the ammunition for Peleg's shotgun; and when that had been purchased and stowed away in the boy's valise, the provisions came next, and they found that they had more than they could carry.

"There are other things to come," said Nat, pulling out his ten dollars at which Peleg glanced with envious eyes. "I must get a spade and pick-ax before I go any further."

"Why, what do you want to do with them?" asked Peleg, in surprise.

"How am I going to do any digging without them?" asked Nat in reply. "There is no telling how deep the money is in the ground."

Peleg was obliged to be content with this explanation although he was not satisfied with it. He could not bear to see any of Nat's money go for such useless things as a spade and pick-ax, because he calculated at some future time to handle all that money himself. And when they were purchased there was another thing that filled him with astonishment.

"I wish you would set these implements away somewhere, together with the provisions that we shall not be able to take with us, until Peleg comes after them," said Nat to the storekeeper. "He will be after them bright and early to-morrow morning."

"All right," said the storekeeper. "I will set the whole thing right here in this corner, and if my partner is in here you will know them when you see them. Any thing else that I can show you?"

"Nothing else, thank you," replied Nat "I have every thing I need."

"What are you boys going to do up there in the woods?" asked the storekeeper. "You are not going after rabbits with nothing but a single barrel shotgun. You won't get enough to pay you for your ammunition."

"Oh, no; we are going up there to see about some timber that belongs to us."

"Well, don't let the ghosts catch you," said the man, with a laugh.

"Ghosts!" replied Peleg; and he let the butt of his single barrel heavily down upon the floor.

"Yes; there is lots of them up there."

"Why -- why -- whereabouts?" inquired Peleg; and it was all he could do to pronounce the words so that the storekeeper could understand him.

"Well, I don't know that they have any particular place, but the heft of them appears up about old man Nickerson's farm," said the man; and he drew a little on his imagination because he saw that Peleg was frightened. "If anybody goes on that place he wants to look out. You see," here the storekeeper leaned his elbows on the counter and sank his voice almost to a whisper. "They used to tell here before the war that the old man was worth a power of money, and the rebels came here to gobble it up."

"Did they get any?" asked Peleg.

"Naw they didn't. I was in that party and I know just what they got. It was all in gold, too, but the old fellow had it hidden so that we could not find it. We took him off and put him in the army, but he was too old to be of any use there, and so we turned him loose. There's been a power of men up there looking for it, but they stay just one night."

"They see the ghosts, do they?" said Nat

"That's what they do," said the storekeeper, looking all around the room as if he expected to see something advancing upon him. "And I tell you they don't wait until daylight comes. I have seen as many as two or three on my porch waiting for me to open the store, and the tales they told were just awful. They say -- Whew! I'll bet you don't get me up there for no five thousand dollars."

"What do they say?" asked Nat. "Is old man Nickerson among the ghosts?"

"Yes, he is there, and he is the worst one in the lot; but the worst of it is, he has been somewhere and got ten or a dozen other ghosts to help him along, and the screeching they keep up is enough to drive one crazy. But I reckon you boys ain't going up as far as old man Nickerson's."

"That is the place where we are going," said Nat. "We shall not stop until we get there."

"Among all them ghosts?" exclaimed the storekeeper, and he staggered back from the counter as if Nat had aimed a blow at him. "Well, good-by. I shall never see you again," added the man, as he straightened up and thrust his hand out toward Nat. "You need not think to be free of them for they come to see everybody that goes there."

"But the others came back in safety and so can I," said Nat.

"Yes; but the last time they appeared to a person they told him that the next one who came there he would leave his bones for the vultures to pick over," said the man, and he tried to shiver when he uttered the words. "I would not go up there, if I was you."

"I want to see what a ghost looks like. Come on, Peleg. We have wasted too much time already. You will have those things ready for Peleg tomorrow?"

"Yes, provided he is able to come after them. And say, Peleg. I want you to take particular notice of the way the ghosts look and what they say and what they do, and all that -- "

"You had better get somebody else to go up there, if that is what you want to find out," said Peleg. "If I see one of them, or hear him coming through the bushes, I will start a running till you can't see me for the dust. If Nat isn't afraid of the ghosts, I am."

Nat had by this time taken as many of the provisions as he could carry and had left the store, and Peleg, after some hesitation, prepared to follow him. Nat did not believe in ghosts; and even if ghosts were there and Mr. Nickerson was among them, he would not let the rest of the spirits trouble him, for he had given him the money before his death, and had told him just where it was concealed. But his nerves now were not as firm as they were before he went into that store. He did not know what he had to contend with up there in the woods, and the woods were so far away from everybody that it was useless for him to call for help in case he needed it.

"But I am going after that money," said he, firmly, as he walked along as if there were no such things as ghosts in the world. "It is up there, there was not any ghosts around when it was hidden and I don't believe there are any ghosts now. At least I must see them before I will give it up."

At this moment Peleg overtook him. One glance at his face was enough to show him what he thought about it.



Chapter IX.

Peleg Sees Enough.


"Say, Nat," said Peleg, catching his companion by the arm and speaking almost in a whisper as if he were afraid that the ghosts might overhear him, "don't let's go any further. Let us go back."

"What will we do with all these provisions?" exclaimed Nat.

"Let's take them home and eat them there. I am afraid to go to those woods. Don't you believe in ghosts?"

"I don't know what to say," said Nat, pulling his arm out of Peleg's grasp. "That storekeeper talked as though he meant all he said, did he not? He would not try to scare us."

"No, sir," said Peleg, emphatically. "Let us go back. I don't believe there is any money hidden around here anyway."

It was no part of Nat's plan to make Peleg think differently. If he thought they were on a wild goose chase, so much the better for Nat. He would go on and prosecute the search, and if he succeeded, no one would be the wiser for it.

"If pap were here," continued Peleg, and then he suddenly stopped.

"Does your father believe in ghosts, too?" asked Nat.

"Of course he does. He has seen them."

"Then of course he believes in them. I must see one before I will put any faith in it."

"But what will you do if you leave your bones up here for the vultures to pick?" urged Peleg, with a shudder. "I reckon you will believe in them then."

"That will be my misfortune and not my fault. So, Mr. Graves believes in ghosts, does he?" said Nat, to himself. "I wish to goodness that I knew whether or not Jonas and Caleb believed in them, too. Somehow I feel more afraid of those two men than I do of anything else." Then aloud he said: "If I believed as your father does I would not come up here for anything; but I have not seen the ghosts yet, and until I do, I am going to stick to my plan. You can carry the provisions up to Mr. Nickerson's house, can't you, and then you can put them down and go back if you want to."

"And do you mean that you are really going on?" exclaimed Peleg, who was really amazed at the boy's courage.

"Yes, sir, I am going on; and no one will care whether I succeed or not. Come on, Peleg. You must walk faster than that."

There was no use of trying to get rid of Peleg; Nat saw that plainly enough. He increased his pace and Peleg, as if afraid of being left behind, increased his own and readily kept up with him. He did not have any more to say about the ghosts until after they had covered the half of a dozen miles that lay between them and Mr. Nickerson's farm; and then they turned off the road, climbed a fence and found themselves in a thicket of bushes which enveloped them on all sides so that they could not see two feet in advance of them. Then Peleg's courage gave away altogether.

"I believe I won't go any further," said he; and he made a move as if he were going to put down the provisions he was carrying. "It is awful dark in there, ain't it?"

"Pretty dark," whispered Nat, bending down and trying to see through the bushes. "But this is nothing to what it will be when night comes. If we are going to hear anything we will hear it then. Will you be afraid to come down here to get the spade and pick-ax to-morrow?"

"You just bet I will," answered Peleg, and Nat noticed that his face was as white as it could get. "If you don't get that spade and pick-ax until I bring them up to you, you will wait a long while before you do any digging."

"Well, pick up the provisions and come along," said Nat, who was getting really impatient. "Stay right close behind me, and if I see any ghosts I will shoo them off."

Once more Nat started on and Peleg, not daring to remain behind, gathered up his burden and kept along close on his heels. It was a long way through the bushes to the back of Mr. Nickerson's farm, and with almost every step Peleg heard something that alarmed him; a bird chirped in the thicket close beside him or a ground squirrel vociferously scolded them as they drew near and hurried off to his retreat, and several times he was on the point of throwing down the provisions and taking to his heels. But there was the money that they were after. That had a stronger attraction to him than his fear of the ghosts, and when Nat threw aside the last branch and stepped out into the open field, Peleg was right behind, although he was all out of breath and sweating so, as he affirmed, that he could hear it rattling on the leaves.

"When we go back let us go the other way," panted Peleg, looking around for a place to sit down. "I am just tired out. Now what are you going to do? Here is the spot, and if you have not got them papers with you, how do you know where to dig?"

"The papers are all in my head where no one will get them," said Nat, laying down his armful of provisions and looking around to see if there was a path that led down the hill. "You stay here and rest, and I will go on and see -- "

"Not much I won't stay here," exclaimed Peleg, rising to his feet as Nat started off. "I am going to stay close by you. I wish I had known about the ghosts. I wouldn't have come one peg."

"So do I," said Nat to himself. "If I can get up some way to scare you to-night, I shall be happy."

To have seen Nat go to work one would have supposed that he knew where the money was hidden and all about it. He went as straight as he could go to the corner of the ruins of Mr. Nickerson's house, and there he stopped and his lips moved as if he were holding a consultation with himself.

"Six to one and a half dozen to the other," he muttered, as if he were not aware that Peleg was anywhere within reach of him. "That paper is burned up here in the ruins, but I have got it in my head."

"What are you trying to get through yourself, Nat?" said Peleg. "Talk English so that I can understand you."

Nat did not act as though he had heard him at all.

"The next is a beech tree on the right hand side," continued Nat. "Now let me see if that can be found."

"What about the beech tree? There is one down there at the foot of the hill."

Nat had already started off toward the beech tree, and a little way from it found a pile of briers; but did not look at them more than once. He went around on the left hand side of the beech tree, and throwing back his head gazed earnestly into the branches.

"Now whichever way that limb points, it points to the hiding-place of the papers," said Nat. "But there are not any limbs that point any way. They all seem to point upward to the sky. If this is the tree I'll soon make the limb move. Here, watch that branch and see if it don't stir. Six of one and half a dozen of the other."

"What do you keep saying those words for all the time?" inquired Peleg. "Why don't you talk so that I can understand it?"

"That is a secret that Mr. Nickerson used while he was engaged in burying the papers," said Nat, a bright idea striking him. "Come here and I will tell you all about it," he added, catching Peleg by the arm and drawing his face close to his own. "You see these trees and everything about here is in sympathy with Mr. Nickerson, because he is dead, you know. I might come up here or you might come up here and look for those papers, and if we did not have the secret that Mr. Nickerson used while concealing them, why, we wouldn't know any more about it than we do now. I declare that branch moves; don't you see it?"

Peleg looked earnestly into the tree but could see nothing. Nat even got hold of him and pulled him around and twisted his head on one side so that he could see the upper part of the tree, but the moving of the limb was something that Peleg could not discern.

"It only moved a little bit so that I could see it," said Nat, in explanation. "You have got to be quick or you can't see it. Now we will go off this way and see if we can find something else."

There was some little thing about this that was certainly uncanny -- something that did not look natural to Peleg. The idea of a boy having some mysterious words at his command which made inanimate nature obey him was a new thing to him, and he did not know what to make of it; but Nat seemed to think it was all right and went ahead as if he had been expecting it. He stepped across the brook and moved up the hill, but before he had taken many steps he came back and put his face close to Peleg's again.

"I must tell you one thing so that you will not be frightened," said he, in a whisper. "When I get on the track of those papers you'll hear something."

"What is it like?" said Peleg, in the same cautious whisper.

"I don't know. It may be like the report of a cannon; or it may be like something else you never heard of. You must keep your mind on those papers while we are looking for them."

Nat went on ahead and in a few moments more he stepped upon the very stone which was buried half way in the earth and covered the hiding place of his money. His heart bounded at the thought. If Peleg was away and he had the pick-ax and spade at his command he would be a rich boy in less than half an hour.

"I don't see it," said he, dolefully.

"Don't see what?" said Peleg. "If you repeat your words once more perhaps it will come to you."

"Six of one and a half dozen of the other," exclaimed Nat; and instantly there came a response that he had not been expecting. A huge dead poplar, which stood on the bank a hundred feet away, suddenly aroused itself into life and action, took part in Nat's invocation and sent a thrill of terror through him and Peleg. A branch of the tree about fifty feet from the ground, as large as any of the ordinary trees that were standing around them, ceased its hold upon the parent trunk and came with a stunning crash to the ground. Peleg was so startled that he fairly jumped, while Nat stood perfectly thunderstruck.

This was nothing more than the boys had been accustomed to all their lives. Such sounds were not new in the country in which they had been brought up, and when any settler heard a sound like that coming from the woods he said: "Now we are going to have falling weather." An old "deadening" is the best place to watch for omens of this kind. The farmer, not having the time or force to clear his land, cuts away all the underbrush and uses his axe to "circle" the trees so that he can put in his crop. The trees stand there until they dry and rot, all the vitality being taken away from them, and finally drop all their limbs until the trunk stands bare. Nat, after he had taken time to think twice, knew in a moment what had caused the poplar to shed its limbs, and was aware that it was one of the incidents of his everyday life; but Peleg, who had been warned that something was going to happen if they found the trail of the papers, was frightened out of his wits. After it struck the ground he remained motionless.

"What did I tell you?" whispered Nat. "Didn't I tell you that you would hear something drop?"

"Whew!" stammered Peleg. "I have seen enough of this place. I am going home as quick as I can go."

"Hold on, Peleg," exclaimed Nat, who was overjoyed to hear him talk this way. "We will hear something else pretty soon, and that will let us know that we are close to the papers."

"You can stay and look for them until you are blind," said Peleg, who was taking long strides toward the other side of the brook. "You will never see them papers. I believe you are cahoots with the 'Old Fellow' himself."

As Peleg said this he pointed with his finger toward the ground. He did not care to mention who the "old fellow" was. When he was across the brook he broke into a run and dashed up the hill. He did not even stop to take with him his gun, ammunition or the provisions he had brought up from Manchester. He kept clear of the bushes -- you could not have hired Peleg to go through them alone -- and when he struck the open field he increased his pace and was out of sight in a moment. Nat waited until he was well under way and then followed him to the top of the bank. He was just in time to see Peleg's coat tails disappear over the bars; and then he dug out at his best gait for home.

"There!" said Nat taking off his hat and feeling for the extra money he had stowed away. "I am well rid of him, thank goodness. Now I will go to work and make a camp, get something to eat, and to-morrow morning I will go down and get the spade and pick-ax; that is, if the ghosts leave anything of me. But I don't believe there are any ghosts. The storekeeper said that just to frighten him."

But before Nat began his lean-to he wanted to see the stone that covered his fortune. It seemed strange to him that all he had to do was to pry the stone out of its place, dig for a few minutes and then he would be worth more money than he ever saw.

"There is one thing that I forgot," said he, after he had tested the weight of the stone by trying his strength upon it. "But I will get that to-morrow. I must cut a lever with which to handle this weight."

For the first time in a long while Nat was happy. He would be so that night -- there would not anybody come near him after dark -- but the next morning he would come back to himself again -- sly and cunning, and afraid to make a move in any direction without carefully reconnoitering the ground. Jonas and Caleb had got him in the way of living so.

"But I will soon be free from them," said Nat, as he left the stone walked across the brook and seated himself proceeded to find some of the cheese and crackers which Peleg had brought up. "I am free from them now; but if they come after me and catch me, why then I have got my whole business to do over again. I hope Peleg will go safely home and spread the story of the ghosts that are living here, for I don't think Jonas will care to face them."

Nat thoroughly enjoyed his meal, for the walk of twenty miles along that rough road was enough to give him an appetite, and all the while he was looking about him and selecting the limbs with which he intended to build his lean-to. He did not expect to be there a great while, not longer than to-morrow at any rate, but he did not believe in sleeping out while there was timber enough at hand to build him a shelter. The lean-to was soon put up, and in a very short space of time all the luggage he had was conveyed under it. A fire would come handy as soon as it grew dark, and all the rest of the time he spent in collecting fuel for it; so that when the sun went down and it began to grow gloomy in the woods, he was as well sheltered as a boy in his circumstances could expect.

"I am glad that Peleg is not here," said Nat, as he looked all around to make sure that he had not forgotten something, and began another assault on the crackers and cheese. "I know that nothing will come here to bother me, but Peleg would all the while be listening for one of those ghosts to come down on him. There's an owl now. His hooting sounds awful lonely in the woods."

While Nat was stretched out on his bed of boughs listening to the mournful notes of the owl, his thoughts were exceedingly busy with sad remembrances of the old man who had labored so hard to save his money from the rebels, little dreaming that the amount would one day fall into the hands of one who needed it as badly as Nat did.

"I really wish I had some one to enjoy it with me, but I have not got any body," Nat kept saying to himself. "The first thing I will do will be to get an education; then I can tell what I am going to do."

So saying Nat arose and replenished the fire, then lay down and fell into a quiet sleep. He did not see a ghost nor did he dream of one the whole night.



Chapter X.

Peleg's Ghost Story.


"Bless my lucky stars, Peleg Graves, you clear of Nat Wood at last. Ever since I first met him there at home, when he didn't have a single thing to take with him except the clothes he had on his back, I have been afraid of that fellow. He didn't have but one shirt to bless himself with, and when it got soiled, he would take it off and wash it. The idea of him washing his clothes! I guess he thought that the Old Fellow would wash them." Here Peleg cast frightened glances toward the bushes on each side of the road as if he was fearful that "the other fellow" would suddenly come out at him. He fancied he could almost see him with his flashing eyes, horns on his head and cloven feet all ready to take the rush, but as he went on he began to gather courage. "And then his having a secret, too, and he wouldn't tell me what it meant. 'Here I am and there I am,'" whispered Peleg, who was so badly frightened that he could not remember the words Nat had used. "Now what did those words mean? I tell you there is somebody helping Nat; you hear me?"

While Peleg was going over his soliloquy in this way he was making good time down the road, and finally he became weary with his headlong pace and slackened his gait to a walk; a fast walk it was, too, so that in a very short while all Nat and his strange words were left behind.

It was twenty miles to the place where Peleg lived, and although faint with hunger and so weary that he could scarcely drag one foot after the other, he never stopped to ask one of the good-hearted settlers for a bite to eat, and never thought of sitting down to rest his tired limbs. He kept on, anxious to get his roof over his head and impatient to hear what his father would have to say about Nat and his doings, until just as the sun was rising he came within sight of the cabin door and saw Mr. Graves standing there and taking a look at the weather. The man was so surprised to see him that he was obliged to take two looks before he could make up his mind that it was Peleg and nobody else.

"Is that you, Peleg?" he exclaimed, as the boy threw down one of the bars and crawled through it "Where's the money?"

"Oh, pap!" was all that Peleg could say in reply.

Mr. Graves began to look uneasy. Like all ignorant men he was very superstitious, and he straightway believed that Peleg had seen something that he could not understand.

"Say, Peleg," he added in a lower tone, stepping off the porch and taking the boy by the arm. "What did you see up there in the woods? You have not been to Manchester and back, have you?"

"Yes, I have, too; and if you want to go down there and search for that money, you can go; but I am going to stay here. I wish you would give me a bite to eat and a drink of water. I am just about dead."

Peleg had by this time reached the porch, and he threw himself down upon it as if he had lost all strength, and rested his head upon his hands. Mr. Graves began to believe that Peleg had seen something that was rather more than his nerves could stand, and went around the house after a drink of water, while his mother, who had been aroused by this time, came to the door. She saw Peleg sitting there with his head buried in his hands, and of course her mother's heart went out to him.

"Oh, Peleg, what is the matter?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, mother, you just ought to hear the words that Nat uses to find out whether or not he is on the trail of those papers," said Peleg, lifting a very haggard face and looking at her.

At that moment Mr. Graves came around the corner of the house with a gourd full of drinking water. Peleg seized it as though he had not had any for a month, and never let the gourd go until he had drunk the whole of it.

"That makes me feel some better," said he.

"You passed several streams on the way," said Mr. Graves. "Why didn't you stop and get a drink?"

"Oh, pap, I dassent. I can hear those words ringing in my ears now, and I wanted to get so far away that I couldn't hear them. 'Here I am and there I am!' Oh, my soul!"

"Why -- what are you trying to get through yourself?" inquired Mr. Graves; and if the truth must be told he drew a little closer to Peleg.

"Well, sir, I am telling you the truth when I say that that there Nat has some dealings with that Fellow down there," said Peleg, pointing toward the ground. "He goes around looking for those papers -- "

"Ah! Get out!" exclaimed Graves.

"It is a fact; and if you don't believe it, you can just go down there and watch him as I did. He says that everything, the trees and the rocks and the leaves and the bushes, are in cahoots with him because he took such good care of old man Nickerson when he was alive, buying him tobacco and such, and that he told him what words to use while looking for those papers. Why, the branches of the trees moved and pointed out the way to him."

Mr. Graves was completely amazed by this revelation, and seated himself on the porch beside Peleg; while S'manthy gasped for breath and found it impossible for her to say anything. She lifted her hands in awe toward the rafters of the porch for a moment, closed her eyes, and then her hands fell helplessly by her side. She shook her head but could not utter a sound.

"It is a fact, I tell you; that isn't all I have seen, either," said Peleg. "When we came to Manchester and Nat wanted to buy some grub and things -- pap, he has ten dollars; and he wouldn't offer me a cent of it."

"Where did he get ten dollars?" asked Mr. Graves, in surprise.

"I don't know. I expect it must have been some he had left that the old man gave him. He bought some grub and a pick-ax and a spade, and left them there so that I could go and get them this morning; and that set the storekeeper to going. He warned me not to let the ghosts catch me -- "

"Oh, my soul!" exclaimed S'manthy, raising her hands toward the rafters again. "Have they got ghosts up there?"

"You just bet they have," answered Peleg, trembling all over. "But Nat didn't seem afraid of them at all."

Mr. Graves leaned back against the post near which he was sitting, stretched his legs out straight before him and looked fixedly at the ground. He had never heard of ghosts being in the woods, and this made him wonder if he would dare go after the cows when they failed to come up.

"I don't think you had better go back there any more, Peleg," said he, when he had taken time to think the matter over.

"You may just bet I won't go back. I have not got use for a boy who will talk to them in language I cannot understand. And worse than that, he led the way to old man Nickerson's farm by the back way, through bushes that grew thicker'n the hair on a dog's back, and he wanted me to come back the same way. Mighty clear of me!"

"I reckon we had best go and let Jonas know about this," said Mr. Graves, after thinking once more upon the matter.

"Well, you can go and I will stay here and get something to eat," said Peleg. "He will find Nat within a few rods of the old man's house. Dog-gone such luck! Why couldn't the old man have left his money out in plain sight so that a fellow could get it?"

"Did you see any of the ghosts?" said his mother, in a low tone.

"No, I didn't, and I kept a close watch for them, too. You see Nat says they don't come around until at night. I wonder if there is anything left of that boy up there?"

"I hope to goodness that they have cleaned him out entirely," said Mr. Graves, angrily. "If we can't have any of that money I don't want him to have it, either. Now you go in and take a bite, and I will make up my mind what we are going to do."

"Are you waiting for me to go up to Jonas's house with you?"

"Yes, I reckon you had better. You have been up there and saw how the matter stands, and you can tell him better than I can."

"I am mighty glad he won't ask me to go back to old man Nickerson's woods with him," whispered Peleg, as he followed his mother into the house. "I wouldn't stir a peg to please anybody."

"What do ghosts look like, Peleg?" asked S'manthy, as she brought out a plate of cold bread and meat and set them on the table before the boy. "I have often heard of them but I never saw them."

"Don't ask me. I looked everywhere for them, but they would not show up. I'll bet Nat can tell by this time how they look -- that is if he did not get scared at them like myself and run away."

By the time that Peleg had satisfied his appetite Mr. Graves had thought over the situation and determined upon his course. He would not go near Mr. Nickerson's farm -- he was as close to it as he wanted to be; but he would go up and tell Jonas what Peleg had seen. Jonas was a good fellow, and perhaps he would do as much for him under the same circumstances. If Jonas and Caleb thought enough of the money that was hidden there to go up and face the ghosts, that was their lookout and not his.

"You had your gun, Peleg," said Mr. Graves, when the boy came out the door and put on his hat "Why didn't you depend upon that!"

"Course I had my gun; but it was not loaded. I declare, I never once thought of that old single barrel."

"If one of them had seen that gun in your hands -- "

"Shaw! I ain't thinking of that. I ran away so quick that I left it behind. Maybe Nat used it last night."

"But you say he ain't afraid of them," suggested his father. "What should he want to use your gun for?"

"Of course he ain't afraid of them in the day-time; but when it comes down dark night in the woods, and you hear the bushes rattling and something go g-g-r-r -- "

"Oh, Peleg, stop!" ejaculated his mother, who was all in a tremble.

"Stop your noise, Peleg," said Mr. Graves, who could not bear to hear him imitate the ghosts in this way. "Maybe they don't go that way at all."

"Well, if you want to find out, you had best go up there and stay all night," said Peleg, shaking his head in a wise manner. "And I will tell you another thing that happened while I was up there. Nat told me that I must not be frightened, for when he got onto the trail of those papers again --  -- "

"Did he lose the trail of them?" asked Mr. Graves.

"I reckon so; for he looked up into a tree and said: 'Here I am and there I am,' and the tree showed him which way to go."

"Aw! Get out," exclaimed Mr. Graves. "Could a tree speak to him or point with its branches to tell him when he was going wrong?"

"That tree did as sure as you live," said Peleg confidently.

"Did you see it?"

"Yes sir, I did. That tree was standing like any other tree, with its branches pointing upward, and when he said those words of his, one of the limbs pointed out so," said Peleg, indicating the movement with his finger.

Mr. Graves looked rather hard at Peleg, as if he did not know whether to believe the statement or not, and the boy met his gaze without flinching. When Peleg told a lie he generally looked down at the ground.

"Well, go on. What did you see next?"

"Well, sir, when we got a little further he said I would hear something pretty soon, and it would make me wish that I had never been born. I tell you I did hear it, and -- Oh, my soul! How can I ever tell it!"

"What did it sound like, Peleg?" asked his mother.

"A dead tree was standing a short distance away and when Nat went on with his words: 'Here I am and there I am,' one of the branches on that tree let go all holds and came down to the ground with a crash and broke all to pieces. I certainly thought I was going with it, too."

For the first time that day Mr. Graves uttered an exclamation of disgust, turned on his heel and went into the house for his rifle.

"You can hear those sounds right here on the place," remarked his mother. "That's nothing new."

"The little fule!" exclaimed Mr. Graves, who just then came out again with his rifle. "You got so frightened with the ghosts that you don't know the signs of falling weather when you hear them. It is going to rain very shortly."

"Well, I just want you to go up there if you dare," said Peleg, somewhat taken aback by this explanation of the phenomenon which had frightened him. "Here you are, making all sorts of fun at my ghost stories, and you have gone and got your rifle to protect you. Leave that at home if you are not afraid to go up to Jonas's house without it."

"No, I reckon I will just take it along. What you have said about the ghosts may be true; but I don't believe in such things as the trees and bushes telling him where to go. Come on now, and we'll go up and see Jonas."

"And are you going to leave me here all alone?" inquired Mrs. Graves, who went into the house for a shawl to throw over her head. "I'm going, too."

"Now, S'manthy," began her husband.

"I know all about it; but I ain't a going to stay here all by myself after such talk as we have had," said the woman, determinedly. "I have some business with Jonas's wife as much as you have with him."

Mr. Graves said no more. He probably knew how an argument would come out with his wife. He cast apprehensive glances at the bushes as he walked along, and seemed to be much occupied with his own thoughts. The money was there, there could be no mistake about that, and he had intended to go up there that very day so as to be on hand in case Peleg needed assistance; but the boy's returning home with such a story had put new ideas into his head. Taking into consideration the way he felt now he would not have gone a step toward Mr. Nickerson's woods if he knew the foot of every tree in them had a gold mine buried beneath it which he could have for the digging. He fully credited the tales about the ghosts; the rest of it he did not put any faith in.

"That's the end of my dreams," he muttered, as he walked along. "I say as Peleg did, dog-gone such luck! If the old man had left his money out where we could find it, well and good; but, as it stands, I have got to be a poor man all my life."

In due time they arrived at Jonas's house where they found his wife engaged in getting breakfast while her husband, with Caleb to help him, was engaged, down to the barn. Mrs. Graves stopped in the house, which she speedily turned upside down with her stories, while Mr. Graves kept on and found Jonas sitting on an inverted bucket, meditatively chewing a piece of straw, and Caleb walking around with his hands in his pockets. They had been discussing Nat's absence, but they could not come to any determination about it. Nat was gone, it was money took him away and how were they going to work to cheat him out of it?

"Howdy," said Jonas, who, upon looking up, discovered Mr. Graves approaching. "Have you started out bright and early this morning to go hunting?"

"Well -- no," replied Mr. Graves, taking his rifle from his shoulder. "I did not know but I might see a squirrel or two bobbing around. Seen anything of Nat lately?"

"No, I have not. Do you know what has become of him?"

"You're right I do. He is up to old man Nickerson's woods."

"There now. We always allowed that he had gone up there. Has he got onto the trail of any money?"

"He has, but that's all the good it will do him. Peleg has been up there with him."

Jonas simply nodded his head as if to say that he knew as much long ago. He learned it when he went to Mr. Graves' house to inquire about Nat.

"But it won't do him any good, getting on the trail of that money won't," continued Mr. Graves. "There are ghosts up in those woods."

"Ghosts!" exclaimed Jonas and Caleb in a breath. They looked hard at Mr. Graves and then they looked at Peleg. The boy simply nodded to show that his father was right.

"Did you see any of them?" asked Caleb, who was in a fair way of being frightened.

"Naw; I didn't see any of them nor hear them, I didn't stay long enough for that I took my foot in my hand and came home."

"Peleg has & long story to tell, and I thought you would rather hear it from him than anybody else, so I brought him along."

As this was the introduction to Peleg's story those who were standing up found places to sit down, and waited impatiently for him to begin.



Chapter XL

Nat's Fortune.


"Well, sir, I have slept all night in these woods alone and there has no ghost been near to warn me that I had better quit my search and go home," said Nat, sitting up on his bed of boughs and rubbing his eyes. "I reckon the ghosts all exist in that storekeeper's imagination. Now I must take a good look at that rock again, eat some crackers and cheese and go down after that spade and pick-ax. By this time tomorrow I shall be a rich man."

Nat had often wondered how much there was of that money that was hidden away, and he was always obliged to confess that he did not know. The neighbors all insisted that old man Nickerson was "powerful rich," and acting upon this supposition he thought that about $5,000 would amply repay him for all his trouble. That would get him a nice education, and that was all that Nat asked for. He could then take care of himself.

Nat sprang off his bed, performed the hasty operation of washing his hands and face in the brook, and not having any towel to wipe upon, went up the bank toward the stone, shaking the water off his hands as he went. The rock was all there; he was certain on that point. If he had that spade and pick-ax in his hands he would soon know how much he was worth. The only trouble with him now was, to dig it up, reach St. Louis with it in some way or other and put it in the bank. Once there he would like to see Jonas and Caleb get their hands upon it.

The next thing was breakfast, and that was very soon dispatched, and then he tried to make himself a little more respectable to the persons who met him on the way by brushing off his clothes and bringing some pins into play to hide his rents. Then he stood up and looked at himself.

"They will show anyway, I don't care how I pin them," said Nat, at length. "Well, what's the odds? Everyone knows how I lived there under that man's roof, and I can't be expected to look any better. Maybe I will look as well as the best of them one of these days."

Nat's first care was to hide Peleg's gun and ammunition for fear that some one might come along and appropriate them to his own use. The whole thing was not worth two dollars, but still that would be something for Peleg to lose. He would go frantic if he found that the gun had been stolen. This done he was ready to leave his camp and he took the near way through the bushes; and when they had closed up behind him he could not help thinking how frightened Peleg was when he came through there. He neither saw nor heard anything alarming, and in a short time he climbed the fence and was out in the road. As luck would have it a team was going by, and the man pulled up his horses and offered him a ride.

"Going fur?" said he. "Well jump in."

"Thank you," said Nat "It's about six miles to Manchester, and I believe it is cheaper riding than walking."

"What are you doing down there in old man Nickerson's?" asked the man. "Ain't you the boy that lives with old man Keeler! I hear that old man Nickerson is dead."

"Yes sir. He just died a few days ago."

"Well, how much did he leave old man Jonas's wife! I hear he was powerful rich."

"I don't know how much he was worth, but I don't believe he left anything."

"Now that is mighty mean of him. He has some money somewhere, and the man what finds it is rich as Julius Caesar."

"I thought he must be worth $5,000 dollars," said Nat.

"Oh, my! Say $15,000 or $20,000, and you will just about hit it. You see some fellows living around here think that the rebels got it, but the old man was too sharp for them. Then they got mad and burned his house and left him out in the cold; and then Jonas took him in. Did he leave Jonas anything!"

"No, I am quite sure he did not. Are there any ghosts down here in the woods!"

"Naw. There are some fellows who have been up here a time or two, and when they came back they told wonderful stories of what they had seen back there in the timber. But there is nothing to it."

Nat became silent after this and so did the man He began to be real uneasy now, for there was a difference in the sum the old man had left behind him. He drew a long breath every time he thought of the wide gulf there was between $5,000 and $15,000 or $20,000, so much so that the driver looked at him in surprise; but he had nothing to say for which Nat was very thankful. In due time they arrived at Manchester, and Nat, after thanking the man once more for his kindness, sprang from the wagon and went into the store.

"Well, sir, I declare, if one of them boys hasn't come back," said the storekeeper, hurrying forward to shake hands with Nat. "Did you see any of them ghosts and what did they say to you!"

"I did not see one," said Nat, with a smile. "I guess last night was not their night to come out. Have you got my things handy?"

"Yes sir. They are right up here where I put them. But what has become of your pardner?"

"You scared him out."

"Do you mean that he has run away? Well, I am sorry for that," said the storekeeper, on receiving an affirmative nod from Nat.

"I am not sorry for it," said Nat to himself. "It gave me just the chance I was waiting for -- to dig without his knowing it."

Without waiting for the man to ask him any more questions Nat picked up the things he had left behind, including the pick-ax and spade, and turned to go out when the storekeeper evidently wanted some other matters settled.

"You said yesterday that you were going up to them woods to look for timber," said he. "Now what do you want to do with those things!" he went on, pointing to the spade and pick-ax.

"There are some other things we wanted to fix," said Nat, without an instant's hesitation. "We are going to put in some crops there, and we want to repair the old man's fence which has become torn down during the war."

"Oh!" said the man, staring rather hard at Nat. "You will need an ax, then."

"That reminds me. I came pretty near forgetting it."

Nat laid down his bundles again and the man turned to get the implement he had spoken of, and while he was getting it down he kept his eyes fastened on Nat's face. But he said nothing more and saw him take his purchases and leave the store.

"Now maybe that story will do and maybe it won't," said the man, as he came out from behind the counter and watched Nat going along the street. "There is something else that you want to dig for. I wonder if it is the old man's money?"

"They say that he had sights and gobs of it when he buried it to keep it out of the hands of the rebels," said a man who was seated in the back part of the store, and who now came up to listen to what the storekeeper had to say. "But the rebels didn't get none of it. He hid it where they couldn't find it."

"They say he is living up to Jonas Keeler's," said the first.

"Old man Nickerson is dead. He has been dead two or three days. It is a wonder you had not heard of it."

"Well, sir, that boy is going to dig for the money," said the storekeeper, doubling up his huge fist and bringing it down upon the counter. "Now what be we going to do about it!"

"I don't know of any other way than for me and you to go up there and watch him while he digs for it," said the customer, in a whisper. "When he gets it dug up, we'll just take it."

"And what will the boy do?" asked the storekeeper.

"Oh, we can easy fool him. Let us play ghosts."

That was something new to the storekeeper. He drew nearer to his customer and the two whispered long and earnestly. At length they seemed to agree upon a plan, for the customer went out and the storekeeper went back to his place behind the counter.

"I let that fellow talk too much," said Nat, as he walked hurriedly away with his bundles in his arms. "He knows that I want to dig in the ground, or else I wouldn't have called for these things. I must get back to my camp and go to work as soon as possible, or else I shall have some one else on my back."

Nat was now harassed by another fear and to save his life he could not shake it off. That storekeeper at Manchester knew there was no such thing as ghosts in the woods, he knew that Peleg had been frightened away by the bare mention of such objects as might be around in the event of their search proving successful, and how did he know but that the storekeeper and some one like him, might take it into their heads to come up and look into the matter. He was now more afraid of those men than he was of Jonas and Caleb.

"I tell you it all depends upon getting my work done quick," said Nat, turning about and looking at the store. "That storekeeper will come up there for fifteen or twenty -- By gracious! I wish I had that money dug up now."

The longer Nat dwelt upon the matter the greater haste seemed necessary and the longer the distance was to the Nickerson woods. He broke into a dog trot before he was fairly out of sight of the city, and by the time he climbed the fence that threaded the bushes he was nearly exhausted. Everything there was just as he left it; but so out of breath was Nat that he threw himself on his bed of boughs and heartily wished he possessed the strength of a dozen men. At length he sprang up and went to work. He must do something or else see his fortune slip through his grasp. He cut the lever with which to move the rock, trimmed it off neatly and catching up his pick-ax and spade he jumped across the brook and made his way up the hill. Hastily clearing away the bushes that had grown up around the rock he thrust his lever under one side of it, got under the other end, and to his surprise the rock moved with scarcely an effort on his part.

"Hail Columbia happy land!" gasped Nat, as he eased up for a moment on the lever and surged upon it to obtain a new hold upon the rock. "The thing moves, and that proves that it has been pried out of its bed before. Come out here and let us see what's under you."

The rock was heavier than Nat thought it was, but by dint of sheer hard work he finally succeeded in getting it out of its bed and moved away so that he could use his spade. To have seen him go about his work one would have thought he had an all day's job before him and that he was to ask for his pay when his work was done. Although his face was very white and his hands trembled, he took a spadeful of earth before he threw it out, and once, when he saw the perspiration gathering upon him, he stopped, took off his hat and wiped his forehead ere he set in again.

"I just know there is something here, but I will take it easy and by the time I strike the money -- but perhaps it isn't money at all," murmured Nat, pausing in his exertions to see how much he had accomplished. "Whatever there is, it has got to come out."

Before Nat got down as far as he wanted to go he came to the conclusion that Mr. Nickerson must have thought that he had plenty of time at his disposal, for he dug down at least two feet before he struck anything. But the earth was soft, in all these years it had not become packed at all, and that showed that there had been somebody there before him. At length his spade hit something hard -- something which he could not remove. He dug down by the side of it and then found that it was a board which completely filled up the space. To get the dirt off of the rest of the board was comparatively easy, and then Nat threw out his spade, stepped to one side and placed his hands under it. The sight that met his gaze was enough to deprive him of the little strength he had left. The space below him was literally filled up with bags -- small bags, to be sure, but one of them was so heavy that when Nat came to lift it from its place and put it out of the hole so that he could examine it, he found that handling it was quite as much as he wanted to do.

"Hail Columbia happy land!" said Nat again. "I am in luck for once in my life. There is more than $5,000 in that bag."

Nat followed the bag out of the hole, carefully untied the string with which it was closed and he was astonished at what he saw. The bag was filled with gold pieces, twenties and tens and fives down to ones. That one bag alone must have contained almost the sum he had named.

"Now everything depends upon my quickness," said Nat, seating himself beside the bag and looking thoughtfully at the others. "What shall I do with them now that I have got them? I must put them somewhere else."

Nat went about this work as though he could see into the future and knew what was going to happen there in his camp in less than ten minutes. He sprang into the hole again and as fast as he could raise the bags they came out on the earth he had shoveled up. Then he came out and running into his camp seized Peleg's valise and emptied the contents upon the ground. It was better than nothing, although it would not hold more than two bags. The other one he carried under his arm and then began looking around for some place to hide them. It did not matter much where he put them so long as they could effectually hide the spot from curious eyes. At last he stopped before a huge log which had a quantity of leaves piled against it. To scrape those leaves away with his hands was an easy matter, and his bags were hastily put in, and yet there was enough for three others. They were quickly stowed away in the new place, and with the spade Nat made everything look as natural as it did before.

The next thing was to fill up the hole and restore the rock to its bed. It seemed to him that this was a task beyond his powers but perseverance conquers all obstacles, and when it was done he threw some leaves over the earth that was scattered around, put the branches back in their place and then he was tired enough to sit down; but there was still one thing that remained to be done. The contents of Peleg's valise had to be returned, and when this was done, without any reference being made to the order in which his underwear was placed, and his spade and pick-ax had been brought under the lean-to and the ax hidden away in the bushes, Nat was ready to sit down and draw a long breath of relief.

"Hail Columbia, happy land!" said he to himself. "It is better to be born lucky than rich. There must be as much as thirty or forty thousand dollars in those bags. It is mine, Mr. Nickerson told me that he had no kith or kin to leave it to, and I will die before I will give it up. I am quite willing that anybody should come in here and go all over the woods, and if he did not see me hide the money he will have his trouble for his pains."

While this thought was passing through his mind he heard a sudden rattling in the bushes behind him, and before he could start to his feet to see who it was, the branches parted and Jonas Keeler's forbidding face came through. The face, half hidden by thick, bushy whiskers, did not look much as it did when Nat last saw him. There was an eager expression upon it, and his hands trembled so that he could scarcely take his rifle down from his shoulder.

"Well, sir, we have found you at last," said Jonas, with a grin.

"Yes sir, you have found me at last," repeated Nat, sinking back upon his bed of boughs again.

Just at that moment the bushes parted again and Caleb came out. He seemed more eager than his father was. He looked all around to make sure that there was no one else present, and then walked into the camp as though he had a right to.

"Thank goodness here's a gun," said he, and the tenderness with which he picked up his single barrel and looked it carefully over, would have led one to believe that it was worth money. "Did you see anything to shoot with it?"

"No," replied Nat. "The woods were perfectly quiet last night."

"Now, Nat, let us come to business at once," said Jonas setting his rifle down by the side of a tree and pushing back his sleeve. "Where is the money that you have come here to dig up?"



Chapter XII.

Two Brave Hunters.


"Ghosts," said Jonas Keeler, leaning his back against the side of the barn and crossing his legs. "I didn't know that there was any around here, although we used to hear and see plenty of them down in Pike County where I lived when I was a boy."

"Where did you go to find them, pap?" asked Caleb, who seemed to be deeply interested in what his father had to say.

"We didn't go anywhere to see them. They generally came to us, and they came, too, just when we didn't want to see them. We used to find them in grave-yards; and now and then they would come into our barns and houses. What did they do to you, Peleg? You need not be afraid to speak of them here, because there ain't no ghosts about."

"They didn't do anything to me," answered Peleg, "cause why, I got afraid and dug out."

Peleg had been looking for a place to sit down, and when nothing else offered he sat down on the floor of the barn and drew his feet under him. His story was a long one and immensely thrilling. He said that he and Nat did not hear anything out of the ordinary until they came to Manchester, and then the storekeeper put them on their guard. He told about the queer things he had heard while going through the bushes, and then he came to the strange words Nat had used -- "Here I am and there I am" until Jonas began to look wild. But when he came to the tree on the hillside which dropped its boughs when Nat called upon him, Jonas's face, which had thus far betrayed the deepest interest, suddenly gave away to a smile, and he finally threw his head back against the barn and broke out into a violent laugh.

"Now I will tell you what's the fact; it is the truth and nothing else," stammered Peleg, who was lost in wonder. "I saw it with my own eyes."

"No doubt you did," said Jonas, wiping his eyes to get rid of the tears that held to them. "But don't you know that that was the sign of falling weather? If you don't, you have lived in this country a good while for nothing."

"That's what I tell him," said Mr. Graves. "He has got so interested in the ghosts that he is willing to believe he sees ghosts in everything."

"Well, all I have to say is, let them that think differently go down there and stay all night," said Peleg. "I won't do it for no man's money."

"Did Nat feel afraid when you spoke of the ghosts?" asked Jonas.

"Naw. That boy ain't afraid of anything. He even called after me when I started for home to come back again, but I didn't go."

"Caleb, have you got them cows milked?" asked Jonas, getting upon his feet. "Then you had better stir your stumps and we will go in and get some breakfast. It is after grub time now, and I begin to feel hungry."

"Well, Jonas, what are you going to do?" inquired Mr. Graves, who somehow took this as a gentle hint that he had got through with their conversation. "Are you going down there to see about that money?"

"Naw," said Jonas; whereupon Caleb, who had gathered up a milk-bucket, turned and looked at him with mouth and eyes wide open. "There ain't no money there. When Nat gets tired of looking for it he will come back."

Mr. Graves acted as though he wanted to say something else, but Jonas picked up a fork and began tossing about the fodder and paid no further attention to him. He waited a minute or two, then motioned to Peleg, put his rifle on his shoulder and went out. Jonas continued tossing about the fodder until they were well on their way to the house, and then stood the fork up where it belonged and called to Caleb in a whisper:

"Say; do you believe all that boy said about ghosts?" said he.

"Yes. Don't you?" said Caleb in surprise.

"No, I don't. There may be some down there -- I ain't disputing that; but Nat never used words to help him look for that money. Say, I am going down there."

"Oh, pap!" was all Caleb could say in reply.

"I am, and if there is money there, I will bet you he has found it."

"But, pap, you said there wasn't any there."

"Don't you see I said that just to keep old man Graves and his boy at home? Hurry up and milk them cows and I will hitch up the horse."

"Are you going with the wagon?"

"Course. It is easier to ride than it is to walk, and the first thing we know -- "

"Must I go with you?" said Caleb, almost ready to drop.

"Of course you are. I can't go alone; and think of the money we will have when we come back!"

"Well, pap, you can go and I'll stay here. It ain't safe to go. Peleg has been down there and he said he would not go again for no man's money. I've got a heap of work to do -- "

"Now, Caleb, you just shut up about the work you've got to do," said Jonas angrily. "You will have to go with me and that is all about it. If Nat is not afraid of the ghosts, why should you be?"

"Yes; but you know how good Nat was to the old man when he was alive. If I had been that way, I could have gone, too."

Jonas evidently did not hear this last remark of Caleb's, for he seized the harness and went in to fix up the horse which did not look able to travel twenty miles to save his life. But then that was the way that Jonas's stock all looked. In a few minutes he had the harness on and led him out of the barn to hitch him to the wagon. It was just at this time that Mr. Graves and his party were going outside the bars and his wife was coming down the walk to meet him. She was coming with long strides, too, as if she had something on her mind.

"Say, Jonas," said she, as soon as she was near enough to make him hear.

"Well, say it yourself," retorted Jonas. "I know all about it. I am going down to old man Nickerson's woods, me and Caleb are, and we are going to have that money. Have you anything to say against it?"

"Oh, Jonas, don't you know that there are ghosts down there?" said Mrs. Keeler, almost ready to believe that the man had taken leave of his senses to propose such a thing.

"Then that's what his wife stopped in the house for," said Jonas, and he shouted out the words so that Mr. Graves could hear them. "What does she know about ghosts? Now I heard all Peleg's story, and I listened to it as though I believed it; but if Nat is down there and can stay there all night without the ghosts troubling him, why can't other people do it, too? There ain't no ghosts there."

"Do you really think so, Jonas?"

"I know it. You see by going with the horse we'll get there in the daytime, and everybody knows that ghosts can't hurt you then. I will make him get that money and then me and you will have good times."

"But maybe Nat won't do it. He would be a fule to tell you where that money is hidden."

Jonas was by this time engaged in hitching one of the traces to the whiffletree of the wagon. He stopped in his work, leaned against his horse which did not seem able to bear any weight but his own, and put his hands into his pockets.

"That boy is a plumb dunce if he is going down there to find that money and then give it up to you, who didn't do the first thing toward helping him," continued Mrs. Keeler.

"What's the reason Nat won't give up the money to me?" demanded Jonas.

"Because you won't have your switch handy."

"I have my knife in my pocket, and I tell you that switches are as handy down there in the woods as they be up here," said Jonas, once more turning to his work. "What did that old woman Graves have to say to you?"

"Oh, she told the awfulest stories of what Peleg had seen," said Mrs. Keeler, moving up to be a little closer to her husband. "She told about the heads and horns coming out of the bushes -- "

"She made that all up out of her own head," interrupted Jonas, who became angry again. "Peleg did not see anything, because if he had, Nat would have become frightened, too. Now is breakfast ready? I am just crazy to be on my way to them woods. When you see us coming back, you can just take them old caliker gowns of yours and bundle them into the fire. You won't have any more use for them."

Mrs. Keeler tried to look pleased at this, but somehow or other she could not help thinking of the work Jonas would have to do before she could take those "caliker gowns" and tumble them into the fire. But she did not say any more for she knew it would be useless. She led the way toward the house to get breakfast ready, and Jonas followed with the wagon. Caleb came along presently with the milk, and he was the most sober one in the lot. He knew better than to refuse to go with his father, for there was that switch down in the barn. It had not been brought into use since his father threatened to apply it to Nat for saying that he would not give up the shoes he had purchased, and Caleb did not want to see it brought out for his benefit.

Jonas was evidently not at ease during breakfast, for he talked incessantly about the money which he knew was there, and the way he was going to induce Nat to show it to him.

"Just let me touch that switch to him once and see how quick he will run to that place where the money is hidden," said Jonas, with an approving wink at his son. "He will go so fast that you can't see him for the dust. If he don't do it, I have another thing that will get next to him. I'll tie him up and leave him there in the woods without a bite to eat or a drop to drink, and see how long he will be in coming to his senses."

The breakfast being over there was nothing to detain them. Caleb got up and took down his father's rifle which he closely examined. With that in his hands he was pretty sure that he could fight his way with any ghost that came in his path.

"Put a double charge of powder in there and two bullets," said Jonas. "That's the way I come it over a deer, and I will bet you if one of them ghosts gets those balls in his head -- Well, he will be a dead ghost, that's all."

"You will let me carry the rifle, won't you?" said Caleb.

"No, I reckon I had best carry it myself and you do the driving," said Jonas, stretching out his hand for the weapon. "You can drive that old horse a heap faster than I can, and if I see one of those horns stuck out from the bushes -- "

"Now, Jonas, don't talk that way," whined Mrs. Keeler, casting uneasy glances about the room. "There may be one of them here now."

"Naw, there ain't. There ain't no ghosts in the world. If you are ready Caleb, jump in. You will see us somewhere about sun-down."

Jonas went ahead to lower the bars so that the wagon could drive through, and then, paying no further attention to his wife, he climbed to his seat, and Caleb cracked the whip and drove off.

"Hit the old fellow and make him go faster," said Jonas. "We must get there by sun up, and have plenty of time to do the work besides. If we don't, we have got to come home in the dark."

This was all the encouragement that Caleb needed to make him keep up a tremendous beating of the horse all the way to Manchester. The horse suffered and did his best, but he did not seem to carry them over the miles very rapidly; but at length, to Caleb's immense relief, the village appeared in sight. Of course the travelers were hungry and the horse needed watering, and so they drew up before the store at which Nat had purchased his things. Of course, too, the storekeeper knew them; he knew everybody within a circle of twenty miles around, and greeted them very cordially.

"Well, if there ain't Jonas," said he, briskly. "Are you going up to the woods to see how Nat is getting on? He was in here an hour or so ago, but I don't see what he got those things for. He told me that he was going to look at some timber, and he bought a pick-ax and spade. Now what is he going to do with them?"

This was the same man who had waited on Nat when he was in the store, and he was determined to find out what those digging implements were to be used for. The customer whom he had consulted, was outside attending to some necessary business and getting a team ready to go up to Mr. Nickerson's woods and find out, but he looked upon Jonas's coming as a most fortunate thing, and he hoped that by some adroit questioning he could learn something; but he soon gave it up as a bad job.

"Now the boy doesn't want a pick-ax and spade to find timber with, does he?" continued the storekeeper. "He must be going to dig in the ground with them, and I would like to know what he is after. He said he was going to repair some fences; but I did not believe it."

"Give me ten cents' worth of crackers and ten cents' worth of cheese," said Jonas, who wanted to get a little time to think about this matter. "I believe we are going to have falling weather before long."

"It looks like it now," said the man, hurrying to fulfill Jonas's order. "We need rain badly. What did you say Nat wanted that spade and pick-ax for?"

"Oh yes; he is going to fix some fences, and of course he needs a spade to get the blocks in right," said Jonas, who had been doing some tremendous thinking while the storekeeper was getting out his crackers and cheese. "I am going up to look at him and see that he does his work right Yes, the old man is dead," said he, in reply to a question. "And if I can pay the tax rates on this place I shall have it."

"Did he leave you anything?" asked the storekeeper. "I suppose that is what you are looking out for."

"I don't know why I should look for that more'n anything else," said Jonas, in a tone of voice that showed the storekeeper that he did not care to answer any more questions on this point. "The money was his own, and he left it to whom he pleased."

Having secured his crackers and cheese and the horse having drunk all he could, Jonas and Caleb climbed into the wagon again and continued on their way. At this moment the customer drove up with a team.

"It is no go, Eph," said the storekeeper. "That's Jonas in that wagon. He did not say anything about money, but I will tell you what I think: If the old man has left any money, he has got it hidden up there in the woods. Let us wait until the boy comes down here and then go for him."

"It beats the world how everybody seems to think that the old man had left us some money," said Jonas, as plainly as a mouthful of cracker would permit. "Everyone seems to think that the old man had money, and I believe he had, too. And it all rests with Nat. If he's found it I am going to know where it is. Hit him hard, Caleb, and make him go faster."

The six miles that lay between them and the village seemed to have lengthened out wonderfully, but the old horse finally covered the distance at last and drew up at the place where the boys had crossed the fence to enter the bushes. There had been somebody through there, that was plain; but Caleb's eyes grew wild when he looked at the dark masses of brush that lay before him; and even Jonas was not quite so lively as he had been.

"I tell you it is mighty dark in there," said the elder, getting his rifle into shape for instant shooting. "Go ahead, Caleb."

"Now I won't do it," said Caleb, seizing his father's arm and trying to push him toward the fence. "Give me the gun and I'll go."

But that gun was something that Jonas did not want to part with. He felt safe when he had that weapon, and that was more than could be said if Caleb had charge of it.

"Well, stay right close behind me and then nobody can hurt you," said Jonas, speaking two words for himself and one for Caleb. "Don't run away. The best way to fight these ghosts is to -- "

"But, pap, you say there isn't any," Caleb reminded him.

"Now I don't believe there is; but it is well to be on the safe side. Come on, now."

It was hard work for Jonas to screw up his courage to cross the fence, but he finally did it at last. As soon as he was safe in the bushes Caleb scrambled after him.



Chapter XIII.

The Rabbit's Foot.


Jonas and Caleb found it a hard task to work their way through those thick bushes toward the back end of Mr. Nickerson's dooryard. There had been a path in former times, but it had been used so very seldom of late that the briers and branches had grown over it until it was pretty nearly obstructed. Caleb listened for the queer sounds that Peleg had heard while going through there, but nothing attracted his attention and he began to believe that there was nothing unusual in there. Jonas worked his way ahead without saying anything, and finally pushed the last bush aside and sprang out in full view of Nat's camp. He cast his eager eyes around to see if any of the money had been dug up, but he could see nothing of it. Nat looked just like a hunter who was enjoying a rest after a long day in the woods.

"Well, sir, we have found you at last," were the first words Jonas uttered. "Now where is the money that you have come to dig up?"

"What money?" inquired Nat, slowly rising to his feet.

"Aw! What money?" shouted Jonas, going under the lean-to, catching up Peleg's valise and shaking it to be sure that there was no money in it. "I mean that money you have come here to dig up -- the money that old man Nickerson hid here during the war; the money that you have been drawing on to buy him tobacco? Where is it?"

"You have the camp and you see everything that is to be seen," said Nat. "Where the money is I don't know. Yes, I do know," he added to himself. "But I am going to keep it to myself."

"Whoo-pee!" said Jonas again. "Did you come down here for nothing? I know you didn't; and I must know where that money is and all about it, or there will be the worst whipped boy here in these woods that you ever heard tell of. Once more and for the last time, I ask you where it is."

"You can just look around and find it for yourself," replied Nat, who, by gradually working his way around, had succeeded in getting between Jonas and the bushes. "If Mr. Nickerson left any money I don't know where it is. He would not leave it up here in the woods for it to rot all away and do nobody any good."

"No, I don't think he would do that. He thought too much of a dollar to waste it in that way; but he could leave it up here in the woods and tell you where to find it when he was through with it. Now, Nat, where is it? Tell me, honor bright, and I will give you half of it; I will, so sure as I stand here."

"You must look around and find it, for I don't know where it is," replied Nat; and the expression on his face showed that he was in earnest in his decision to keep the hiding place of the money all to himself. "If you find it you can have it all."

"I'll bet you I do, and you will go without shoes and clothes this winter," said Jonas, slipping his hand into his pocket and looking around at the trees as if he were searching for a switch. "I made you an offer and you won't take it, and now I will look for myself; but first you are going to have something to remember that offer by. What do you find there, Caleb?"

"There ain't nothing in Peleg's valise because I have looked all through it," replied Caleb. "But here is something I can't see into."

As he spoke he passed the spade over to his father, running his fingers through some dirt that still adhered to it.

"That spade has been used since it came up here, and if it could speak it would tell you something about the money," continued Caleb. "He has dug it up and hid it away in another place."

"Caleb, you are right" said Jonas, examining the spade. "Now where is it? Caleb, you just keep an eye on him while I cut a switch. I will bet you that he will tell all about it in less'n five minutes."

"I can't tell you about a thing that I don't know," said Nat.

"No; but you only think you have forgotten. A switch has a big means of starting one's intellect, and when you see that swinging over your head, you will think faster than you do now."

"Pap, I believe we are onto the track of the money at last," said Caleb, who seemed to have forgotten all about the ghosts. "Lay it onto him good fashion, and we'll go back home -- by gracious! I wouldn't take ten dollars for my chance."

The words seemed to encourage Jonas, who presently pulled down a big bough and began to cut it loose. It was a large limb, larger than the one he would have taken to beat his horse with, and while he used his knife upon it, Caleb slipped around until he got on the outside of Nat, that is between him and the bushes, and stood regarding him with a smile of intense satisfaction.

"Don't hit me with that thing," said Nat, suddenly straightening up until he seemed to grow larger and stronger than Caleb had ever seen him look before. "If you do you will at ways regret it."

"Oh, no, I won't hit you with it," said Jonas, with a sort of laugh that sounded more like the growl of an enraged animal. "I'll just wear you out with it unless you tell me what has been going on here and all about it. You know where that money is, and I am going to find out before I let you go. You hear me?"

There was something about Nat that did not look exactly right to Caleb. He thought that his father had undertaken a bigger job than he could accomplish by endeavoring to force the boy to tell where his money was hidden, and if he could work it some way so as to get "upon Nat's blind side" and coax him to tell what he wanted to know, why the way would be so much the easier for them. He resolved to try it, but he did not have time to try it all.

"Come now, Nat, you see how pap is going to lick you, don't you?" said he. "Now tell me where the money is and you will get off scott free. Come now, Nat. Me and you has always been the best of friends -- "

What else Caleb was going to say he did not have time to say it, that is while he was standing erect. The place on which Nat was standing was suddenly vacant, Caleb's left arm received a wrench and his foot a trip, and both of them sent him headlong into the bushes. A moment afterward Nat dashed into the bushes and was out of sight in an instant.

"By gum!" said Caleb, slowly raising himself upon his elbow and gazing in the direction Nat had taken. "Pap, he has got away."

"Well!" exclaimed Jonas, who being concealed from view of the boys had not seen Nat when he made his bold dash for freedom. "Has he run away?"

"Yes, sir, he has run away; and he throwed me -- "

Jonas came around the tree and found that Nat was not there. He glanced all around in every direction but the boy he had hoped to try the switch upon was somewhere else. Caleb was just crawling to his feet.

"And did you stand there and let him go?" demanded Jonas, and he half raised the switch as if he had a mind to lay it over Caleb's shoulders. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"You might as well try to stop a hurricane as to stop that fellow," said Caleb, holding one hand to his elbow. "I never saw a boy go so before."

"Well, now, catch him; catch him," shouted Jonas. "Which way did he go?"

"Out there among the bushes; and pap, I just ain't a-going in there after him. Maybe he'll get those ghosts on his side."

Jonas, who had been on the point of rushing into the bushes in pursuit of Nat, stopped when he heard those words and pulled off his hat and dashed it upon the ground at his feet. Then Caleb saw that his father was afraid of ghosts as he was himself. It was only his desire to possess the money that had induced him to come there. Caleb stood holding fast to his elbow and waiting to see what he was going to do about it.

"Dog-gone such luck!" said Jonas.

"That's just what I say," replied Caleb. "Why did not the old man leave his money to you or mam like he had oughter do? Now nobody won't get it."

"Nobody except that miserable Nat," sputtered Jonas. "I have a good notion to use the switch on you for letting him go."

"Well, pap, you would not make anything by that. I was talking to him like a Dutch uncle, and the first thing I knew I was flat on my back, and he was just going out of sight. I did not hear anything of him from the time he struck the bushes. Do you hear him now?"

Jonas listened but all the sound he heard was the chirping of birds and the faint sough of the wind as the breeze swept through the bushes. Everything was as still as a graveyard; it seemed too still for the woods. Jonas listened for a moment and then gathered up his hat and put it on his head.

"Let's go home," whispered Caleb. "This ain't no place for us."

"That's just what I was thinking of," said Jonas, in the same cautious whisper. "Let's take everything he has got in his lean-to and dig out. We shall have to hurry because it will be dark before we reach home."

"I don't believe in taking Peleg's valise and gun back to him," observed Caleb. "He brought them out here and he can take them back."

"Well, that is so," said Jonas, who was busy picking up the spade and pick-ax and such provisions as he could find. "But in the present opportunity we want Peleg and his pap to believe that we were here. We have got a fearful story to tell when we go back, and we want them to believe us."

"That is so, too; but, pap, we won't go back through the bushes, will we?"

"Not much we won't," exclaimed Jonas, as if he were surprised at the mere mention of such a thing. "Nat's in there, and who knows but what he has got some of the ghosts to help him along?"

"I'll bet you that is just what he did," said Caleb, dropping the armful of things which he had gathered up. "I did not hear hide nor hair of him after he got into the bushes."

Father and son were not long in picking up the things that were scattered about the lean-to (they did not find the ax because that was concealed in the bushes), and with them in their hands they beat a hasty retreat from the camp, following the course that Peleg had pursued when he was there on a former occasion. They reached the bars, stopping now and then to cast furtive glances behind them, and when they got fairly into the road their courage began to return to them.

"I will tell you just what is the matter with us," said Jonas. "We have not got a rabbit's foot between us."

"I do think in my soul that that's what's the matter," said Caleb, stopping short and looking at his father. "Do you reckon that Nat has one of them?"

Now a rabbit's foot is something that is held in high esteem by the negroes at the South, and by some of the white people, too. Whenever you kill a rabbit, take one of the feet off and put it into your pocket; or, if you are already provided for in that respect, take the foot and give it to some one who has not got any. Thus equipped you are free from every danger. Ghosts can not disturb you, and if you have to pass a graveyard or a house that is haunted after dark, it will see you safely through. Beyond a doubt this was what was the matter with Jonas and his son. They had thought of their rabbit's feet when it was too late to be of service to them. They were kept at home on the mantle piece, snugly stowed away so that they could be seized at a moment's warning, and they had come away and never thought a word about them.

"Now did anybody ever hear of such luck?" said Jonas, in disgust. "I have a rabbit's foot and so have you; and by leaving them at home is what has beaten us. We will go down there to-morrow or next day and see what luck we shall have."

"Do you reckon that Nat has one of them!" repeated Caleb, who was greatly relieved to know what it was that had brought them such ill luck. "Of course he had, or he never could have called upon them ghosts to help him."

"Dog-gone such luck," repeated Jonas, who kept turning this matter over in his mind. "He wouldn't go away and leave his rabbit's foot behind when he was engaged in such business, would he? I tell you I am going to keep it in my pocket wherever I go. It ain't safe to be without it."

It was a long way by the road to the place where they had left their horse, and every step of the way they looked at the bushes fearful that Nat would come out at them accompanied by one or more of the ghosts. When they reached the wagon Jonas climbed in without any words, leaving Caleb to turn the horse around, and to take care of his rifle which he hastily handed to him.

"I think I will drive going back," said he, "He is going toward home now, and perhaps I can make him step pearter than you did."

Caleb saw through his father's little trick, but he gave in to it without saying a word. He was going to have the handling of the rifle now, and he breathed a good deal easier as he clutched the weapon and seated himself on the seat beside Jonas. He did not care if Nat had three or four ghosts to back him up. He was a sure shot with a gun, and he was certain that there would be one ghost less in the country should one show himself.

The old horse stepped out wonderfully under the new driver, and it was not long before Jonas's courage all came back to him and he could talk about what happened there in Mr. Nickerson's dooryard without shouting himself hoarse.

"That there is what's the matter with us, Caleb," said he, turning on his seat and greeting him with an approving wink. "It beats the world, as long as I have lived in this country, that I did not think of that rabbit's foot before I left home. But we will try them again some day -- "

"It has got to be pretty soon too, pap," interrupted Caleb. "Nat has seen that money already. He has got it hidden somewhere else."

"I believe you are right," said Jonas, "or else how come that dirt on his spade? And to think we had to give it up just on account of not having that rabbit's foot! These little things sometimes make big changes in our affairs, Caleb?"

Caleb must have thought of this matter all the way home, but he breathed a little easier when the ancestral roof came in sight. His mother was there and she came down to the bars to lower them. As the tired old horse entered the yard she looked at Jonas, but the latter shook his head in a most discouraging manner.

"I just knew how it would be," said she.

"And just on account of leaving that rabbit's foot behind," said Caleb.

"I noticed them, and I had a good notion to holler at you and tell you to take them with you," said Mrs. Keeler. "But I supposed that you knew what you were doing."

None of the family said anything more until they had got to the barn and turned the horse out, and fed him with a handful of grass, and then Jonas seated himself on a bucket, which he turned upside down, and gave his wife a full history of the events that had happened to them since they went away in the morning; that is he had the groundwork of truth for its foundation, but there was many a little item which he put in that occurred to him as he went along. Whenever he touched upon anything which his wife found it hard to believe, he always appealed to Caleb, and the latter never failed to corroborate all he said.

"And do you think that he got those spirits to help him when he went into the bushes?" asked Mrs. Keeler.

"He did; else why didn't he make some noise while he was going through them?" asked Jonas, in reply. "He went along as still as a bird on the wing. It was of no use for anybody to try to follow him. Well, that is once we failed, but the next time we will fight him with his own weapons. Caleb, don't you forget those two rabbits' feet the next time we go."

"You bet I won't," replied Caleb.



Chapter XIV.

The Storekeeper in Action.


Nat's heart was in his month because he did not believe he could escape from Jonas, and Caleb so easily. The noise he necessarily made in running through the bushes would naturally guide them in the pursuit, and Jonas was noted for his lightness of foot, and Caleb also, for that matter. But it was now or never. The switch was being prepared for him, and in a few minutes more he would feel the full weight of Jonas's arm; and that it would fall by all his strength, Nat did not doubt in the least.

"Here goes," said Nat, to himself. "If I fail they can't any more than whip me, and if I get away -- "

Nat did not wait to finish all the sentence that was in his mind. He bounded from his place as if he had been set upon springs, a short skirmish with Caleb who was overturned as easily as a child, and he was safe in the bushes which closed up behind him, and the twigs in his path seemed to give away before him on their own accord. He ran down the path with all the speed he could command, jumped as far to the left as he could and stretched himself out flat on the ground and waited to see what was going to happen. By the merest accident he lay down not ten feet from his camp, and consequently he was within full hearing of their voices while they remained there.

"By gum!" said Caleb, slowly, as he picked himself up from the bushes into which he had been thrown. "Pap, he has got away."

He heard Jonas when he came around the trees and knew when he raised the switch intending to use it on Caleb for not keeping guard over Nat. He listened in the hope that Caleb would feel the full force of that switch, for he had a long account against him and he did not think that any blow he could have received would have been amiss.

"He has got my shoes," said Nat to himself, and it was all that he could do to refrain from speaking the words outright. "Give him a few good licks to pay him for that."

But we know that Jonas did not use the switch upon Caleb, but talked with him about other matters. He knew when they examined the spade again to find the dirt upon it, but all thoughts that they would pursue him were turned into another channel by Caleb's request: "Let us go home. This is no place for us." But there was another fear that came over him just then. They were going home, but they intended to remove everything there was in his camp, provisions and all, and leave Nat to get along as best he could.

"Never mind; I've got my money in my hat," said Nat, pulling off the article in question and feeling of his roll of bills. "And even if he robs me, what harm will it do? I have some more money stowed away, and it is where nobody can find it."

Nat lay there in his concealment and waited patiently for Jonas and Caleb to get through with picking up the articles they wanted to take with them and leave the camp. He knew they would not come back through the bushes, but would go across the field and so steer clear of them. He drew a long breath of relief, and finally raised himself upon his knees as they passed out of the ravine, but still he did not think it wise to show himself until the creaking of wheels, loudly proclaiming their need of wagon grease, was heard, slowly at first, then increasing in volume as the horse responded to the whip, and when it had died away entirely he got upon his feet and made his way back to the camp. Everything that could have been of use to him had disappeared.

"Now the next thing will be something else and what shall it be?" said Nat, throwing himself upon his bed of boughs and turning the matter over in his mind. "I can't live without something to eat -- that is plain enough to be seen; and I don't know about going down to Manchester for more grub. Of course somebody there saw Jonas when he came through, and what kind of an excuse will I make for coming back there after more provisions! I have told so many lies lately that I want to keep out of it now, if I can."

For ten minutes Nat laid there trying to make up his mind what to do, and then got up prepared for action. He wanted to see where he had left his money, and then he would go on to Manchester and be governed by circumstances. If Jonas had not stopped there to converse upon his object of going to old man Nickerson's fields, well and good. He would purchase some new clothes, the first he had ever owned, enough crackers and cheese to last him on his way to St Louis, come back to his camp after dark, secure his money, and then the place which had known him so long would know him no more forever. When be was away among strangers and nobody knew who he was, he would be ready to begin his life over again.

"That is what I will do," said Nat, wending his way up the hill. "My first thing must be to get some new clothes, or when I come to put that money in the bank they will think right away that I have stolen it, and there will be more trouble for me. I should not dare to send for anyone here to prove who I am, for they would turn me out the biggest rascal upon earth, so that they could get the money; so what should I do? By George! I am not out of trouble yet."

In a few minutes Nat arrived beside the log under which he had buried Mr. Nickerson's money, or rather he called it his own money now, and everything looked just as it did when he left there. No one had been near it. He threw some more bushes over the place, kicked some leaves around it and then set out for Manchester. He felt his responsibility and it is not right to say that he carried a light heart beneath his jacket, for he did not. He began to see that there was a big difference in wishing for money and having it. He found that it was some trouble to take care of his treasure.

He shortly reached the road near the spot where Jonas and Caleb had left their horse, but there was no one in sight. He climbed over the fence and kept on his way, looking neither to the right hand nor the left, so impatient was he to reach his journey's end, and finally he stood in the store where he had been several times before; but he did not know what those two men in the back part of the store were talking about. They looked up as Nat entered, and instantly a smile overspread their faces and one of them hastened forward to greet him.

"Well, if here ain't that smart looking boy again I don't want a cent," said he, and he was so pleased to see Nat that he laughed all over. "Say, Jonas and Caleb have just been here, and I would like to know what made them leave in such a hurry. They did not see any ghosts, did they!"

"No," said Nat, in disgust. "Have you been treating them to some stories, too? They left some work to do back at home, and went there to attend to it. You scared one fellow out but you can't scare me out."

"I never was so sorry for anything in my life," said the man. "I saw that Peleg could be easily frightened, and so I started that ghost story on him."

"Have you got anything to eat in the store?" asked Nat, who did not want to talk about the ghosts any more. "They took away all the provisions I had."

"Of course we have," said the man briskly. "What do you want? Say. Did you find that money you were looking for?"

"What money?" asked Nat, in surprise.

"Oh, come Nat, there is no use of your trying to play off on us in that style," said the storekeeper; and there was just a shade that darkened his brow as if he were getting angry. "You went up there to dig up some money, didn't you, now?"

"I wish you would give me those provisions and let me go along back," said Nat, who did not much like the way the man eyed him. "I don't know anything about any money."

"See here, Nat," whispered the man, putting his face close to the boy's ear and holding his arm, "if you will tell me where that money is -- "

"I tell you I don't know anything about it," declared Nat, pulling away from the man's grasp. "If you don't want to sell me some grub, I will go elsewhere."

"Come with me; I want to see you," whispered the storekeeper, retaining his hold upon Nat's arm and drawing him toward a side door.

"Say what you have got to say right here," said Nat. "There is no secret about it. I dug up no money while I was there, and I don't care who knows it."

"But I don't want that everybody should know what I am going to say to you," urged the man; and as if to add emphasis to his words he seized the boy with both hands, fairly lifted him from the floor, carried him through the side door which closed behind him. "Now will you listen to what I have to say to you?" he added, with a wicked glitter in his eye. "I have got you now, and here you are going to stay as long as I want you."

At this moment the door opened and the customer came in. He, too, was in the plot if such it could be called, for he evinced no surprise at what he saw.

"Is the way all clear?" asked the storekeeper.

"Yes; there is no one on the streets," replied the customer. "Now what be you going to do with him?"

"We'll take him back in the storeroom and shut him up there," was the answer. "What do you think of that, my boy? There you will wait until you are ready to reply to such questions as I ask you, with a big bull dog to keep an eye on you. If you try to get out there won't be anything left of you in the morning."

While the man was talking in this way he was dragging rather than leading Nat toward the back part of the store, and at last halted in front of a door where he released him, and began searching in his pockets to find the key. It was dark in there, owing to the fact that there were no windows to let in light upon the scene, and when he found the key and inserted it into the lock, a growl followed by a deep-toned bark came from the inside. The animal that uttered it must have been fierce; that was easy enough to be seen.

"Now you see what you'll get if you try to get away," said the storekeeper, throwing open the door. "I reckon you will think twice before you come any of your tricks on Benny; hey, old dog."

Nat's heart seemed to stop beating. If there was anything in the world that he was afraid of it was a savage dog. He looked at Benny, and rightly concluded that "he would not come any of his tricks" on that beast. He was the worst looking dog that Nat had ever seen. He was small, but he had an immense head, and his under jaw stuck out so that his teeth could be plainly seen. He was yellow all over except his head, which was as black as if he had been painted, and he was bob-tailed. He did not appear to be gratified by this intrusion at all. He would hardly get out of his way when the man pushed him aside and pointed to a box and told Nat to sit down there.

"I tell you I don't know anything about that money," said Nat, who was quite alarmed at the idea of being shut in that room over night with such a dog for a companion. "I will go up there with you and help you dig for it; that is if you think it is in the ground."

"Of course we know it is in the ground or else you wouldn't need a spade and pick-ax to throw it out with," answered the storekeeper. "You tell us where it is, and let us go up and dig for it."

"I can't tell you for I don't know;" said Nat.

"Very well; then you can stay here until you find out," said the man, fiercely. "When you get so hungry and thirsty that you can't stand it any longer, you just yell and I will be around. Will you tell us?"

"I have already answered your question until I am tired of it," said Nat, seating himself on the box, with a determined look on his face. "If I stay here until I die you won't get anything else out of me."

"Well, good-by," said the man, moving toward the door. "We are going up right now to look for it, and when we come back, perhaps we will tell you how much we have made. Watch him, Benny. Keep an eye on him, and if he goes near that window, just take him down and serve him the way you did that burglar that got into the store last week."

With this parting advice to his dog the storekeeper went out followed by his customer, and Nat heard the key as it grated harshly in the lock. He sat perfectly still, he was afraid to do otherwise, for, now that his eyes became somewhat accustomed to the darkness, he could see that the dog kept his position beside the door, and seemed to be awaiting some move on his part. Once or twice he licked his huge jaw as if he were tired of waiting.

"Well, sir, I am in for it now," said Nat, running his eye along the wall as if he were looking for that window of which the storekeeper had spoken. "I would not be safer if I were shut up in jail. That dog -- Whew! I don't want anything to do with him."

The dog evidently knew what opinion Nat cherished toward him, for after waiting in vain for him to make some advances, he came over to Nat and laid his chin upon his knee. Nat could hardly keep from yelling when he saw the dog advancing toward him, but when he reached the boy and worked his nose as if he were trying to place his hand upon his head, his heart gave a thrill of delight.

"Well, by gum!" said Nat, unconsciously making use of the same expression that Caleb had used when Nat threw him headlong into the bushes. "I believe the dog is friendly;" and he raised his hand and placed it on the dog's head.

Nat had never been more astonished in his life. The dog's appearance was against him; but that was as far as it went. He was a good, honest dog in reality, and seemed to sympathize with Nat in his trouble.

"Benny, good Benny; I believe you are a good dog yet," said Nat, reaching down and patting the animal on the side. Benny not only submitted to it, but when he saw that Nat was about to stop he worked his nose again as if he meant him to continue. "I believe now that I will try that window," said Nat, a bright idea striking him. "Since Benny is all right if I sit here, he will be all right if I move around."

Nat had by this time located the window, and he arose from his box and moved toward it as though he had a perfect right there. Benny moved with him, and did not raise any objections when Nat seized the staple with which the window was fastened and exerted his strength to open it. It was a heavy window, and was doubtless used for passing in and out bulky goods that would take up too much room in the store; but it yielded to Nat's muscle at last, and by pushing it open a little way he let a flood of light into his prison and could also see what there was outside. He found that the opening gave entrance into a kind of stable yard, bounded by a shed on one side, and by pushing it open a little more, he saw that on the other side it ran down to the street. His escape was now only the question of a few minutes had he cared to leave at this time.

"Glory!" whispered Nat, closing and fastening the shutter and stooping down to caress Benny. "I dare not try it now, for fear that that storekeeper may be on the watch; but when it comes dark, we won't stay in this house any longer. Hail! Columbia happy land!"

Nat now felt at ease. He pulled off his hat, felt of his roll of bills and then began to pat the dog and talk to him. He had certainly determined on one thing and that was to take the dog with him. He had some money, how much he did not know, and it would be the source of immense relief to him to know that he had someone whose looks would help him through.

"I will bet that there won't be anybody pitch into me to see what I have got with me, if he only takes one look at you," said Nat, stroking the dog's head. "I never had a dog take up with me this way before. I tell you, Benny, you came in just right."

It must have been two o'clock by the time Nat was shut up in that room, so he had six or seven hours of waiting to go through before the storekeeper would come around again to see how he felt over telling him where he had left that money. There was one thing about it: He would not tell him; he would die first He kept repeating this resolution over and over again until the sun went down, and it began to grow so dark in his prison that he could not see his hand before him. An hour passed, and then a key rattled in the lock, the dog gave one of his tremendous barks and took his stand in front of the door, which presently opened admitting somebody, it was so dark that he could not see a single feature on him. But it was the storekeeper. He knew him as soon as he spoke.



Chapter XV.

Nat Wood, Gentleman.


"Hi there!" exclaimed the storekeeper, as he threw open the door and stepped over threshold. "Keeping watch over him yet, ain't you, Benny? I told you it wouldn't be safe for you to try to get away. Yes, here's some supper for you, Benny. Nat can't have any until he gets ready to talk to me. How do you come on, Nat?"

"About as comfortably as I can, kept here in the dark and with a savage dog for a companion," said Nat. "I wish you would take me out where it is a little lighter."

"I could not possibly think of it," said the man, with a laugh. "You think you are smart, don't you! We know where that money was hidden, and we have been up there and got it."

It was lucky for Nat that the storekeeper had come in there without a light, for the way these words were spoken fairly took his breath away. This was something that he had not bargained for. He settled back on his box trying to find something to lean against, and could not say anything to save his life.

"What do you say to that, my boy?" asked the man. "You did not know that we could find that money without asking you, did you?"

"Where -- where did you find it?" stammered Nat, suppressing his excitement, and it was all he could do to utter the words.

"Oh, we found it under a tree where the old man had left it," said the storekeeper, carelessly. "I tell you he must have gone down deep, for we dug a trench there that was as deep as we were."

Nat straightened up again and drew a long breath. If the storekeeper told the truth, he had not yet found the money. He had not dug in the place where it was concealed in the first instance, because he did not say anything about the stone which needed a lever to pry it out of its bed.

"Well, you have done more than I could do," said he, after thinking a moment. "You have the money -- How much did you get?"

"Oh, about fifteen or twenty thousand dollars," replied the man. "We were in such a hurry that we didn't stop to count it. But we have enough to keep us without work as long as we live."

"Now what is to hinder you from turning me loose?" asked Nat "I can't do you any more good by staying here."

"I forgot to speak about that to my pardner," said the man, who was taken all aback by this proposition. "And he has gone away and I shan't see him for a week."

"And are you going to keep me here all that time?"

"We might as well. You see we don't want you to go up and tell Jonas and Caleb about this thing, for they might make us trouble."

"I'll promise you that I shall not go near Jonas and Caleb. I want to get as far away from Manchester as I can. You might give me something to eat, any way."

"Well, I will see what my pardner says about it. If you keep still -- "

"Why, your partner has gone away," said Nat.

"I mean when he comes back. It won't take you long to stay here a week. Now if you keep still -- "

"Are you going to keep me a whole week without anything to eat?" asked Nat, in surprise. "I can't possibly live as long as that."

"Maybe my pardner has not gone yet, and I can speak to him. Now if you keep still, that dog would not pester you; but if you get up and go to roaming around, he'll pin you. Then you won't tell me where the money is -- humph!"

This was another evidence that the man had not been near the place where the money was supposed to be hidden. He came pretty near letting the cat out of the bag that time. Nat did not say a word in reply. He wanted the man to believe that he put faith in his story.

"Well, good-by. I shall not be in here before to-morrow morning; and if you have anything to say to me -- "

"What have I got to say? You have found the money, and what more do you want?"

The man muttered something under his breath that sounded a good deal like an oath by the time it got to Nat's ears, turned on his heel and walked out, slamming the door after him. Nat waited until the sound of his footsteps had died away, then threw himself back on his box and laughed silently to himself.

"If everybody is as big a fraud as that man, my money is safe," said he, rubbing his hands together. "He has found the money, and yet he wanted me to tell him where it was. Now, Benny," placing his hand upon the dog, which just then came up and put his head upon his knee. "We will wait until twelve o'clock, and then we will start for Pond Post Office. I know it is a small place but I reckon I can get some clothes there, and a couple of big valises that I can carry my money in."

The time now seemed longer to Nat than it did before. He felt at his ease, and he longed to be up and doing. Every minute that he lingered in his prison-pen was just so much taken away from the enjoyment of his money; and he fretted and chafed over it. He wanted to get up and pace the room in order to make the time pass more rapidly away, but was checked by the thought that the storekeeper might come back there and listen at the door to see what he was doing, and thus put it out of his power to escape by the window.

"If he hears me walking about he will know that Benny and me are all right," said Nat, "and that will arouse his suspicions so that he will put me somewhere else. I reckon I had best sit down here on my box and wait for the hours to go by."

A short time afterward, perhaps it was two or three hours, he heard a faint rustling outside the door, whereupon the dog left him and took up his stand directly in front of it to see what was going to happen. If it was the storekeeper and he wanted to know what was going on in the room, he had his trouble for his pains. Whatever it was that made the noise outside it finally ceased altogether and then everything was quiet.

This happened two or three times, and on each occasion Nat was sure that he was being watched; but every time the watcher went away without hearing or seeing anything suspicious. At last Nat heard some sounds coming from the store which indicated that the proprietor was going to shut up for the night; and then his heart began to beat more rapidly. The time for action was fast approaching. He heard the banging of shutters, the goods which had been outside for inspection during the day, were brought in and stood up beside the counter, and finally the storekeeper's tread was heard outside the door. He tried the lock and found that it was safe.

"Are you all right in there?" Nat heard him inquire.

"As tight as you please," answered Nat; "but in half an hour more I will be down the road," he added, to himself.

"You don't know anything about that money yet, I suppose?" said the man.

"How can I know anything about it when you have got it?" asked Nat. "You have hidden it away somewhere. The best thing you can do is to take it up and clear yourself before I get out."

"You are going to make trouble for me, are you?" said the voice, angrily. "Well, if you get tired of waiting for grub just let me know. Good-by."

"Good-by. And it will be a long time before you see me again," said Nat mentally.

Nat knew when the storekeeper went out and locked the door behind him, and then he heard him go down the street. He knew that he did not sleep in the building but his house lay at some distance from the store, so the coast was clear at last. He resolved to make the attempt at once, being satisfied if he were well on the street it would take a better man than the storekeeper to overhaul him. It was but the work of a few seconds to go to the window and remove the hasp with which it was confined. As the shutter swung loose he found that the moon was shining brightly and that the ten miles that lay between him and Pond Post Office could be made easily as it could by broad daylight.

"Come along, Benny," said Nat placing both hands upon the sill and springing up so that all he had to do was to drop his legs outside. "But maybe you don't want to go."

While Nat was talking about it he was free; and he afterward said that he never felt anything so good as he did when he found the solid earth under his feet once more. The dog made three attempts to follow him, but the window was rather high and all he could do was to get his fore feet upon the sill and each time he fell back making more noise than was agreeable to Nat. The next time he tried it Nat seized him by the thin skin on the back of his neck, and in a moment more he was standing by Nat's side on the ground. We say he was standing by Nat's side; but if the truth must be told, he was prancing around all over the ground as if he were overjoyed at finding himself at liberty once more.

"I will tell you what's the matter with you," said Nat, after he had looked carefully around him and had drawn a bee-line for the bars that led him out into the street. "You have been shut up and deprived of your freedom so long that you don't know what to do with yourself when you are let out. Well, you stick to me and I will see that you are not shut up any more."

Nat's first impulse, when he found himself outside the bars, was to strike up a whistle; but before the first note had fairly left his lips he caught his breath and looked all around to see if there was anybody within hearing. The street was silent and deserted; but that was no sign that there was not somebody stirring in the houses by which he passed so rapidly. He felt of his roll of bills to make sure that he had it, and settled down into a good fast walk, turning his head occasionally to be certain that he was not followed. There was one thing that Nat kept saying to himself: "I have had a struggle for this fortune, and now that it is fairly within my grasp, nobody need think that I am going to give it up. If I don't enjoy it, the money can stay there until it rots."

The next thing that Nat had to decide upon was, as he expressed it, something else. He was free but his money was not free. The way to get his fortune to St. Louis was what troubled him; and he thought about it until he arrived within sight of Pond Post Office. He began to feel sleepy, too. It was then about two o'clock, so that he had to wait for five long hours before the single store of which the village could boast would be open and ready for business. So he climbed the fence, followed by the dog, found himself a comfortable place under the protection of a beech tree and stretched himself out and prepared to go into the land of dreams. That would have been considered a hard couch by some lads who are raised in the city, but Nat had so long been accustomed to hard things that he did not mind it. He slept until the sun was well up, and his dog kept watch over him.

"Now the next thing will be something to eat, Benny," said Nat, pausing for a while in his operations of smoothing down his hair to pat the dog on the head. "I think you could eat a good breakfast, don't you? I tell you what we will do: If they don't have anything at the store worth eating, we will go to someone's house and ask for a meal. I've got money to pay for it."

Nat's next duty was to take out his roll of bills and select enough to pay for his clothes and have a little left over for a bite to eat. When this had been done he put the balance of the roll back again, and the rest into his pocket where it would come handy. Then he climbed the fence and started for Pond Post Office again. He found very few people stirring there but the groceryman was up, and to him Nat at once addressed himself.

"You look as though you had something to eat here," said he.

"Well, yes; that's our business," said the man, smiling upon Nat. "Gracious! What a horrid looking dog. Will he bite?"

"Not while I am around," said Nat. "Have you got a suit of clothes! You see I need one badly enough."

"Well, I should say you did. I was looking at your clothes when you came up. How big a priced one do you want! We have some for $5.00 and some as high as $20.00."

"Let me see a sorter of betwixt and between," said Nat, as he followed the man into the store. "Something that will do to wear between here and St. Louis."

"Are you going as far as St Louis?" asked the man, in amazement. "Then you want something pretty nice. Now there's a suit that will jest suit you."

Nat had never bought any clothes before, and consequently he was rather awkward about it. As far as he could see the clothes were well made (the man took his measure around the chest and of the length of his leg to make sure that they would fit him) the price suited him and he took them on the spot. Then he needed a couple of shirts, two pairs of stockings and a pair of shoes and a hat; all of which he took upon the man's recommendation, and so his trading was quickly done.

"Now I wish to get a couple of valises to put them into," said Nat, looking around the store and trying to select the articles in question.

"One's going to be enough for you," said the man. "Now here is a valise -- "

"That is not the kind I want," said Nat. "I want some old-fashioned carpet things, with a mouth like a catfish. You see I have lots of things to carry with me."

"Are you going to walk?" asked the storekeeper, still more amazed. "Why, it must be as much as one hundred and fifty miles."

"I don't care how far it is, I have got to go there, unless I can find some person who is kind enough to give me a lift."

"You can do that, of course; but I was just thinking that your legs will ache before you get there. Now you hold on a minute. I have two old carpet sacks in my garret that are doing no good to anybody, and if you will wait a minute I will bring them down to you."

The man went to his drawer, put away the money that Nat had given him and went out, leaving him for the next ten minutes there alone in the store. What a chance it would have been for Nat to steal something; but the thought never came into his head. He was leaning back against the counter when the man left, and that was the way he was standing when he came back.

"Those are just the things," said he, taking the carpet sacks and turning them over to see that there were no holes in them. "How much apiece for them?"

"Oh, a quarter; or, as you were raised in this country, two bits," said the storekeeper, smiling at Nat. "How do I know that you were raised in this country? I know it by your looks. I was raised in New York. Now do you want something to eat? Well, come here. I don't know whether I have anything that dog will eat or not. Where did you get that fellow? He would be just the one to guard a fellow's melon patch, wouldn't he? There, take your pick. It's my treat."

Nat knew enough about the ways of the country to know that the storekeeper was going to give him his provisions for nothing because of the dry goods he had purchased. The only things he could find were some crackers and cheese. He took enough of them as he thought to last him to Manchester and back, and then the groceryman excused himself once more and went into the back room with a huge knife in his hand. When he returned he brought with him a piece of fresh meat which he handed to the dog.

"I did some butchering yesterday, and I think that if that dog won't eat anything else, he will eat fresh meat," said he. "See him take it down."

The dog did "take it down" and devoured his meal as if he were almost starved. It was no wonder that he wanted Nat for a master when he was going to get such good living as this. He put all the things he had purchased into one of his valises, bade the proprietor good-by and took his way back toward Manchester, feeling much lighter hearted than he did when he came down. But he did not go very far before he began looking up and down the road to see if anyone was watching him; and having satisfied his mind on this score he once more climbed the fence into the woods, and when he was safe from everybody's view he stopped, and lowered his bundles to the ground.

"Now when I put these things down I am Nat, the tramp; and when I put on my other clothes, I am something else," said he, taking his suit out and unfolding it before him. "Let us see how it looks to be dressed up as a white man."

This was Nat's object in getting so far away from the road so that he could make a change in his appearance. To take off the clothes he then had on did not require a second's time, but it took more time than it did to put on the others. In fifteen minutes he was all dressed, and then he wished he had a looking glass to view himself. He certainly did look like a different person; and it is doubtful if any one who was acquainted with him had met him on the road, if he would have recognized him. His first care was to put what remained of his roll of bills safe in his vest pocket. There were no holes in the vest for the bills to work out, and when Nat tucked them away he felt that he was somebody.

"Now I am Nat Wood, gentleman," said he, as he surveyed himself as well as he could by turning first one leg and then the other to make an estimate of himself. "I tell you it makes a fellow feel grand to be dressed up as I am. Supposing Caleb should see me now? Whoo-pe! He would not rest easy until he got these things on his own back."

Having put away his old clothing in one of the valises -- it is true the clothes were old but they might be of some assistance to him some day -- he took a carpet sack in each hand and kept on his way toward Manchester. The dog did not know hardly what to make of it. He looked at Nat closely; for several minutes before he would follow him, and then he seemed to think it was all right and ran on as freely as he did before.

Nat did not go through Manchester; he knew too much for that. He went ahead until he saw the roofs of the houses, and then turned out into the fields and took a round-about course to bring him to the woods back of Mr. Nickerson's yard. He was very still about it, halting every few feet to listen, and finally he stopped in a ravine where he threw his bundles off again. He was now within reach of the place where he had hidden his money. He wanted to be sure that his fortune was safe before he had anything to eat.

"Come this way, Benny; it is right out here," said Nat. "If that is gone I am gone; but I don't think there has anybody discovered it."

Nat presently stood beside the log which concealed his treasure, but this time he was not satisfied with what he saw on the outside. The leaves and twigs were there as he had left them, but that did not suit him. He looked sharply through the woods in all directions, then kneeled down beside the log and with a few sweeps cleared away all the debris which he had placed there. The bags were where he had left them. He ran his hand over them and could distinctly feel the "yellow boys" with which they were filled.

"Thank goodness, it is all mine, and no one else has a right to lay a claim to any of it," said Nat, as he pushed the twigs and branches back to their place. "Mr. Nickerson gave it to me before he died, he has neither kith nor kin to say that he owns it, and now if I can find some honest lawyer in St Louis to stand up for me, I am all right."

This was a matter that created considerable confusion in Nat's mind. He did not know where to go to find an honest lawyer, but he supposed that there must be some people who would look out for him if he only knew whom to speak to. As he had done a hundred times before he dismissed this matter with the thought that it would be time enough to attend to that when he reached St. Louis; and he turned to go back to the ravine where to solace himself with a handful of crackers and cheese.



Chapter XVI.

Benny, the Tramp.


That was a long night to Nat Wood for, if the truth must be told, he did not once close his eyes in sleep. He had an opportunity to judge of the watchfulness of his new friend, for Benny seemed to be wide awake and never once forgot that everything depended on Nat's vigilance. He lay close beside Nat on the leaves, and once or twice he raised his head and growled at something, but nothing came near to disturb them. At the first peep of day Nat arose from his couch, he and the dog finished what was left of the crackers and cheese and then the boy went to the place where he had left his treasure and filled up his carpet sacks; and when he had them loaded he was surprised at their weight. It did not seem possible that he could carry that gold one hundred and fifty miles.

"But I may strike a railroad before I have gone far," said Nat, drawing in a long breath and picking up a valise in each hand. "I will go as straight South as I can go, and when I become tired of my burden I can put it down and rest. I will reach St. Louis or die in the attempt."

Nat took good care to keep clear of the road until he had passed Manchester for fear that some one would see him and recognize him in spite of his new suit, and when at last he climbed the fence into the highway, he drew another long breath and went ahead with new zeal. He did not fail to look back occasionally to see if he were followed, but every time there was no one in sight, and he was more than once tempted to believe that his struggles were over; that the money was his own, and all he had to do was to hurry down to St. Louis and deposit it in the bank. But it would be a week at least, and perhaps two, before that would happen, and in the meantime he was resolved that he would go hungry and sleepless, too, but that his treasure should be safe.

Nat wanted to buy some more crackers and cheese and feed his dog before he left the country where he was known, and with this object in view he approached the store at which he had purchased his new suit. The man was busy sweeping out, but he knew Nat in spite of the wonderful change in his appearance.

"Well, sir, you got your things, didn't you?" said he, with the smile which Nat had noticed on his face the day before. "You are off now, I suppose? But you must not try to walk all that distance. It is too far."

"I am off now," replied Nat. "But I should like to have some more crackers and cheese and a bite of fresh meat for Benny, if it is not too much trouble for you to get it."

"Of course I can. I was thinking about you yesterday after you had been in here, and there is no need that you should walk all that distance. Follow this road about twenty miles and you will strike a little village called Bridgeport. There you will hit the Alton road, and all you have to do is to pay your fare and get on board. You have money enough for that, I suppose?"

Nat selected a couple of crackers and a liberal piece of cheese from the amount the grocer weighed out to him, saw his dog devour a huge piece of beef which had also been furnished to him, leaned against the counter to rest his tired limbs and pondered upon a thought that had just then occurred to him. He had never ridden on a railroad, he did not know what to do when he got there, but what would be done with Benny!

"But there is one thing about it," said the man, giving utterance to the thought that was in Nat's mind. "You can't take your dog with you on a passenger train."

"I have been thinking about that, and the best thing I can do is to go on foot all the way," said Nat. "I can't think of leaving Benny behind."

"Of course I don't know what rules they have with their freight trains," said the man. "Perhaps they will let you take him with you, and perhaps they won't. You can tell when you get to Bridgeport. Good-by. I hope you will get safe through."

Nat picked up his valises again and left the store. It seemed now that Benny was a hindrance to him rather than a success, and for a minute or two he did not know but he would prefer to give him up than keep him. It did not seem possible that he could walk all the way to St Louis and carry his treasure besides, and he looked down at Benny who gazed back at him, and wagged his tail in a forlorn sort of way as if the man had given him a bad reputation.

"No, I won't do it Benny," said Nat, putting one of his valises on the ground long enough to pat the dog on the head. "I'll keep you with me until the time comes for you to show what you are made of; then if you fail me, I will know what to do with you."

Perhaps, when Nat came to think about it, it was better after all to keep the dog and trust to luck. There were plenty of persons who met him on the road who would have been glad to snatch his valises and make off with them, if they only knew how much was in them; and with Benny there to protect him he did not think they would attempt it. So Benny was accepted on sufferance.

Nat had not proceeded very far on his road before he heard the sound of wheels behind him, and in a few minutes a man drove by in a lumber wagon. The man looked down at Nat and then pulled up his team.

"Soger, would you work?" said he, with a laugh. "You have a heavy load there. Are you going fur?"

"I am going down to Bridgeport," said Nat. "If you have a place for me I shall be glad to get in."

"You are as welcome as the flowers in May," said the man. "Climb in. Gosh! What an ugly looking dog you have. Will he bite?"

"He has never bitten anybody since I had him," said Nat, lifting his carpet sacks one after the other and putting them into the wagon with a good deal of trouble. "He won't bite if he is let alone."

"Well, you just bet your bottom dollar that I won't interfere with him. What you got in there? It seems mighty heavy."

"Yes. It is some tools that I work with. Do you know anybody in Bridgeport?"

This question got the man off on a new subject, and during the ride to Bridgeport, and he went all the way so that Nat had his arms well rested by the time they got there, he never referred to the contents of the valises again. Benny ran along the wagon in front of him, and every time the man saw him he would remark on his savage appearance, and say that he did not see what a man could be thinking of to have such an ill-looking brute hanging around him. The man had been in the Confederate army, too, and during the ride he kept Nat interested in his exploits, until Nat was really surprised when he pointed to the roofs of some houses in the distance and said:

"We are near our journey's end at last. There is Bridgeport Did you say that you wanted to get out at the depot? Well, I am going right there."

After a few cracks with the whip and turning several corners the man drew up at a long, low building, and Nat, after thanking him for his kindness, took his valises and got out. Presently he was standing in front of an open window, on the other side of which, on a high stool, was perched a clerk who was busy smoking a cigar.

"Well, my friend, what can I do for you on this fine morning?" was the way he greeted Nat.

"I want to know what is the fare to St Louis," said Nat.

"Eight seventy-five," said the clerk, laying down his cigar and reaching for a ticket "Do you want to go there?"

"Yes, sir; but I want to know in the first place whether or not you will take my dog on a passenger train," said Nat.

"Where's the dog?"

"He is right here."

"Hold him up so that I can see him."

"I can't. He is too heavy."

The clerk reached for his cigar again, got down from his stool and unlocked the door leading into his room. He came out of it, but He went back in less time than it takes to tell it.

"Good Lord! Do you want to take that beast on the train?" said he. He vanished in his room on the instant and closed the door, all except a little opening through which he talked to Nat. "No, sir. There is not a baggage-smasher on the road who will take charge of that dog between here and St. Louis. You must be crazy."

"Well, would they take him on a freight train?"

"Cer-tainly not. We want to have some men to handle the freight train when they get to St. Louis, don't we?"

"I suppose you do; but what is the reason you can't have them any way?"

"Why, that dog will eat the train men all up, if he once gets in action. No, sir. You can't take that beast on any train on this road."

"Then I don't see any way but for me to go on foot," said Nat, who was very much disappointed.

"That's the only way that I know of, unless you will kill the dog."

"I won't do that, you bet. Does this road go straight to St. Louis?"

"As straight as a die, and that's the way," said the clerk, pointing out the direction. "I don't see what you want with that thing. The best thing you can do is to kill him."

Nat picked up his valises, walked slowly out of the other side of the depot and looked down the track. For miles it was perfectly straight, and there was not another house within sight. His arms ached awfully when he thought of the many miles of such track he would have to face during his tramp, but he never once was guilty of a traitorous thought to Benny. They were in for it, and the sooner they started in on it, the sooner it would be done.

"Now the first thing to be done, Benny, is to lay in a lot of provisions," said Nat, as if the dog could understand every word he said. "And the next thing is to start on our way. Let us go down this way and see what we can find."

Nat had set out with the intention of finding a grocery store and a butcher shop at which to purchase his provisions, but he had not made many steps before he found one much sooner than he had expected; or rather, some thing who kept guard over it saw him coming down the street and sprang to meet him half way. It was the big dog which kept watch over the butcher stand. He saw Benny, he did not like the looks of him and proceeded to let him know it in language that anybody could understand. He came at full speed down the road, seize Benny by the neck and rolled him over in the gutter. They were both fair sized dogs, and those who saw the movement were pretty certain that they were about to witness a good fight; but it was all over in less than two seconds, Benny seemed surprised to find himself in the gutter, turned his head to see who it was that had dared to molest him and went to work in earnest to put a stop to it. He seized his assailant by the foreleg, but before he had taken a fairly good hold the butcher's dog set up a fearful howl, slunk out of the fight as quickly as he could and limping on three legs, howling at every jump, he went back to his place in the butcher's shop. A moment later the butcher appeared. Nat knew that it was the butcher, for his coat was off, he had his apron on and his sleeves were rolled up.

"Now, Benny, you have got me into a terrible scrape," said Nat, reaching down to give the dog a reassuring pat. "He will want to kill you, but he will have to kill me first."

The butcher seemed to be surprised to find that his favorite had been whipped, but still he did not show it. He examined his dog and then looked up to see what had caused it; and when he saw Nat approaching he grinned all over.

"Young man, is that your dog?" said he.

Nat replied that it was.

"Well, sir, he is a nobby fellow," said the butcher; and giving no heed to Benny's savage looks he caught him by the upper jaw and raised his lips so that he could see his teeth. Then he released his hold upon him and patted him on the side so loudly that you could have heard it across the street. "I have said that I would give twenty-five dollars for any dog that could whip Barney, and this dog has done it with just one grip. You will take that for him, won't you?"

"No, sir," replied Nat. "The dog is not for sale."

"Then I will give you twenty plus ten, which makes thirty when I went to school. Come in and get it."

"That is more than the dog is worth, but he is not for sale at any price. I need the dog more than you do. But I will tell you what I would like to have. He wants a piece of meat."

"Well, if you won't sell the dog, come in and fill him up on meat You wouldn't look at forty dollars for that dog, would you?"

No, Nat thought that he would not sell the dog, and he went into the butcher shop and got a piece of meat that fairly made him open his eyes. He was not charged a cent for it, either. While the butcher was examining the dog and complimenting him, Nat managed to unclose one of his valises and crowd the meat into it, and no one was the wiser for what he had done.

Of course the victory that Benny had won brought him into notice along the street, and when he went into another store to buy his crackers and cheese, he had plenty of friends to admire him. But Nat got away as soon as he could, and felt much easier when he was walking down the track toward St. Louis.

"That's a good name for you, Benny, and you will keep it as long as I have anything to do with you. Benny, the tramp. That's what you are, Benny, and you must always come when I call you."

Nat's first care was to find a place where he could sit down and satisfy his appetite without having some one to talk to him about Benny. A mile further on he found it, and there he and Benny made away with enough meat and crackers and cheese to last them until night. While there a passenger train went along, and it went swiftly, too, as if the distance that lay between it and St. Louis was just nothing at all for it to accomplish. Nat sighed but he looked at Benny, and got up and followed after the train.

We might make this portion of our story still more interesting by telling of the wonderful scrapes that Nat and his money got into from the rough looking tramps who met him along the way and who wanted to know what was in his carpet-sacks, which he never allowed out of his grasp; but unfortunately Nat did not meet with any such adventures. It is true that one or two tramps -- Nat was sure they were tramps although he had never seen one before -- made some inquiries in regard to the contents of his valises, but the sight of the dog, which growled and showed his teeth every time one of them came up, induced them to be satisfied with what Nat had to say about it -- that he had some tools which would be necessary to carry on his business when he got to St. Louis. He bought his food from farm houses which were scattered at intervals along the railroad, slept beside the fence or in deserted barns every time he got the chance, and finally, when he was thinking about taking one of his gold pieces to buy him another pair of shoes, for his bills, although he had held on to them "until the eagle hollered," were all gone, he discovered, one night when the sun was about two hours high, some buildings in the distance, which were larger than any he had seen yet. By cautious inquiries at the next house at which he stopped to buy food, he learned that he was at his journey's end. How his heart thrilled with the thought! He had been more than two weeks on the way, and to say that he was tired would be hardly saying enough. In a few days his money would be safe, and then he could lie down and sleep.

"But our labor is not over yet," said Nat, as he separated the meat from the sandwiches that he had purchased and handed it to the dog. "Now is the time to look out for every person we meet. There is not one of them who would not knock me on the head to gain this money. And yet I am to find a good, honest lawyer in all this crowd of people!"

Nat did not know how he was going to succeed, whether or not he could find what he wanted in all that crowd, but he resolved to try it at the first opportunity. Arriving at a place where a road ran across the track he turned into it, making out with much difficulty some of the signs that graced the front ends of buildings as he walked along, and finally stopped at the front of a more pretentious building than the rest, for there was a sign that struck his eye; "Lodgings 50 cents."

Nat pushed the door open and he and Benny walked in. He did not like the appearance of the room in which he found himself, but then he supposed that all hotels in the city looked like that. There was a bar in one corner of it, behind which stood a man that reminded him of Jonas Keeler as far as his appearance was concerned. On the other side of the room were tables in front of which were men playing cards, and others with men sprawling out upon them with their heads pillowed upon their arms as if fast asleep. He thought of backing out and trying it again at another place; but the man behind the bar discovered him and came out.

"Ah! Here you are. You want a supper and some lodging, I suppose? Are you traveling far? Hello? Where did you get that dog? Will he bite?"

"He has been with me a long time, and I never saw him bite anybody yet. He always sleeps with me and he won't let any one harm me. I want a bed but I don't want any supper."

"Heavens and earth! What's in your grip?" said the man lifting one from the floor where Nat had placed it.

"They are tools I work with; hammers and the like."

"Oh. You are a machinist, are you? Well, come along and I will show you to your room. I hope that dog won't nail me until I get down."

The man stepped behind the bar to obtain a key to Nat's room, and carrying the carpet-sack in one hand while Nat followed with the other, they went through the room and up the stairs to Nat's apartment.

"There, sir, you can lock yourself in and be safe until morning. Good-night."

Nat was too tired to look around his room and see what sort of a place it was. He turned down the quilts with the remark that the sheets might have been cleaner, pulled off his clothes, and tumbled into bed; and he had hardly struck the pillow before he was sound asleep.



Chapter XVII.

Conclusion.


There was one little thing that troubled Nat, and it came to him the first thing when he opened his eyes in the morning. His bills were all gone, and he must unlock one of his valises, undo one of his bags and take out gold enough to pay the proprietor for his lodgings. There was not anything so very wrong in that, but suppose the proprietor should become suspicious and ask to see the rest of his valise; and suppose, too, that he should take it away from him?

"It has got to be done, and I might as well have it over with," said Nat, throwing aside the quilts and jumping out on the floor. "You will stand by me, Benny, won't you?"

Nat went to his valise and opened it, and was surprised to find that one of the bags was decayed and its contents had ran out. But the carpet sack had caught them and there was none of them missing. He took up a ten dollar gold piece and put it in his pocket; and then went on with his dressing with all possible speed. It was early yet and he hoped to find no one in the bar except the proprietor. He did not want any breakfast, either. It would be time enough to think about that after he had seen his money safe. The proprietor was alone in the room, engaged in washing up, but he greeted Nat with a hearty good morning.

"I want to pay for my lodging," said Nat. "My bills are all gone and so I will have to hand you that."

"W-h-e-w!" exclaimed the man, as Nat laid his piece on the counter. "You must have been living with some rich people since you were here."

The man took up the ten dollar gold piece, jingled it upon the counter to see if it was all right, then turned to his drawer to get the money that he was to give Nat in change.

"Breakfast will be ready in a little while, lad, you had better wait," said he, at length.

Nat made some excuse, he hardly knew what, took up both his valises and left the room to run into the arms of a policeman before he got to the sidewalk. He knew it was a policeman, because he had a badge on his breast, was dressed in uniform and was swinging his club along as if waiting for a chance to use it on somebody. The police were always ready to assist a friendless person, and Nat was certain that this one would assist him. He walked up to him and put his valises down by his side.

"Well, sir, what have you got there?" said he; and Nat was delighted to see him smile in a friendly sort of way.

"It is money," said Nat, sinking his voice.

"Money?" said the officer, more than half inclined to believe that the boy was crazy. "What are you going to do with it?"

"I want to get it into the bank where it will be safe," said Nat. "You don't believe it, do you? Well, step here and I will show you."

Nat drew off on one side and the policeman, placing his club behind him, strolled slowly after him. He saw Nat unlock the valise with a smile, but when the contents of it were shown to him the smile gave away to a look of profound astonishment.

"Where did you get all this?" he asked.

"In the ground. Have you got a hotel or any place you stop at when you are asleep?"

"Hotel? No. We have a police court, if that is what you mean."

"Well, have you got any lawyers there?"

"Oh, yes; there are plenty of them there."

"I want to find a good, honest lawyer who will take charge of this money and tell me what to do with it. You see I am a stranger here."

"Yes; I saw that."

"Now can I find such a one up there?"

"Yes, of course you can, and it is the very place for you to go. I will show you where it is. I will carry one of your carpet sacks and you can carry the other."

There were more people stirring now than there were when Nat came out of his hotel, and nearly all who passed him on the street turned too look at him with astonishment and others with amusement. They thought that Nat was being arrested for something he had done; but those who looked at his innocent face as he walked along talking to the policeman, knew better than that.

"I am so glad to be where I can tell the truth regarding this money," said Nat; and the long-drawn sigh that he uttered gave evidence to his words.

"What did you tell folks you had?" asked the officer.

"I told them that I had tools which I needed to work with when I reached St Louis," said Nat. "And they thought I was a machinist, and did not ask any more questions. But I will tell you what is a fact: The presence of that dog has saved me from being robbed more than once."

The policeman said he was sure of that, and at last turned to the right and led Nat up a flight of stone steps and into the court room. There were plenty of police officers standing around, but they all made room for them to pass and looked at Nat with some curiosity. The room in which the trials were held was arranged with benches and chairs, and around the outside were more chairs and to these he conducted Nat and set him down in front of a window.

"Now you keep still right here, and when the judge comes you can talk to him," said he.

"But I don't know the judge when I see him," said Nat.

"I will speak to one of those policemen there and he will tell him. I must go now."

"Why can't you stay with me?"

"Because I must go on my beat. If anybody talks to you about your money, you can say what you please. There's men enough here to protect you. So long."

There was a good deal of this talk that Nat could not understand, but he asked no questions. Everybody could see that he was a stranger there and to the city besides, and all he wanted to know now was where to go to place his money so that it would be safe. He looked at the policemen, but they did not seem to have anything to do but just to stand around and wait for somebody. They were tall, broad-shouldered fellows, and he was certain that Jonas, if he could have found his way into that court room, would think twice before laying claim to any of Nat's money. When he grew tired of looking at them he turned and looked out of the window. The people seemed to have increased in numbers, and it was a mystery where they all came from. He thought he would never get weary of looking at them, and when he turned to look at the policemen again, he found that the court room was filled; but no one paid any attention to him. A few looked at the dog, others cast glances toward the carpet-sacks, and Nat finally wondered what had become of the police justice all this time; but while he was turning the matter over in his mind the crowd in front of the door gave way, and two gentlemen who seemed to have a right there, came in. They exchanged greetings with those they met, and presently one of them was stopped by a policeman, who seemed to be communicating something to him. Nat was certain that one of them was talking about him, for they nodded their heads in his direction, and finally the two men came toward the corner where he was sitting.

"Do you want to see me, young man?" one of them inquired.

"I want to see the judge when he comes," replied Nat. "I want to find a good, honest lawyer to tell me what to do."

"Humph!" exclaimed the man. "You want to find a good, honest lawyer, do you? Well, you have come to a bad shop to find him. How do you think Judge Daniels will suit you?"

"I don't know the man, for I am a stranger in a strange place; but I will talk to any man whom you recommend."

"Daniels, I guess you are in for it," said the man, turning to his companion. "This is Judge Daniels, and you may tell him what you want."

The speaker turned away and Nat proceeded to give the man who had been called Judge Daniels a good looking over. All he saw was the man's face. It was a benevolent looking face, and more than all there was a smile upon it which instantly won Nat's heart.

"What do you want to say to me?" was the way in which he began the conversation.

"I have a long story to tell, and you will have to sit down beside me while I tell it," said Nat. "In the first place, you will not steal every thing I have got will you?"

"No, I don't think I shall do that," said the man, as he seated himself in one of the chairs alongside of Nat. "There is no necessity for it."

"Well, sir, it is money that I have in these two carpet-sacks," said Nat, sinking his voice to a whisper. "I have dug it out of the ground, and carried it all the way from Bridgeport on foot."

The man continued to regard him with a smile until Nat unlocked his valise; and then he looked surprised. He listened while Nat told his story never once interrupting him, but he kept his eyes fastened upon the boy as if he meant to look him through.

"You want in the first place, to put that money in the bank where it will be safe," said he, at length. "Then are you willing to go back with me to Bridgeport so that I can collect evidence that your story is true?"

"Yes, sir; I will go with you anywhere," said Nat.

This was all that Judge Daniels wanted. He had been doing a heap of thinking while Nat was telling his story, and when he had seen Nat close his valise he got up and walked over to where the police justice sat in his chair. The court was just about ready to begin. He was evidently astonished at what the judge had to tell him, and when he came back he was full of business.

"I will carry one valise, you can carry the other, and we will go down, get a carriage and take them to the bank," said he. "That will be the first job done. I hope the dog will not bite me?"

Nat hastened to assure him that the dog would not, and together they left the court room and in a few moments more were seated in a hack, with Benny for company, and were being whirled away toward the bank in the lower end of the city. At every turn Nat found something to wonder at. The streets were crowded with all sorts of vehicles and Nat more than once held his breath for fear that their driver would run into some of them.

Pedestrians crossed and recrossed before them until Nat was certain that somebody would be run down; but he did not have time to take it all in. Judge Daniels had a good many questions to ask, and while Nat was trying to make everything clear to him, they drew up in front of the bank.

Judge Daniels was so well known there that he was invited at once into the private office where there was no one to see them but the president. At his request Nat related his story once more, the judge watching it closely to detect any flaws in it, and when the money was poured out on the table before the president, the latter could scarcely restrain his astonishment. Several clerks were summoned to count the money, and Nat strange as it may seem, did not bother his head whether they counted it right or not. The money was out of his hands, it had been surrendered to those whose duty it was to look after it, and he was satisfied. Finally one of the clerks presented a paper to the president, who looked at it and said:

"Do you know how much money you have here, Bub?"

Nat replied that he did not. He took the money as he found it without stopping to count it.

"I don't think you could have counted all this money in a hurry," said the president, with a smile. "You have here $40,000 lacking $10. Now what are you going to do with it?"

Nat was obliged to confess that he did not know. Judge Daniels and the president exchanged a few words in a lower tone, and then the latter arose and picked up his hat.

"We'll let it lay here until we go up to that place of yours," said he. "Now, Nat, you want some good clothes. Look at your shoes. They are all giving out."

How different this was from what Jonas said to him the last time he referred to Nat's shoes! He readily surrendered himself to Judge Daniels' guidance, and in half an hour more came out of the tailor shop with a wonderful change in his appearance. The clothes he had taken off would do very well for the country but they would hardly do for the city. It was not possible that anybody who had known him in Manchester could have recognized him. Then after he had been to a barber shop and had his hair neatly trimmed, the transformation was complete.

The next thing was to go to Judge Daniels' home and get dinner; and here Nat's admiration and surprise knew no bounds. It did not seem that those chairs were made to sit on, or that the carpet was made to walk on; or that the lady who came to see him, would not take wings and fly up out of his sight. It was the judge's wife. She seated herself beside him on the sofa, listening in unbounded astonishment to Nat's story, the Judge watching it all the time to see if there were any flaws in it, and when it was over she reached down and patted the dog, and Benny never raised any objections to it.

During the afternoon they went down to the Judge's office where there was another consultation held between him and his partner. The latter was amazed, but he thought that the best thing the Judge could do would be to accompany Nat to his home and get all the evidence there was to be had; so the next morning, Benny being left with the hostler, they took the cars for Bridgeport. This was the first time that Nat had been on a railroad train, and sometimes, when he looked out at the window and saw how fast they were going, he could not help clutching the seat for fear that the train was going to leave the track. Arriving at Bridgeport they went to a hotel for the rest of the night, and the next morning they hired a carriage to take them to Pond Post Office. We can scarcely imagine what Nat's feelings were when he gazed upon the scenes which were so familiar to him; and when at last he got out of the carriage and opened the bars so that it could be driven through to where Jonas was standing in the door waiting for them, he felt like yelling. On the contrary he controlled himself and said quietly:

"How do you do, Mr. Keeler?"

"Well, I will be dog-gone!" was all Jonas had to say in reply.

Getting the evidence he was in search of was not difficult. Jonas saw in a moment "which side of his bread had the butter onto it," and answered all his questions readily; while the antics which Caleb went through were enough to make Nat fairly burst with merriment. They were all sincere, too. He said "dog-gone the luck" several times in a whisper, felt of Nat's clothing with his fingers, and could not bring himself to believe that the thing was true. But it was to Mrs. Keeler that Nat devoted the most of his attention. The woman seemed really glad of his good luck, and Nat assured her that at some future time there was a thousand dollars awaiting for her out of Mr. Nickerson's money.

It was a happy moment for Nat when they seated themselves in the carriage bound for Bridgeport, and Judge Daniels declared that, as far as he could see, Nat's story was all true, and that the money which he had struggled so hard to obtain was all his. All that remained to do now was to have a guardian appointed and get ready to go to school.

"It will not take me five minutes to select a guardian," said Nat. "Will you take it Judge Daniels?"

The judge said he would and so the matter was settled.

Years have passed away since the events that are recorded in this story took place, and if you go to a certain law firm and ask to see Nathaniel Wood, you would be fairly surprised to see in that tall, well-dressed man who is coming toward you the ragged, dirty-faced boy who was wont to do the chores about Jonas Keeler's place. Jonas thinks the world of him, although to tell the truth, he does not do any work to speak of as long as his remittance from St. Louis lasts.

"Do you know Nat Wood, that little snipe who used to work on my farm?" he would say to some listener. "Well, he has got to be a big lawyer in the city. If he ever runs for President, I am going to vote for him."

Benny is dead; he served his day and generation faithfully. He soon grew to be a regular favorite around the Judge's house, and although a tramp would have passed by on the other side, people who came there on business were readily admitted, and no questions asked. Nat is the same fellow he always was. He was an honest boy and he grew up to be an honest man. He is always ready to live over old times; but those he likes best to talk about are those that attended his Struggle for a Fortune.

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Black Ivory

By

R. M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

Shows That A Good Beginning May Sometimes Be Followed By A Bad Ending.

"Six feet water in the hold, sir!"

That would not have been a pleasant announcement to the captain of the 'Aurora' at any time, but its unpleasantness was vastly increased by the fact that it greeted him near the termination of what had been, up to that point of time, an exceedingly prosperous voyage.

"Are you sure, Davis?" asked the captain; "try again."

He gave the order under the influence of that feeling which is styled "hoping against hope," and himself accompanied the ship's carpenter to see it obeyed.

"Six feet two inches," was the result of this investigation.

The vessel, a large English brig, had sprung a leak, and was rolling heavily in a somewhat rough sea off the east coast of Africa. It was no consolation to her captain that the shores of the great continent were visible on his lee, because a tremendous surf roared along the whole line of coast, threatening destruction to any vessel that should venture to approach, and there was no harbour of refuge nigh.

"She's sinking fast, Mr Seadrift," said the captain to a stout frank-looking youth of about twenty summers, who leant against the bulwarks and gazed wistfully at the land; "the carpenter cannot find the leak, and the rate at which the water is rising shows that she cannot float long."

"What then do you propose to do?" inquired young Seadrift, with a troubled expression of countenance.

"Abandon her," replied the captain.

"Well, you may do so, captain, but I shall not forsake my father's ship as long as she can float. Why not beach her somewhere on the coast? By so doing we might save part of the cargo, and, at all events, shall have done the utmost that lay in our power."

"Look at the coast," returned the captain; "where would you beach her? No doubt there is smooth water inside the reef, but the channels through it, if there be any here, are so narrow that it would be almost certain death to make the attempt."

The youth turned away without replying. He was sorely perplexed. Just before leaving England his father had said to him, "Harold, my boy, here's your chance for paying a visit to the land you've read and talked so much about, and wished so often to travel through. I have chartered a brig, and shall send her out to Zanzibar with a cargo of beads, cotton cloth, brass wire, and such like: what say you to go as supercargo? Of course you won't be able to follow in the steps of Livingstone or Mungo Park, but while the brig is at Zanzibar you will have an opportunity of running across the channel, the island being only a few miles from the main, and having a short run up-country to see the niggers, and perchance have a slap at a hippopotamus. I'll line your pockets, so that you won't lack the sinews of war, without which travel either at home or abroad is but sorry work, and I shall only expect you to give a good account of ship and cargo on your return. -- Come, is it fixed?"

Need we say that Harold leaped joyfully at the proposal? And now, here he was, called on to abandon the 'Aurora' to her fate, as we have said, near the end of a prosperous voyage. No wonder that he was perplexed.

The crew were fully aware of the state of matters. By the captain's orders they stood ready to lower the two largest boats, into which they had put much of their worldly goods and provisions as they could hold with safety.

"Port, port your helm," said the captain to the man at the wheel.

"Port it is, sir," replied the man at the wheel, who was one of those broad-shouldered, big-chested, loose-garmented, wide-trousered, bare-necked, free-and-easy, off-hand jovial tars who have done so much, in years gone by, to increase the wealth and prosperity of the British Empire, and who, although confessedly scarce, are considerately allowed to perish in hundreds annually on our shores for want of a little reasonable legislation. But cheer up, ye jolly tars! There is a glimmer of sunrise on your political horizon. It really does seem as if, in regard to you, there were at last "a good time coming."

"Port, port," repeated the captain, with a glance at the compass and the sky.

"Port it is, sir," again replied the jovial one.

"Steady! Lower away the boat, lads. -- Now, Mr Seadrift," said the captain, turning with an air of decision to the young supercargo, "the time has come for you to make up your mind. The water is rising in the hold, and the ship is, as you see, settling fast down. I need not say to you that it is with the utmost regret I find it necessary to abandon her; but self-preservation and the duty I owe to my men render the step absolutely necessary. Do you intend to go with us?"

"No, captain, I don't," replied Harold Seadrift firmly. "I do not blame you for consulting your own safety, and doing what you believe to be your duty, but I have already said that I shall stick by the ship as long as she can float."

"Well, sir, I regret it but you must do as you think best," replied the captain, turning away -- "Now, lads, jump in."

The men obeyed, but several of those who were last to quit the ship looked back and called to the free-and-easy man who still stood at the wheel -- "Come along, Disco; we'll have to shove off directly."

"Shove off w'en you please," replied the man at the wheel, in a deep rich voice, whose tones were indicative of a sort of good-humoured contempt; "wot I means for to do is to stop where I am. It'll never be said of Disco Lillihammer that he forsook the owner's son in distress."

"But you'll go to the bottom, man, if you don't come."

"Well, wot if I do? I'd raither go to the bottom with a brave man, than remain at the top with a set o' fine fellers like you!"

Some of the men received this reply with a laugh, others frowned, and a few swore, while some of them looked regretfully at their self-willed shipmate; for it must not be supposed that all the tars who float upon the sea are of the bold, candid, open-handed type, though we really believe that a large proportion of them are so.

Be this as it may, the boats left the brig, and were soon far astern.

"Thank you, Lillihammer," said Harold, going up and grasping the horny hand of the self-sacrificing sea-dog. "This is very kind of you, though I fear it may cost you your life. But it is too late to talk of that; we must fix on some plan, and act at once."

"The werry thing, sir," said Disco quietly, "that wos runnin' in my own mind, 'cos it's werry clear that we hain't got too many minits to spare in confabilation."

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"Arter you, sir," said Disco, pulling his forelock; "you are capting now, an' ought to give orders."

"Then I think the best thing we can do," rejoined Harold, "is to make straight for the shore, search for an opening in the reef, run through, and beach the vessel on the sand. What say you?"

"As there's nothin' else left for us to do," replied Disco, "that's 'zactly wot I think too, an' the sooner we does it the better."

"Down with the helm, then," cried Harold, springing forward, "and I'll ease off the sheets."

In a few minutes the 'Aurora' was surging before a stiff breeze towards the line of foam which indicated the outlying reef, and inside of which all was comparatively calm.

"If we only manage to get inside," said Harold, "we shall do well."

Disco made no reply. His whole attention was given to steering the brig, and running his eyes anxiously along the breakers, the sound of which increased to a thunderous roar as they drew near.

"There seems something like a channel yonder," said Harold, pointing anxiously to a particular spot in the reef.

"I see it, sir," was the curt reply.

A few minutes more of suspense, and the brig drove into the supposed channel, and struck with such violence that the foremast snapped off near the deck, and went over the side.

"God help us, we're lost!" exclaimed Harold, as a towering wave lifted the vessel up and hurled her like a plaything on the rocks.

"Stand by to jump, sir," cried Disco. Another breaker came roaring in at the moment, overwhelmed the brig, rolled her over on her beam-ends, and swept the two men out of her. They struggled gallantly to free themselves from the wreck, and, succeeding with difficulty, swam across the sheltered water to the shore, on which they finally landed.

Harold's first exclamation was one of thankfulness for their deliverance, to which Disco replied with a hearty "Amen!" and then turning round and surveying the coast, while he slowly thrust his hands into his wet trouser-pockets, wondered whereabouts in the world they had got to.

"To the east coast of Africa, to be sure," observed the young supercargo, with a slight smile, as he wrung the water out of the foot of his trousers, "the place we were bound for, you know."

"Werry good; so here we are -- come to an anchor! Well, I only wish," he added, sitting down on a piece of driftwood, and rummaging in the pockets before referred to, as if in search of something -- "I only wish I'd kep' on my weskit, 'cause all my 'baccy's there, and it would be a rael comfort to have a quid in the circumstances."

It was fortunate for the wrecked voyagers that the set of the current had carried portions of their vessel to the shore, at a considerable distance from the spot where they had landed, because a band of natives, armed with spears and bows and arrows, had watched the wreck from the neighbouring heights, and had hastened to that part of the coast on which they knew from experience the cargo would be likely to drift. The heads of the swimmers being but small specks in the distance, had escaped observation. Thus they had landed unseen. The spot was near the entrance to a small river or creek, which was partially concealed by the formation of the land and by mangrove trees.

Harold was the first to observe that they had not been cast on an uninhabited shore. While gazing round him, and casting about in his mind what was best to be done, he heard shouts, and hastening to a rocky point that hid part of the coast from his view looked cautiously over it and saw the natives. He beckoned to Disco, who joined him.

"They haven't a friendly look about 'em," observed the seaman, "and they're summat scant in the matter of clothin'."

"Appearances are often deceptive," returned his companion, "but I so far agree with you that I think our wisest course will be to retire into the woods, and there consult as to our future proceedings, for it is quite certain that as we cannot live on sand and salt water, neither can we safely sleep in wet clothes or on the bare ground in a climate like this."

Hastening towards the entrance to the creek, the unfortunate pair entered the bushes, through which they pushed with some difficulty, until they gained a spot sufficiently secluded for their purpose, when they observed that they had passed through a belt of underwood, beyond which there appeared to be an open space. A few steps further and they came out on a sort of natural basin formed by the creek, in which floated a large boat of a peculiar construction, with very piratical-looking lateen sails. Their astonishment at this unexpected sight was increased by the fact that on the opposite bank of the creek there stood several men armed with muskets, which latter were immediately pointed at their breasts.

The first impulse of the shipwrecked friends was to spring back into the bushes -- the second to advance and hold up their empty hands to show that they were unarmed.

"Hold on," exclaimed Disco, in a free and easy confidential tone; "we're friends, we are; shipwrecked mariners we is, so ground arms, my lads, an' make your minds easy."

One of the men made some remark to another, who, from his Oriental dress, was easily recognised by Harold as one of the Arab traders of the coast. His men appeared to be half-castes.

The Arab nodded gravely, and said something which induced his men to lower their muskets. Then with a wave of his hand he invited the strangers to come over the creek to him.

This was rendered possible by the breadth of the boat already mentioned being so great that, while one side touched the right bank of the creek, the other was within four or five feet of the left.

Without hesitation Harold Seadrift bounded lightly from the bank to the half-deck of the boat, and, stepping ashore, walked up to the Arab, closely followed by his companion.

"Do you speak English?" asked Harold.

The Arab shook his head and said, "Arabic, Portuguese."

Harold therefore shook his head; -- then, with a hopeful look, said "French?" interrogatively.

The Arab repeated the shake of his head, but after a moments' thought said, "I know littil Engleesh; speak, where comes you?"

"We have been wrecked," began Harold (the Arab glanced gravely at his dripping clothes, as if to say, I had guessed as much), "and this man and I are the only survivors of the crew of our ship -- at least the only two who swam on shore, the others went off in a boat."

"Come you from man-of-war?" asked the Arab, with a keen glance at the candid countenance of the youth.

"No, our vessel was a trader bound for Zanzibar. She now lies in fragments on the shore, and we have escaped with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Can you tell us whether there is a town or a village in the neighbourhood? for, as you see, we stand sadly in need of clothing, food, and shelter. We have no money, but we have good muscles and stout hearts, and could work our way well enough, I doubt not."

Young Seadrift said this modestly, but the remark was unnecessary, for it would have been quite obvious to a man of much less intelligence than the Arab that a youth who, although just entering on the age of manhood, was six feet high, deep-chested, broad-shouldered, and as lithe as a kitten, could not find any difficulty in working his way, while his companion, though a little older, was evidently quite as capable.

"There be no town, no village, for fifty miles from where you stand," replied the Arab.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Harold in surprise, for he had always supposed the East African coast to be rather populous.

"That's a blue look-out anyhow," observed Disco, "for it necessitates starvation, unless this good gentleman will hire us to work his craft. It ain't very ship-shape to be sure, but anything of a seagoin' craft comes more or less handy to an old salt."

The trader listened with the politeness and profound gravity that seems to be characteristic of Orientals, but by no sign or expression showed whether he understood what was said.

"I go to Zanzibar," said he, turning to Harold, "and will take you, --  so you wish."

There was something sinister in the man's manner which Harold did not like, but as he was destitute, besides being in the Arab's power, and utterly ignorant of the country, he thought it best to put a good face on matters, and therefore thanked him for his kind offer, and assured him that on reaching Zanzibar he would be in a position to pay for his passage as well as that of his friend.

"May I ask," continued Harold, "what your occupation is?"

"I am trader."

Harold thought he would venture another question: -- 

"In what sort of goods do you trade?"

"Ivory. Some be white, an' some be what your contrymans do call black."

"Black!" exclaimed Harold, in surprise.

"Yees, black," replied the trader. "White ivory do come from the elephant -- hims tusk; Black Ivory do come," -- he smiled slightly at this point -- "from the land everywheres. It bees our chef artikil of trade."

"Indeed! I never heard of it before."

"No?" replied the trader; "you shall see it much here. But I go talk with my mans. Wait."

Saying this, in a tone which savoured somewhat unpleasantly of command, the Arab went towards a small hut near to which his men were standing, and entered into conversation with them.

It was evident that they were ill pleased with what he said at first for there was a good deal of remonstrance in their tones, while they pointed frequently in a certain direction which seemed to indicate the coast-line; but by degrees their tones changed, and they laughed and chuckled a good deal, as if greatly tickled by the speech of the Arab, who, however, maintained a look of dignified gravity all the time.

"I don't like the looks o' them fellers," remarked Disco, after observing them in silence for some time. "They're a cut-throat set, I'm quite sure, an' if you'll take my advice, Mister Seadrift, we'll give 'em the slip, an' try to hunt up one o' the native villages. I shouldn't wonder, now, if that chap was a slave-trader."

"The same idea has occurred to myself, Disco," replied Harold, "and I would willingly leave him if I thought there was a town or village within twenty miles of us; but we are ignorant on that point and I have heard enough of the African climate to believe that it might cost us our lives if we were obliged to spend a night in the jungle without fire, food, or covering, and with nothing on but a wet flannel shirt and pair of canvas breeches. No, no, lad, we must not risk it. Besides, although some Arabs are slave-traders, it does not follow that all are. This fellow may turn out better than he looks."

Disco Lillihammer experienced some sensations of surprise on hearing his young friend's remarks on the climate, for he knew nothing whatever about that of Africa, having sailed chiefly in the Arctic Seas as a whaler, -- and laboured under the delusion that no climate under the sun could in any degree affect his hardy and well-seasoned frame. He was too respectful, however, to let his thoughts be known.

Meanwhile the Arab returned.

"I sail this night," he said, "when moon go down. That not far before midnight. You mus keep by boat here -- close. If you go this way or that the niggers kill you. They not come here; they know I is here. I go look after my goods and chattels -- my Black Ivory."

"Mayn't we go with 'ee, mister -- what's your name?"

"My name? -- Yoosoof," replied the Arab, in a tone and with a look which were meant to command respect.

"Well, Mister Yoosoof," continued Disco, "if we may make bold to ax leave for to go with 'ee, we could lend 'ee a helpin' hand, d'ye see, to carry yer goods an' chattels down to the boat."

"There is no need," said Yoosoof, waving his hand, and pointing to the hut before mentioned. "Go; you can rest till we sail. Sleep; you will need it. There is littil rice in hut -- eat that, and make fire, dry youselfs."

So saying, the Arab left them by a path leading into the woods, along which his men, who were Portuguese half-castes, had preceded him.

"Make fire indeed!" exclaimed Disco, as he walked with his companion to the hut; "one would think, from the free-and-easy way in which he tells us to make it, that he's in the habit himself of striking it out o' the point o' his own nose, or some such convenient fashion."

"More likely to flash it out of his eyes, I should think," said Harold; "but, see here, the fellow knew what he was talking about. There is fire among these embers on the hearth."

"That's true," replied Disco, going down on his knees, and blowing them carefully.

In a few minutes a spark leaped into a flame, wood was heaped on, and the flame speedily became a rousing fire, before which they dried their garments, while a pot of rice was put on to boil.

Scarcely had they proceeded thus far in their preparations, when two men, armed with muskets, were seen to approach, leading a negro girl between them. As they drew nearer, it was observable that the girl had a brass ring round her neck, to which a rope was attached.

"A slave!" exclaimed Disco vehemently, while the blood rushed to his face; "let's set her free!"

The indignant seaman had half sprung to his legs before Harold seized and pulled him forcibly back.

"Be quiet man," said Harold quickly. "If we could free her by fighting, I would help you, but we can't. Evidently we have got into a nest of slavers. Rashness will only bring about our own death. Be wise; bide your time, and we may live to do some good yet."

He stopped abruptly, for the new comers had reached the top of the winding path that led to the hut.

A look of intense surprise overspread the faces of the two men when they entered and saw the Englishmen sitting comfortably by the fire, and both, as if by instinct threw forward the muzzles of their muskets.

"Oh! come in, come in, make your minds easy," cried Disco, in a half-savage tone, despite the warning he had received; "we're all friends here -- leastwise we can't help ourselves."

Fortunately for our mariner the men did not understand him, and before they could make up their minds what to think of it, or how to act Harold rose, and, with a polite bow, invited them to enter.

"Do you understand English?" he asked.

A frown, and a decided shake of the head from both men, was the reply. The poor negro girl cowered behind her keepers, as if she feared that violence were about to ensue.

Having tried French with a like result, Harold uttered the name, "Yoosoof," and pointed in the direction in which the trader had entered the woods.

The men looked intelligently at each other, and nodded.

Then Harold said "Zanzibar," and pointed in the direction in which he supposed that island lay.

Again the men glanced at each other, and nodded. Harold next said "Boat -- dhow," and pointed towards the creek, which remark and sign were received as before.

"Good," he continued, slapping himself on the chest, and pointing to his companion, "I go to Zanzibar, he goes, she goes," (pointing to the girl), "you go, and Yoosoof goes -- all in the dhow together to Zanzibar -- to-night -- when moon goes down. D'ee understand? Now then, come along and have some rice."

He finished up by slapping one of the men on the shoulder, and lifting the kettle off the fire, for the rice had already been cooked and only wanted warming.

The men looked once again at each other, nodded, laughed, and sat down on a log beside the fire, opposite to the Englishmen.

They were evidently much perplexed by the situation, and, not knowing what to make of it, were disposed in the meantime to be friendly.

While they were busy with the rice, Disco gazed in silent wonder, and with intense pity, at the slave-girl, who sat a little to one side of her guardians on a mat, her small hands folded together resting on one knee, her head drooping, and her eyes cast down. The enthusiastic tar found it very difficult to restrain his feelings. He had heard, of course, more or less about African slavery from shipmates, but he had never read about it, and had never seriously given his thoughts to it, although his native sense of freedom, justice, and fair-play had roused a feeling of indignation in his breast whenever the subject chanced to be discussed by him and his mates. But now, for the first time in his life, suddenly and unexpectedly, he was brought face to face with slavery. No wonder that he was deeply moved.

"Why, Mister Seadrift," he said, in the confidential tone of one who imparts a new discovery, "I do honestly confess to 'ee that I think that's a pretty girl!"

"I quite agree with you," replied Harold, smiling.

"Ay, but I mean really pretty, you know. I've always thought that all niggers had ugly flat noses an' thick blubber lips. But look at that one: her lips are scarce a bit thicker than those of many a good-looking lass in England, and they don't stick out at all, and her nose ain't flat a bit. It's quite as good as my Nancy's nose, an' that's sayin' a good deal, I tell 'ee. Moreover, she ain't black -- she's brown."

It is but justice to Disco to say that he was right in his observations, and to explain that the various negro tribes in Africa differ very materially from each other; some of them, as we are told by Dr Livingstone, possessing little of what, in our eyes, seems the characteristic ugliness of the negro -- such as thick lips, flat noses, protruding heels, etcetera, -- but being in every sense handsome races of humanity.

The slave-girl whom Disco admired and pitied so much belonged to one of these tribes, and, as was afterwards ascertained, had been brought from the far interior. She appeared to be very young, nevertheless there was a settled expression of meek sorrow and suffering on her face; and though handsomely formed, she was extremely thin, no doubt from prolonged hardships on the journey down to the coast.

"Here, have somethin' to eat," exclaimed Disco, suddenly filling a tin plate with rice, and carrying it to the girl, who, however, shook her head without raising her eyes.

"You're not hungry, poor thing," said the seaman, in a disappointed tone; "you look as if you should be. Come, try it," he added, stooping, and patting her head.

The poor child looked up as if frightened, and shrank from the seaman's touch, but on glancing a second time in his honest face, she appeared to feel confidence in him. Nevertheless, she would not touch the rice until her guardians said something to her sternly, when she began to eat with an appetite that was eloquent.

"Come, now, tell us what your name is, lass," said Disco, when she had finished the rice.

Of course the girl shook her head, but appeared to wish to understand the question, while the Portuguese laughed and seemed amused with the Englishman's eccentricities.

"Look here, now," resumed the tar, slapping his own chest vigorously, "Disco, Disco, Disco, that's me -- Disco. And this man," (patting his companion on the breast) "is Harold, Harold, that's him -- Harold. Now, then," he added, pointing straight at the girl, "you -- what's you name, eh?"

A gleam of intelligence shot from the girl's expressive eyes, and she displayed a double row of beautiful teeth as in a low soft voice she said -- "Azinte."

"Azinte? come, that's not a bad name; why, it's a capital one. Just suited to 'ee. Well, Azinte, my poor girl," said Disco, with a fresh outburst of feeling, as he clenched his horny right hand and dashed it into the palm of his left, "if I only knew how to set you free just now, my dear, I'd do it -- ay, if I was to be roasted alive for so doin'. I would!"

"You'll never set anybody free in this world," said Harold Seadrift, with some severity, "if you go on talking and acting as you have done to-day. If these men had not, by good fortune, been ignorant of our language, it's my opinion that they would have blown our brains out before this time. You should restrain yourself, man," he continued, gradually dropping into a remonstrative and then into an earnestly confidential tone; "we are utterly helpless just now. If you did succeed in freeing that girl at this moment, it would only be to let her fall into the hands of some other slave-owner. Besides, that would not set free all the other slaves, male and female, who are being dragged from the interior of Africa. You and I may perhaps do some small matter in the way of helping to free slaves, if we keep quiet and watch our opportunity, but we shall accomplish nothing if you give way to useless bursts of anger."

Poor Lillihammer was subdued.

"You're right Mister Seadrift, you're right, sir, and I'm a ass. I never could keep my feelings down. It's all along of my havin' bin made too much of by my mother, dear old woman, w'en I was a boy. But I'll make a effort, sir; I'll clap a stopper on 'em -- bottle 'em up and screw 'em down tight, werry tight indeed."

Disco again sent his right fist into the palm of his left hand, with something like the sound of a pistol-shot to the no small surprise and alarm of the Portuguese, and, rising, went out to cool his heated brow in the open air.



Chapter Two.

Yoosoof's "Black Ivory."

When Yoosoof entered the woods, as before stated, for the purpose of looking after his property, he followed a narrow footpath for about half a mile, which led him to another part of the same creek, at the entrance of which we introduced him to the reader. Here, under the deep shadow of umbrageous trees, floated five large Arab boats, or dhows, similar to the one which has been already referred to. They were quite empty, and apparently unguarded, for when Yoosoof went down the bank and stood on a projecting rock which overlooked them, no one replied to his low-toned hail. Repeating it once, and still receiving no answer, he sat quietly down on the rocks, lighted a small pipe, and waited patiently.

The boats, as we have said, were empty, but there were some curious appliances in them, having the appearance of chains, and wristlets, and bars of iron running along and fixed to their decks, or rather to the flooring of their holds. Their long yards and sails were cleared and ready for hoisting.

After the lapse of ten or fifteen minutes, Yoosoof raised his head -- for he had been meditating deeply, if one might judge from his attitude -- and glanced in the direction of an opening in the bushes whence issued a silent and singular train of human beings. They were negroes, secured by the necks or wrists -- men, women, and children, -- and guarded by armed half-caste Portuguese. When a certain number of them, about a hundred or so, had issued from the wood, and crowded the banks of the creek, they were ordered to stand still, and the leader of the band advanced towards his master.

These were some of Yoosoof's "goods and chattels," his "cattle," his "black ivory."

"You have been long in coming, Moosa," said the Arab trader, as the man approached.

"I have," replied Moosa, somewhat gruffly, "but the road was rough and long, and the cattle were ill-conditioned, as you see."

The two men spoke in the Portuguese tongue, but as the natives and settlers on that coast speak a variety of languages and dialects, we have no alternative, good reader, but to render all into English.

"Make the more haste now," said Yoosoof; "get them shipped at once, for we sail when the moon goes down. Pick out the weakest among the lot, those most likely to die, and put them by themselves in the small dhow. If we must sacrifice some of our wares to these meddling dogs the English, we may as well give them the refuse."

Without remark, Moosa turned on his heel and proceeded to obey orders.

Truly, to one unaccustomed to such scenes, it would have appeared that all the negroes on the spot were "most likely to die," for a more wretched, starved set of human beings could scarcely be imagined. They had just terminated a journey on foot of several hundreds of miles, with insufficient food and under severe hardships. Nearly all of them were lean to a degree, -- many so reduced that they resembled nothing but skeletons with a covering of black leather. Some of the children were very young, many of them mere infants, clinging to the backs of the poor mothers, who had carried them over mountain and plain, through swamp and jungle, in blistering sunshine and pelting rain for many weary days. But prolonged suffering had changed the nature of these little ones. They were as silent and almost as intelligently anxious as their seniors. There were no old pieces of merchandise there. Most were youthful or in the prime of life; a few were middle-aged.

Difficult though the task appeared to be, Moosa soon selected about fifty men and women and a few children, who were so fearfully emaciated that their chance of surviving appeared but small. These were cast loose and placed in a sitting posture in the hold of the smallest dhow, as close together as they could be packed.

Their removal from the bank made room for more to issue from the wood, which they did in a continuous stream. Batch after batch was cast loose and stowed away in the manner already described, until the holds of two of the large boats were filled, each being capable of containing about two hundred souls. This was so far satisfactory to Yoosoof, who had expended a good deal of money on the venture -- satisfactory, even although he had lost a large proportion of the goods -- four-fifths at least if not more, by death and otherwise, on the way down to the coast; but that was a matter of little consequence. The price of black ivory was up in the market just at that time, and the worthy merchant could stand a good deal of loss.

The embarkation was effected with wonderful celerity, and in comparative silence. Only the stern voices of the half-caste Portuguese were heard as they ordered the slaves to move, mingled with the occasional clank of a chain, but no sounds proceeded from the thoroughly subdued and worn-out slaves louder than a sigh or a half-suppressed wail, with now and then a shriek of pain when some of the weaker among them were quickened into activity by the lash.

When all had been embarked, two of the five boats still remained empty, but Yoosoof had a pretty good idea of the particular points along the coast where more "cattle" of a similar kind could be purchased. Therefore, after stationing some of his men, armed with muskets, to guard the boats, he returned with the remainder of them to the hut in which the Englishmen had been left.

There he found Azinte and her guardians. He seemed angry with the latter at first, but after a few minutes' thought appeared to recover his equanimity, and ordered the men to remove the ropes with which the girl was tethered; then bidding her follow him he left the hut without taking any notice of the Englishmen further than to say he would be back shortly before the time of sailing.

Yoosoof's motions were usually slow and his mien somewhat dignified, but, when occasion required, he could throw off his Oriental dignity and step out with the activity of a monkey. It was so on this occasion, insomuch that Azinte was obliged occasionally to run in order to keep up with him. Proceeding about two miles in the woods along the shore without halt, he came out at length on the margin of a bay, at the head of which lay a small town. It was a sorry-looking place, composed of wretchedly built houses, most of which were thatched with the leaves of the cocoa-nut palm.

Nevertheless, such as it was, it possessed a mud fort, an army of about thirty soldiers, composed of Portuguese convicts who had been sent there as a punishment for many crimes, a Governor, who was understood to be honourable, having been placed there by his Excellency the Governor-General at Mozambique, who had been himself appointed by His Most Faithful Majesty the King of Portugal.

It was in quest of this Governor that Yoosoof bent his rapid steps. Besides all the advantages above enumerated, the town drove a small trade in ivory, ebony, indigo, orchella weed, gum copal, cocoa-nut oil, and other articles of native produce, and a very large (though secret) trade in human bodies and -- we had almost written -- souls, but the worthy people who dwelt there could not fetter souls, although they could, and very often did, set them free.

Senhor Francisco Alfonso Toledo Bignoso Letotti, the Governor, was seated at the open window of his parlour, just before Yoosoof made his appearance, conversing lightly with his only daughter, the Senhorina Maraquita, a beautiful brunette of about eighteen summers, who had been brought up and educated in Portugal.

The Governor's wife had died a year before this time in Madrid, and the Senhorina had gone to live with her father on the east coast of Africa, at which place she had arrived just six weeks previous to the date of the opening of our tale.

Among the various boats and vessels at anchor in the bay, were seen the tapering masts of a British war-steamer. The Senhorina and her sire were engaged in a gossiping criticism of the officers of this vessel when Yoosoof was announced. Audience was immediately granted.

Entering the room, with Azinte close behind him, the Arab stopped abruptly on beholding Maraquita, and bowed gravely.

"Leave us, my child," said the Governor, in Portuguese; "I have business to transact with this man."

"And why may not I stay to assist you, father, in this wonderful man-mystery of transacting business?" asked Maraquita, with an arch smile.

"Whenever you men want to get rid of women you frighten them away with business! If you wish not to explain something to us, you shake your wise heads, and call it business! Is it not so? -- Come, Arab," she added, turning with a sprightly air to Yoosoof, "you are a trader, I suppose; all Arabs are, I am told. Well, what sort of wares have you got to sell?"

Yoosoof smiled slightly as he stepped aside and pointed to Azinte.

The speaking countenance of the Portuguese girl changed as if by magic. She had seen little and thought little about slavery during the brief period of her residence on the coast, and had scarcely realised the fact that Sambo, with the thick lips -- her father's gardener -- or the black cook and house-maids, were slaves. It was the first entrance of a new idea with something like power into her mind when she saw a delicate, mild-looking, and pretty negro girl actually offered for sale.

Before she could bethink herself of any remark the door opened, and in walked, unannounced, a man on whose somewhat handsome countenance villainy was clearly stamped.

"Ha! Marizano," exclaimed Senhor Letotti, rising, "you have thought better of it, I presume?"

"I have, and I agree to your arrangement," replied Marizano, in an off-hand, surly tone.

"There is nothing like necessity," returned the Governor, with a laugh. "'Twere better to enjoy a roving life for a short time with a lightish purse in one's pocket, than to attempt to keep a heavy purse with the addition of several ounces of lead in one's breast! How say you?"

Marizano smiled and shrugged his broad shoulders, but made no reply, for just then his attention had been attracted to the slave-girl.

"For sale?" he inquired of the Arab carelessly.

Yoosoof bowed his head slightly.

"How much?"

"Come, come, gentlemen," interposed the Governor, with a laugh and a glance at his daughter, "you can settle this matter elsewhere. Yoosoof has come here to talk with me on other matters. -- Now, Maraquita dear, you had better retire for a short time."

When the Senhorina had somewhat unwillingly obeyed, the Governor turned to Yoosoof: "I presume you have no objection to Marizano's presence during our interview, seeing that he is almost as well acquainted with your affairs as yourself?"

As Yoosoof expressed no objection, the three drew their chairs together and sat down to a prolonged private and very interesting palaver.

We do not mean to try the reader's patience by dragging him through the whole of it; nevertheless, a small portion of what was said is essential to the development of our tale.

"Well, then, be it as you wish, Yoosoof," said the Governor, folding up a fresh cigarette; "you are one of the most active traders on the coast, and never fail to keep correct accounts with your Governor. You deserve encouragement but I fear that you run considerable risk."

"I know that; but those who make much must risk much."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Marizano, with hearty approval; "nevertheless those who risk most do not always make most. Contrast yourself with me, now. You risk your boats and cattle, and become rich. I risk my life, and behold! I am fleeced. I have little or nothing left, barely enough to buy yonder girl from you -- though I think I have enough for that."

He pointed as he spoke to Azinte, who still stood on the spot where she had been left near the door.

"Tell me," resumed Senhor Letotti, "how do you propose to elude the English cruiser? for I know that her captain has got wind of your whereabouts, and is determined to watch the coast closely -- and let me tell you, he is a vigorous, intelligent man."

"You tell me he has a number of captured slaves already in his ship?" said Yoosoof.

"Yes, some hundreds, I believe."

"He must go somewhere to land these, I presume?" rejoined the Arab.

Yoosoof referred here to the fact that when a British cruiser engaged in the suppression of the slave-trade on the east coast of Africa has captured a number of slaves, she is under the necessity of running to the Seychelles Islands, Aden, or some other British port of discharge, to land them there as free men, because, were she to set them free on any part of the coast of Africa, belonging either to Portugal or the Sultan of Zanzibar, they would certainly be recaptured and again enslaved. When therefore the cruisers are absent -- it may be two or three weeks on this duty, the traders in human flesh of course make the most of their opportunity to run cargoes of slaves to those ports in Arabia and Persia where they always find a ready market.

On the present occasion Yoosoof conceived that the captain of the 'Firefly' might be obliged to take this course to get rid of the negroes already on board, who were of course consuming his provisions, besides being an extremely disagreeable cargo, many of them being diseased and covered with sores, owing to their cruel treatment on board the slave-dhows.

"He won't go, however, till he has hunted the coast north and south for you, so he assures me," said the Governor, with a laugh.

"Well, I must start to-night, therefore I shall give him a small pill to swallow which will take him out of the way," said Yoosoof, rising to leave the room.

"I wish you both success," said the Governor, as Marizano also rose to depart, "but I fear that you will find the Englishman very troublesome. -- Adieu."

The Arab and the half-caste went out talking earnestly together, and followed by Azinte, and immediately afterwards the Senhorina Maraquita entered hurriedly.

"Father, you must buy that slave-girl for me. I want a pretty slave all to myself," she said, with unwonted vehemence.

"Impossible, my child," replied the Governor kindly, for he was very fond as well as proud of his daughter.

"Why impossible? Have you not enough of money?"

"Oh yes, plenty of that, but I fear she is already bespoken, and I should not like to interfere -- "

"Bespoken! do you mean sold?" cried Maraquita, seizing her father's hands, "not sold to that man Marizano?"

"I think she must be by this time, for he's a prompt man of business, and not easily thwarted when he sets his mind to a thing."

The Senhorina clasped her hands before her eyes, and stood for a moment motionless, then rushing wildly from the room she passed into another apartment the windows of which commanded a view of a considerable part of the road which led from the house along the shore. There she saw the Arab and his friend walking leisurely along as if in earnest converse, while Azinte followed meekly behind.

The Senhorina stood gazing at them with clenched hands, in an agony of uncertainty as to what course she ought to pursue, and so wrapt up in her thoughts that she failed to observe a strapping young lieutenant of H.M.S. steamer 'Firefly,' who had entered the room and stood close to her side.

Now this same lieutenant happened to be wildly in love with Senhorina Maraquita. He had met her frequently at her father's table, where, in company with his captain, he was entertained with great hospitality, and on which occasions the captain was assisted by the Governor in his investigations into the slave-trade.

Lieutenant Lindsay had taken the romantic plunge with all the charming enthusiasm of inexperienced youth, and entertained the firm conviction that, if Senhorina Maraquita did not become "his," life would thenceforth be altogether unworthy of consideration; happiness would be a thing of the past, with which he should have nothing more to do, and death at the cannon's mouth, or otherwise, would be the only remaining gleam of comfort in his dingy future.

"Something distresses you, I fear," began the lieutenant, not a little perplexed to find the young lady in such a peculiar mood.

Maraquita started, glanced at him a moment, and then, with flashing eyes and heightened colour, pointed at the three figures on the road.

"Yes, Senhor," she said; "I am distressed -- deeply so. Look! do you see yonder two men, and the girl walking behind them?"

"I do."

"Quick! fly after them and bring them hither -- the Arab and the girl I mean -- not the other man. Oh, be quick, else they will be out of sight and then she will be lost; quick, if you -- if -- if you really mean what you have so often told me."

Poor Lindsay! It was rather a sudden and severe test of fidelity to be sent forth to lay violent hands on a man and woman and bring them forcibly to the Governor's house, without any better reason than that a self-willed girl ordered him so to do; at the same time, he perceived that, if he did not act promptly, the retreating figures would soon turn into the town, and be hopelessly beyond his power of recognition.

"But -- but -- " he stammered, "if they won't come -- ?"

"They must come. Threaten my father's high displeasure. -- Quick, Senhor," cried the young lady in a commanding tone.

Lindsay flung open the casement and leapt through it as being the shortest way out of the house, rushed with undignified speed along the road, and overtook the Arab and his friend as they were about to turn into one of the narrow lanes of the town.

"Pardon me," said the lieutenant laying his hand on Yoosoof's shoulder in his anxiety to make sure of him, "will you be so good as to return with me to the Governor's residence?"

"By whose orders?" demanded Yoosoof with a look of surprise.

"The orders of the Senhorina Maraquita."

The Arab hesitated, looked somewhat perplexed, and said something in Portuguese to Marizano, who pointed to the slave-girl, and spoke with considerable vehemence.

Lindsay did not understand what was said, but, conjecturing that the half-caste was proposing that Azinte should remain with him, he said: -- "The girl must return with you -- if you would not incur the Governor's displeasure."

Marizano, on having this explained to him, looked with much ferocity at the lieutenant and spoke to Yoosoof in wrathful tones, but the latter shook his head, and the former, who disliked Marizano's appearance excessively, took not the least notice of him.

"I do go," said Yoosoof, turning back. Motioning to Azinte to follow, he retraced his steps with the lieutenant and the slave -- while Marizano strode into the town in a towering rage.

We need scarcely say that Maraquita, having got possession of Azinte, did not find it impossible to persuade her father to purchase her, and that Yoosoof, although sorry to disappoint Marizano, who was an important ally and assistant in the slave-trade, did not see his way to thwart the wishes of the Governor, whose power to interfere with his trade was very great indeed, and to whom he was under the necessity of paying head-money for every slave that was exported by him from that part of the coast.

Soon after Azinte had been thus happily rescued from the clutches of two of the greatest villains on the East African coast -- where villains of the deepest dye are by no means uncommon -- Lindsay met Captain Romer of the 'Firefly' on the beach, with his first lieutenant Mr Small, who, by the way, happened to be one of the largest men in his ship. The three officers had been invited to dine that day with the Governor, and as there seemed no particular occasion for their putting to sea that night, and a fresh supply of water had to be taken on board, the invitation had been accepted, all the more readily, too, that Captain Romer thought it afforded an opportunity for obtaining further information as to the movements of certain notorious slavers who were said to be thereabouts at that time. Lieutenant Lindsay had been sent ashore at an earlier part of the day, accompanied by one of the sailors who understood Portuguese, and who, being a remarkably intelligent man, might, it was thought, acquire some useful information from some of the people of the town.

"Well, Mr Lindsay, has Jackson been of any use to you?" inquired the captain.

"Not yet," replied the lieutenant; "at least I know not what he may have done, not having met him since we parted on landing; but I have myself been so fortunate as to rescue a slave-girl under somewhat peculiar circumstances."

"Truly, a most romantic and gallant affair," said the captain, laughing, when Lindsay had related the incident, "and worthy of being mentioned in despatches; but I suspect, considering the part that the Senhorina Maraquita played in it and the fact that you only rescued the girl from one slaveholder in order to hand her over to another, the less that is said about the subject the better! -- But here comes Jackson. Perhaps he may have learned something about the scoundrels we are in search of."

The seaman referred to approached and touched his cap.

"What news?" demanded the captain, who knew by the twinkle in Jack's eye that he had something interesting to report.

"I've diskivered all about it sir," replied the man, with an ill-suppressed chuckle.

"Indeed! come this way. Now, let's hear what you have to tell," said the captain, when at a sufficient distance from his boat to render the conversation quite private.

"Well, sir," began Jackson, "w'en I got up into the town, arter leavin' Mr Lindsay, who should I meet but a man as had bin a messmate o' mine aboard of that there Portuguese ship w'ere I picked up a smatterin' o' the lingo? Of course we hailed each other and hove-to for a spell, and then we made sail for a grog-shop, where we spliced the main-brace. After a deal o' tackin' and beatin' about, which enabled me to find out that he'd left the sea an' taken to business on his own account, which in them parts seems to mean loafin' about doin' little or nothin', I went slap into the subject that was uppermost in my mind, and says I to him, says I, they does a deal o' slavin' on this here coast, it appears -- Black Ivory is a profitable trade, ain't it? W'y, sir, you should have seen the way he grinned and winked, and opened out on 'em. -- 'Black Ivory!' says he, 'w'y, Jackson, there's more slaves exported from these here parts annooally than would fill a good-sized city. I could tell you -- but,' says he, pullin' up sudden, 'you won't split on me, messmate?' 'Honour bright,' says I, 'if ye don't call tellin' my captain splittin'.' 'Oh no,' says he, with a laugh, 'it's little I care what he knows, or does to the pirates -- for that's their true name, and murderers to boot -- but don't let it come to the Governor's ears, else I'm a ruined man.' I says I wouldn't and then he goes on to tell me all sorts of hanecdots about their doin's -- that they does it with the full consent of the Governor, who gets head-money for every slave exported; that nearly all the Governors on the coast are birds of the same feather, and that the Governor-General himself, at Mozambique, winks at it and makes the subordinate Governors pay him tribute. Then he goes on to tell me more about the Governor of this here town, an' says that, though a kind-hearted man in the main, and very good to his domestic slaves, he encourages the export trade, because it brings him in a splendid revenue, which he has much need of, poor man, for like most, if not all, of the Governors on the coast, he do receive nothin' like a respectible salary from the Portuguese Government at home, and has to make it up by slave-tradin'."

It must be explained here that British cruisers were, and still are, kept on the east coast of Africa, for the purpose of crushing only the export slave-trade. They claim no right to interfere with "domestic slavery," an institution which is still legal in the dominions of the Sultan of Zanzibar and in the so-called colonies of Portugal on that coast.

"But that is not the best of it, sir," continued Jackson, with a respectful smile, "after we'd had our jaw out I goes off along the road by the beach to think a bit what I'd best do, an' have a smoke -- for that's wot usually sets my brain to work full-swing. Bein' hot I lay down in the lee of a bush to excogitate. You see, sir, my old messmate told me that there are two men here, the worst characters he ever know'd -- ashore or afloat. One they calls Yoosoof -- an Arab he is; the other Marizano -- he's a slave-catcher, and an outlaw just now, havin' taken up arms and rebelled against the Portuguese authorities. Nevertheless these two men are secretly hand and glove with the Governor here, and at this moment there are said to be a lot o' slaves ready for shipment and only waitin' till the 'Firefly' is out of the way. More than this my friend could not tell, so that's w'y I went to excogitate. -- I beg parding, sir, for being so long wi' my yarn, but I ain't got the knack o' cuttin' it short, sir, that's w'ere it is."

"Never mind, lad; go on to the end of it," replied the captain. "Did you excogitate anything more?"

"I can't say as I did, sir, but it was cooriously enough excogitated for me. W'en I was lying there looking through the bush at the bay, I sees two men comin' along, arm in arm. One of 'em was an Arab. W'en they was near I saw the Arab start; I thought he'd seen me, and didn't like me. No more did I like him or his comrade. However, I was wrong, for after whisperin' somethin' very earnest-like to his friend, who laughed very much; but said nothin', they came and sat down not far from the bush where I lay. Now, thinks I, it ain't pleasant to be an eavesdropper, but as I'm here to find out the secrets of villains, and as these two look uncommon like villains, I'll wait a bit; if they broach business as don't consarn me or her Majesty the Queen, I'll sneeze an' let 'em know I'm here, before they're properly under weigh; but if they speaks of wot I wants to know, I'll keep quiet. Well, sir, to my surprise, the Arab -- he speaks in bad English, whereby I came to suppose the other was an Englishman, but, if he is, the climate must have spoiled him badly, for I never did see such a ruffian to look at. But he only laughed, and didn't speak, so I couldn't be sure. Well, to come to the pint, sir, the Arab said he'd got hold of two shipwrecked Englishmen, whom he meant to put on board of his dhow, at that time lyin' up a river not three miles off, and full of slaves, take 'em off the coast, seize 'em when asleep, and heave 'em overboard; the reason bein' that he was afraid, if they was left ashore here, they'd discover the town, which they are ignorant of at present, and give the alarm to our ship, sir, an' so prevent him gettin' clear off, which he means to attempt about midnight just after the moon goes down."

This unexpected information was very gratifying to Captain Romer, who immediately gave orders to get steam up and have everything in readiness to start the moment he should make his appearance on board, at the same time enjoining absolute silence on his lieutenants and Jackson, who all returned to the 'Firefly,' chuckling inwardly.

If they had known that the Arab's information, though partly true, was a ruse; that Jackson had indeed been observed by the keen-eyed Oriental, who had thereupon sat down purposely within earshot, and after a whispered hint to his companion, gave forth such information as would be likely to lead the British cruiser into his snares -- speaking in bad English, under the natural impression that the sailor did not understand Portuguese, to the immense amusement of Marizano, who understood the ruse, though he did not understand a single word of what his companion said -- had they known all this, we say, it is probable that they would have chuckled less, and -- but why indulge in probabilities when facts are before us? The sequel will show that the best-laid plans may fail.



Chapter Three.

Relates The Further Adventures Of Harold And Disco, And Lifts The Curtain A Little Higher In Regard To The Slave-Trade.

So Captain Romer and his lieutenants went to dine with the worthy Governor Senhor Francisco Alfonso Toledo Bignoso Letotti, while Yoosoof returned to the creek to carry out his deep-laid plans.

In regard to the dinner, let it suffice to observe that it was good, and that the Governor was urbane, hospitable, communicative, and every way agreeable. It is probable that if he had been trained in another sphere and in different circumstances he might have been a better man. As things stood, he was unquestionably a pleasant one, and Captain Romer found it hard to believe that he was an underhand schemer.

Nothing could exceed the open way in which Senhor Letotti condemned the slave-trade, praised the English for their zeal in attempting to suppress it, explained that the King of Portugal and the Sultan of Zanzibar were equally anxious for its total extinction, and assured his guests that he would do everything that lay in his power to further their efforts to capture the guilty kidnappers, and to free the poor slaves!

"But, my dear sir," said he, at the conclusion of an emphatic declaration of sympathy, "the thing is exceedingly difficult. You are aware that Arab traders swarm upon the coast, that they are reckless men, who possess boats and money in abundance, that the trade is very profitable, and that, being to some extent real traders in ivory, palm-oil, indigo, and other kinds of native produce, these men have many ruses and methods -- what you English call dodges -- whereby they can deceive even the most sharp-sighted and energetic. The Arabs are smart smugglers of negroes -- very much as your people who live in the Scottish land are smart smugglers of the dew of the mountain -- what your great poet Burns speaks much of -- I forget its name -- it is not easy to put them down."

After dinner, Senhor Letotti led the officers into his garden, and showed them his fruit-trees and offices, also his domestic slaves, who looked healthy, well cared for, and really in some degree happy.

He did not, however, tell his guests that being naturally a humane man, his slaves were better treated than any other slaves in the town. He did not remind them that, being slaves, they were his property, his goods and chattels, and that he possessed the right and the power to flay them alive if so disposed. He did not explain that many in the town were so disposed; that cruelty grows and feeds upon itself; that there were ladies and gentlemen there who flogged their slaves -- men, women, and children -- nearly to the death; that one gentleman of an irascible disposition, when irritated by some slight oversight on the part of the unfortunate boy who acted as his valet, could find no relief to his feelings until he had welted him first into a condition of unutterable terror, and then into a state of insensibility. Neither did he inform them that a certain lady in the town, who seemed at most times to be possessed of a reasonably quiet spirit, was roused once to such a degree by a female slave that she caused her to be forcibly held, thrust a boiling hot egg into her mouth, skewered her lips together with a sail-needle, and then striking her cheeks, burst the egg, and let the scalding contents run down her throat.

No, nothing of all this did the amiable Governor Letotti so much as hint at. He would not for the world have shocked the sensibilities of his guests by the recital of such cruelties. To say truth, the worthy man himself did not like to speak or think of them. In this respect he resembled a certain class among ourselves, who, rather than submit to a little probing of their feelings for a few minutes, would prefer to miss the chance of making an intelligently indignant protest against slavery, and would allow the bodies and souls of their fellow-men to continue writhing in agony through all time.

It was much more gratifying to the feelings of Senhor Letotti to convey his guests to the drawing-room, and there gratify their palates with excellent coffee, while the graceful, and now clothed, Azinte brought a Spanish guitar to the Senhorina Maraquita, whose sweet voice soon charmed away all thoughts of the cruel side of slavery. But duty ere long stepped in to call the guests to other scenes.

"What a sweet girl the Senhorina is!" remarked Captain Romer, while on his way to the beach.

"Ay, and what a pretty girl Azinte is, black though she be," observed Lieutenant Small.

"Call her not black; she is brown -- a brunette," said the captain.

"I wonder how we should feel," said Lindsay, "if the tables were turned, and our women and children, with our stoutest young men, were forcibly taken from us by thousands every year, and imported into Africa to grind the corn and hoe the fields of the black man. Poor Azinte!"

"Do you know anything of her history?" inquired Mr Small.

"A little. I had some conversation in French with the Senhorina just before we left -- "

"Yes, I observed that," interrupted the captain, with a quiet smile.

"And," continued Lindsay, "she told me that she had discovered, through an interpreter, that the poor girl is married, and that her home is far away in the interior. She was caught, with many others, while out working in the fields one day several months ago, by a party of slave-traders, under an Arab named Yoosoof and carried off. Her husband was absent at the time; her infant boy was with its grandmother in their village, and she thinks may have escaped into the woods, but she has not seen any of them again since the day of her capture."

"It is a sad case," said the captain, "and yet bad though it be, it might be far worse, for Azinte's master and mistress are very kind, which is more than can be said of most slave-owners in this region."

In a few minutes the captain's gig was alongside the "Firefly," and soon afterwards that vessel quietly put to sea. Of course it was impossible that she should depart unobserved, but her commander took the precaution to run due south at first, exactly opposite to the direction of his true course, intending to make a wide sweep out to sea, and thus get unobserved to the northward of the place where the slaver's dhow was supposed to be lying, in time to intercept it.

Yoosoof, from a neighbouring height watched the manoeuvre, and thoroughly understood it. When the vessel had disappeared into the shades of night that brooded over the sea, he smiled calmly, and in a placid frame of mind betook himself to his lair in the creek beside the mangrove trees.

He found Harold Seadrift and Disco Lillihammer in the hut, somewhat impatient of his prolonged absence, and a dozen of his men looking rather suspiciously at the strangers.

"Is all ready, Moosa?" he inquired of a powerful man, half-Portuguese, half-negro in appearance, who met him outside the door of the hut.

"All ready," replied the half-caste, in a gruff tone of voice, "but what are you going to do with these English brutes?"

"Take them with us, of course," replied Yoosoof.

"For what end?"

"For our own safety. Why, don't you see, Moosa, that if we had set them free, they might have discovered the town and given information to the cruiser about us, which would have been awkward? We might now, indeed, set them free, for the cruiser is gone, but I still have good reason for wishing to take them with me. They think that we have but one boat in this creek, and I should like to make use of them for the purpose of propagating that false idea. I have had the good luck while in the town to find an opportunity of giving one of the sailors of the cruiser a little information as to my movements -- some of it true, some of it false -- which will perhaps do us a service."

The Arab smiled slightly as he said this.

"Do these men know our trade?" asked Moosa.

"I think they suspect it," answered Yoosoof.

"And what if they be not willing to go with us?" demanded Moosa.

"Can twelve men not manage two?" asked the Arab. Dark though the night had become by that time, there was sufficient light to gleam on the teeth that Moosa exposed on receiving this reply.

"Now, Moosa, we must be prompt," continued Yoosoof; "let some of you get round behind the Englishmen, and have the slave-chains handy. Keep your eye on me while I talk with them; if they are refractory, a nod shall be the signal."

Entering the hut Yoosoof informed Harold that it was now time to set sail.

"Good, we are ready," said Harold, rising, "but tell me one thing before my comrade and I agree to go with you, -- tell us honestly if you are engaged in the slave-trade."

A slight smile curled the Arab's thin lip as he replied -- "If I be a slave-trader, I cannot speak honestly, so you Engleesh think. But I do tell you -- yes, I am."

"Then, I tell you honestly," said Harold, "that I won't go with you. I'll have nothing to do with slavers."

"Them's my sentiments to a tee," said Disco, with emphasis, thumping his left palm as usual with his right fist, by way of sheating his remark home -- to use his own words.

"But you will both perish on this uninhabited coast," said Yoosoof.

"So be it," replied Harold; "I had rather run the risk of starving than travel in company with slave-traders. Besides, I doubt the truth of what you say. There must be several villages not very far off, if my information in regard to the coast be not altogether wrong."

Yoosoof waited for no more. He nodded to Moosa, who instantly threw a noose round Harold's arms, and drew it tight. The same operation was performed for Disco, by a stout fellow who stood behind him, and almost before they realised what had occurred, they were seized by a number of men.

It must not be supposed that two able-bodied Englishmen quietly submitted at once to this sort of treatment. On the contrary, a struggle ensued that shook the walls of the little hut so violently as almost to bring it down upon the heads of the combatants. The instant that Harold felt the rough clasp of Moosa's arms, he bent himself forward with such force as to fling that worthy completely over his head, and lay him flat on the floor, but two of the other slavers seized Harold's arms, a third grasped him round the waist, and a fourth rapidly secured the ropes that had been thrown around him. Disco's mode of action, although somewhat different was quite as vigorous. On being grasped he uttered a deep roar of surprise and rage, and, raising his foot, struck out therewith at a man who advanced to seize him in front. The kick not only tumbled the man over a low bench and drove his head against the wall, but it caused the kicker himself to recoil on his foes behind with such force that they all fell on the floor together, when by their united weight the slavers managed to crush the unfortunate Disco, not, indeed, into submission, but into inaction.

His tongue, however, not being tied, continued to pour forth somewhat powerful epithets, until Harold very strongly advised him to cease.

"If you want to retain a whole skin," he said, "you had better keep a quiet tongue."

"P'raps you're right sir," said Disco, after a moment's consideration, "but it ain't easy to shut up in the succumstances."

After they had thoroughly secured the Englishmen, the traders led them down the bank of the creek to the spot where the dhow was moored. In the dark it appeared to Harold and his companion to be the same dhow, but this was not so. The boat by which they had crossed the creek had been removed up the water, and its place was now occupied by the dhow into which had been put the maimed and worn-out slaves of the band whose arrival we have described. The hold of the little vessel was very dark, nevertheless there was light enough to enable the Englishmen to guess that the rows of black objects just perceptible within it were slaves. If they had entertained any uncertainty on this point, the odour that saluted them as they passed to the stern would have quickly dispelled their doubts.

It was evident from the manner of the slavers that they did not now fear discovery, because they talked loudly as they pushed off and rowed away. Soon they were out of the creek, and the roar of breakers was heard. Much caution was displayed in guiding the dhow through these, for the channel was narrow, and darkness rendered its position almost indiscernible. At last the sail was hoisted, the boat bent over to a smart breeze, and held away in a north-easterly direction. As the night wore on this breeze became lighter, and, most of the crew being asleep, deep silence prevailed on board the slave-dhow, save that, ever and anon, a pitiful wail, as of a sick child, or a convulsive sob, issued from the hold.

Harold and Disco sat beside each other in the stern, with an armed half-caste on each side, and Yoosoof in front. Their thoughts were busy enough at first, but neither spoke to the other. As the night advanced both fell into an uneasy slumber.

When Harold awoke, the grey dawn was beginning to break in the east and there was sufficient light to render objects dimly visible. At first he scarcely recollected where he was, but the pain caused by the ropes that bound him soon refreshed his memory. Casting his eyes quickly towards the hold, his heart sank within him at the sight he there beheld. Yoosoof's Black Ivory was not of the best quality, but there was a good deal of it, which rendered judicious packing necessary. So many of his gang had become worthless as an article of trade, through suffering on the way down to the coast, that the boat could scarce contain them all. They were packed sitting on their haunches in rows each with his knees close to his chin, and all jammed so tightly together that none could rise up or lie down. Men, women, and little children sat in this position with an expression of indescribable hopelessness and apathy on their faces. The infants, of which there were several, lay motionless on their mothers' shrunken breasts. God help them! they were indeed utterly worthless as pieces of merchandise. The long journey and hard treatment had worn all of them to mere skin and bone, and many were suffering from bad sores caused by the slave-irons and the unmerciful application of the lash. No one knew better than Yoosoof that this was his "damaged stock" -- hopelessly damaged, and he meant to make the best use he could of it.

The sun arose in all its splendour, and revealed more clearly to the horrified Englishmen all the wretchedness of the hold, but for a considerable time they did not speak. The circumstances in which they found themselves seemed to have bereft them of the faculty of speech. The morning advanced, and Yoosoof with his men, took a frugal breakfast, but they did not offer any to Harold or Disco. As these unfortunates had, however, supped heartily, they did not mind that. So much could not have been said for the slaves. They had received their last meal of uncooked rice and water, a very insufficient one, about thirty-six hours before, and as they watched the traders at breakfast, their glaring eyes told eloquently of their sufferings.

Had these been Yoosoof's valuable stock, his undamaged goods, he would have given them a sufficiency of food to have kept them up to condition as long as he possessed them; but being what they were, a very little drop of water and a few grains of raw rice at noon was deemed sufficient to prevent absolute starvation.

"How can you have the heart," said Harold at last turning to Yoosoof, "to treat these poor creatures so cruelly?"

Yoosoof shrugged his shoulders.

"My fader treat them so; I follow my fader's footsteps."

"But have you no pity for them? Don't you think they have hearts and feelings like ourselves?" returned Harold earnestly.

"No," replied the Arab coldly. "They have no feelings. Hard as the stone. They care not for mother, or child, or husband. Only brutes --  cattle."

Harold was so disgusted with this reply that he relapsed into silence.

Towards the afternoon, while the dhow was running close in-shore, a vessel hove in sight on the horizon. A few minutes sufficed to show that it was a steamer. It was of course observed and closely watched by the slave-dealers as well as by Harold Seadrift and Disco Lillihammer, who became sanguinely hopeful that it might turn out to be a British man-of-war. Had they known that Yoosoof was equally anxious and hopeful on that point they would have been much surprised; but the wily Arab pretended to be greatly alarmed, and when the Union Jack became clearly visible his excitement increased. He gave some hurried orders to his men, who laughed sarcastically as they obeyed them.

"Yoosoof," said Harold, with a slight feeling of exultation, "your plans seem about to miscarry!"

"No, they not miscarry yet," replied the Arab, with a grim smile.

"Tell me, Yoosoof," resumed Harold, prompted by strong curiosity, "why have you carried us off bound in this fashion?"

Another smile, more grim than the former, crossed the Arab's visage as he replied -- "Me carry you off 'cause that sheep," pointing to the steamer, "lie not two mile off, near to town of Governor Letotti, when I first met you. We not want you to let thems know 'bout us, so I carry you off, and I bind you 'cause you strong."

"Ha! that's plain and reasonable," returned Harold, scarce able to restrain a laugh at the man's cool impudence. "But it would appear that some one else has carried the news; so, you see, you have been outwitted after all."

"Perhaps. We shall see," replied the Arab, with something approaching to a chuckle.

Altering the course of the boat, Yoosoof now ran her somewhat off the shore, as if with a view to get round a headland that lay to the northward. This evidently drew the attention of the steamer -- which was none other than the "Firefly" -- for she at once altered her course and ran in-shore, so as to intercept the dhow. Seeing this, Yoosoof turned back and made for the land at a place where there was a long line of breakers close to the shore. To run amongst these seemed to be equivalent to running on certain destruction, nevertheless the Arab held on, with compressed lips and a frowning brow. Yoosoof looked quite like a man who would rather throw away his life than gratify his enemy, and the Englishmen, who were fully alive to their danger, began to feel rather uneasy -- which was a very pardonable sensation, when it is remembered that their arms being fast bound, rendered them utterly unable to help themselves in case of the boat capsizing.

The "Firefly" was by this time near enough to hold converse with the dhow through the medium of artillery. Soon a puff of white smoke burst from her bow, and a round-shot dropped a few yards astern of the boat.

"That's a broad hint, my lad, so you'd better give in," said Lillihammer, scarce able to suppress a look of triumph.

Yoosoof paid not the slightest attention to the remark, but held on his course.

"Surely you don't intend to risk the lives of these poor creatures in such a surf?" said Harold anxiously; "weak and worn as they are, their doom is sealed if we capsize."

Still the Arab paid no attention, but continued to gaze steadily at the breakers.

Harold, turning his eyes in the same direction, observed something like a narrow channel running through them. He was enough of a seaman to understand that only one who was skilled in such navigation could pass in safety.

"They're lowering a boat," said Disco, whose attention was engrossed by the manoeuvres of the "Firefly."

Soon the boat left the side of the vessel, which was compelled to check her speed for fear of running on the reef. Another gun was fired as she came round, and the shot dropped right in front of the dhow, sending a column of water high into the air. Still Yoosoof held on until close to the breakers, when, to the surprise of the Englishmen, he suddenly threw the boat's head into the wind.

"You can steer," he said sternly to Disco. "Come, take the helm an' go to your ship; or, if you choose, go on the breakers."

He laughed fiercely as he said this, and next moment plunged into the sea, followed by his crew.

Disco, speechless with amazement, rose up and sprang to the helm. Of course he could not use his bound hands, but one of his legs answered almost as well. He allowed the boat to come round until the sail filled on the other tack, and then looking back, saw the heads of the Arabs as they swam through the channel and made for the shore. In a few minutes they gained it, and, after uttering a shout of defiance, ran up into the bushes and disappeared.

Meanwhile the "Firefly's" boat made straight for the dhow, and was soon near enough to hail.

"Heave-to," cried an interpreter in Arabic.

"Speak your own mother tongue and I'll answer ye," replied Disco.

"Heave-to, or I'll sink you," shouted Mr Small, who was in charge.

"I'm just agoin' to do it, sir," replied Disco, running the dhow into the wind until the sail shook.

Another moment and the boat was alongside. "Jump aboard and handle the sail, lads; I can't help 'ee no further," said Disco.

The invitation was unnecessary. The moment the two boats touched, the blue-jackets swarmed on board, cutlass in hand, and took possession.

"Why, what! -- where did you come from?" asked the lieutenant, looking in profound astonishment at Harold and his companion.

"We are Englishmen, as you see," replied Harold, unable to restrain a smile; "we have been wrecked and caught by the villains who have just escaped you."

"I see -- well, no time for talking just now; cut them loose, Jackson. Make fast the sheet -- now then."

In a few minutes the dhow ranged up alongside the "Firefly," and our heroes, with the poor slaves, were quickly transferred to the man-of-war's deck, where Harold told his tale to Captain Romer.

As we have already stated, there were a number of slaves on board the "Firefly," which had been rescued from various Arab dhows. The gang now received on board made their numbers so great that it became absolutely necessary to run to the nearest port to discharge them.

We have already remarked on the necessity that lies on our cruisers, when overladen with rescued slaves, to run to a distant port of discharge to land them; and on the readiness of the slave-traders to take advantage of their opportunity, and run north with full cargoes with impunity when some of the cruisers are absent; for it is not possible for a small fleet to guard upwards of a thousand miles of coast effectually, or even, in any degree, usefully. If we possessed a port of discharge -- a British station and settlement -- on the mainland of the east coast of Africa, this difficulty would not exist. As it is, although we place several men-of-war on a station, the evil will not be cured, for just in proportion as these are successful in making captures, will arise the necessity of their leaving the station for weeks at a time unguarded.

Thus it fell out on the occasion of which we write. The presence of the large slave-freight on board the man-of-war was intolerable. Captain Romer was compelled to hurry off to the Seychelles Islands. He sailed with the monsoon, but had to steam back against it. During this period another vessel, similarly freighted, had to run to discharge at Aden. The seas were thus comparatively clear of cruisers. The Arabs seized their opportunity, and a stream of dhows and larger vessels swept out from the various creeks and ports all along the East African coast, filled to overflowing with slaves.

Among these were the four large dhows of our friend Yoosoof. Having, as we have seen, made a slight sacrifice of damaged and unsaleable goods and chattels, in order to clear the way, he proceeded north, touching at various ports where he filled up his living cargo, and finally got clear off, not with goods damaged beyond repair, but with thousands of the sons and daughters of Africa in their youthful prime.

In the interior each man cost him about four yards of cotton cloth, worth a few pence; each woman three yards, and each child two yards, and of course in cases where he stole them, they cost him nothing. On the coast these would sell at from 8 pounds to 12 pounds each, and in Arabia at from 20 pounds to 40 pounds.

We mention this to show what strong inducement there was for Yoosoof to run a good deal of risk in carrying on this profitable and accursed traffic.

But you must not fancy, good reader, that what we have described is given as a specimen of the extent to which the slave-trade on that coast is carried. It is but as a specimen of the manner thereof. It is certainly within the mark to say that at least thirty thousand natives are annually carried away as slaves from the east coast of Africa.

Sir Bartle Frere, in addressing a meeting of the chief native inhabitants of Bombay in April 1873, said, -- "Let me assure you, in conclusion, that what you have heard of the horrors of the slave-trade is in no way exaggerated. We have seen so much of the horrors which were going on that we can have no doubt that what you read in books, which are so often spoken of as containing exaggerations, is exaggerated in no respect. The evil is much greater than anything you can conceive. Among the poorer class of Africans there is nothing like security from fathers and mothers being put to death in order that their children may be captured;" -- and, referring to the east coast alone, he says that -- "thirty thousand, or more, human beings, are exported every year from Africa."

Dr Livingstone tells us that, on the average, about one out of every five captured human beings reaches the coast alive. The other four perish or are murdered on the way, so that the thirty thousand annually exported, as stated by Sir Bartle Frere, represents a loss of 150,000 human beings annually from the east coast alone, altogether irrespective of the enormous and constant flow of slaves to the north by way of the White Nile and Egypt.

Yoosoof's venture was therefore but a drop in the vast river of blood which is drained annually from poor Africa's veins -- blood which flows at the present time as copiously and constantly as it ever did in the days of old -- blood which cries aloud to God for vengeance, and for the flow of which we, as a nation, are far from blameless.



Chapter Four.

In Which Our Heroes See Strange Sights At Zanzibar, And Resolve Upon Taking A Bold Step.

Before proceeding to the Seychelles, the 'Firefly' touched at the island of Zanzibar, and there landed our hero Harold Seadrift and his comrade in misfortune, Disco Lillihammer.

Here, one brilliant afternoon, the two friends sat down under a palm-tree to hold what Disco called a palaver. The spot commanded a fine view of the town and harbour of Zanzibar.

We repeat that the afternoon was brilliant, but it is right to add that it required an African body and mind fully to appreciate the pleasures of it. The sun's rays were blistering, the heat was intense, and the air was stifling. Harold lay down and gasped, Disco followed his example, and sighed. After a few minutes spent in a species of imbecile contemplation of things in general, the latter raised himself to a sitting posture, and proceeded slowly to fill and light his pipe. Harold was no smoker, but he derived a certain dreamy enjoyment from gazing at Disco, and wondering how he could smoke in such hot weather.

"We'll get used to it I s'pose, like the eels," observed Disco, when the pipe was in full blast.

"Of course we shall," replied Harold; "and now that we have come to an anchor, let me explain the project which has been for some days maturing in my mind."

"All right; fire away, sir," said the sailor, blowing a long thin cloud from his lips.

"You are aware," said Harold, "that I came out here as supercargo of my father's vessel," (Disco nodded), "but you are not aware that my chief object in coming was to see a little of the world in general, and of the African part of it in particular. Since my arrival you and I have seen a few things, which have opened up my mind in regard to slavery; we have now been a fortnight in this town, and my father's agent has enlightened me still further on the subject, insomuch that I now feel within me an intense desire to make an excursion into the interior of Africa; indeed, I have resolved to do so, for the purpose of seeing its capabilities in a commercial point of view, of observing how the slave-trade is conducted at its fountain-head, and of enjoying a little of the scenery and the sport peculiar to this land of Ham."

"W'y, you speaks like a book, sir," said Disco, emitting a prolonged puff, "an' it ain't for the likes me to give an opinion on that there; but if I may make bold to ax, sir, how do you mean to travel -- on the back of a elephant or a ry-noceris? -- for it seems to me that there ain't much in the shape o' locomotives or 'busses hereabouts -- not even cabs."

"I shall go in a canoe," replied Harold; "but my reason for broaching the subject just now is, that I may ask if you are willing to go with me."

"There's no occasion to ax that sir; I'm your man -- north or south, east or west, it's all the same to me. I've bin born to roll about the world, and it matters little whether I rolls ashore or afloat -- though I prefers the latter."

"Well, then, that's settled," said Harold, with a look of satisfaction; "I have already arranged with our agent here to advance me what I require in the way of funds, and shall hire men and canoes when we get down to the Zambesi -- "

"The Zam-wot, sir?"

"The Zambesi; did you never hear of it before?"

"Never, nor don't know wot it is, sir."

"It is a river; one of the largest on the east coast, which has been well described by Dr Livingstone, that greatest of travellers, whose chief object in travelling is, as he himself says, to raise the negroes out of their present degraded condition, and free them from the curse of slavery."

"That's the man to my mind," said Disco emphatically; "good luck to him. -- But w'en d'you mean to start for the Zambizzy, sir?"

"In a few days. It will take that time to get everything ready, and our money packed."

"Our money packed!" echoed the sailor, with a look of surprise, "w'y, wot d'ye mean!"

"Just what I say. The money current in the interior of Africa is rather cumbrous, being neither more nor less than goods. You'll never guess what sort -- try."

"Rum," said Disco.

"No."

"Pipes and 'baccy."

Harold shook his head.

"Never could guess nothin'," said Disco, replacing the pipe, which he had removed for a few moments from his lips; "I gives it up."

"What would you say to cotton cloth, and thick brass wire, and glass beads, being the chief currency in Central Africa?" said Harold.

"You don't mean it, sir?"

"Indeed I do, and as these articles must be carried in large quantities, if we mean to travel far into the land, there will be more bales and coils than you and I could well carry in our waistcoat pockets."

"That's true, sir," replied Disco, looking earnestly at a couple of negro slaves who chanced to pass along the neighbouring footpath at that moment, singing carelessly. "Them poor critters don't seem to be so miserable after all."

"That is because the nigger is naturally a jolly, light-hearted fellow," said Harold, "and when his immediate and more pressing troubles are removed he accommodates himself to circumstances, and sings, as you hear. If these fellows were to annoy their masters and get a thrashing, you'd hear them sing in another key. The evils of most things don't show on the surface. You must get behind the scenes to understand them. You and I have already had one or two peeps behind the scenes."

"We have indeed, sir," replied Disco, frowning, and closing his fists involuntarily, as he thought of Yoosoof and the dhow.

"Now, then," said Harold, rising, as Disco shook the ashes out of his little black pipe, and placed that beloved implement in the pocket of his coat, "let us return to the harbour, and see what chance there is of getting a passage to the Zambesi, in an honest trading dhow -- if there is such a thing in Zanzibar."

On their way to the harbour they had to pass through the slave-market. This was not the first time they had visited the scene of this iniquitous traffic, but neither Harold nor Disco could accustom themselves to it. Every time they entered the market their feelings of indignation became so intense that it was with the utmost difficulty they could control them. When Disco saw handsome negro men and good-looking girls put up for public sale, -- their mouths rudely opened, and their teeth examined by cool, calculating Arabs, just as if they had been domestic cattle -- his spirit boiled within him, his fingers tingled, and he felt a terrible inclination to make a wild attack, single-handed, on the entire population of Zanzibar, though he might perish in the execution of vengeance and the relief of his feelings! We need scarcely add that his discretion saved him. They soon reached the small square in which the market was held. Here they saw a fine-looking young woman sold to a grave elderly Arab for a sum equal to about eight pounds sterling. Passing hastily on, they observed another "lot," a tall stalwart man, having his various "points" examined, and stopped to see the result. His owner, thinking, perhaps, that he seemed a little sluggish in his movements, raised his whip and caused it to fall upon his flank with such vigour that the poor fellow, taken by surprise, leaped high into the air, and uttered a yell of pain. The strength and activity of the man were unquestionable, and he soon found a purchaser.

But all the slaves were not fine-looking or stalwart like the two just referred to. Many of them were most miserable objects. Some stood, others were seated as if incapable of standing, so emaciated were they. Not a few were mere skeletons, with life and skin. Near the middle of the square, groups of children were arranged -- some standing up to be inspected, others sitting down. These ranged from five years and upwards, but there was not one that betrayed the slightest tendency to mirth, and Disco came to the conclusion that negro children do not play, but afterwards discovered his mistake, finding that their exuberant jollity "at home" was not less than that of the children of other lands. These little slaves had long ago been terrified, and beaten, and starved into listless, apathetic and silent creatures.

Further on, a row of young women attracted their attention. They were ranged in a semicircle, all nearly in a state of nudity, waiting to be sold. A group of Arabs stood in front of them, conversing. One of these women looked such a picture of woe that Disco felt irresistibly impelled to stop. There were no tears in her eyes; the fountain appeared to have been dried up, but, apparently, without abating the grief which was stamped in deep lines on her young countenance, and which burst frequently from her breast in convulsive sobs. Our Englishmen were not only shocked but surprised at this woman's aspect, for their experience had hitherto gone to show that the slaves usually became callous under their sufferings. Whatever of humanity might have originally belonged to them seemed to have been entirely driven out of them by the cruelties and indignities they had so long suffered at the hands of their captors.

"Wot's the matter with her, poor thing?" asked Disco of a half-caste Portuguese, dressed in something like the garb of a sailor.

"Oh, notting," answered the man in broken English, with a look of indifference, "she have lose her chile, dat all."

"Lost her child? how -- wot d'ee mean?"

"Dey hab sole de chile," replied the man; "was good fat boy, 'bout two-yer ole. S'pose she hab carry him for months troo de woods, an' over de hills down to coast, an' tink she keep him altogether. But she mistake. One trader come here 'bout one hour past. He want boy -- not want modder; so he buy de chile. Modder fight a littil at first, but de owner soon make her quiet. Oh, it notting at all. She cry a littil --  soon forget her chile, an' get all right."

"Come, I can't stand this," exclaimed Harold, hastening away.

Disco said nothing, but to the amazement of the half-caste, he grasped him by the collar, and hurled him aside with a degree of force that caused him to stagger and fall with stunning violence to the ground. Disco then strode away after his friend, his face and eyes blazing with various emotions, among which towering indignation predominated.

In a few minutes they reached the harbour, and, while making inquiries as to the starting of trading dhows for the south, they succeeded in calming their feelings down to something like their ordinary condition.

The harbour was crowded with dhows of all shapes and sizes, most of them laden with slaves, some discharging cargoes for the Zanzibar market, others preparing to sail, under protection of a pass from the Sultan, for Lamoo, which is the northern limit of the Zanzibar dominions, and, therefore, of the so-called "domestic" slave-trade.

There would be something particularly humorous in the barefacedness of this august Sultan of Zanzibar, if it were connected with anything less horrible than slavery. For instance, there is something almost amusing in the fact that dhows were sailing every day for Lamoo with hundreds of slaves, although that small town was known to be very much overstocked at the time. It was also quite entertaining to know that the commanders of the French and English war-vessels lying in the harbour at the time were aware of this, and that the Sultan knew it, and that, in short, everybody knew it, but that nobody appeared to have the power to prevent it! Even the Sultan who granted the permits or passes to the owners of the dhows, although he professed to wish to check the slave-trade, could not prevent it. Wasn't that strange -- wasn't it curious? The Sultan derived by far the largest portion of his revenue from the tax levied on the export of slaves -- amounting to somewhere about 10,000 pounds a year -- but that had nothing to do with it of course not, oh dear no! Then there was another very ludicrous phase of this oriental, not to say transcendental, potentate's barefacedness. He knew, and probably admitted, that about 2000, some say 4000, slaves a year were sufficient to meet the home-consumption of that commodity, and he also knew, but probably did not admit, that not fewer than 30,000 slaves were annually exported from Zanzibar to meet this requirement of 4000! These are very curious specimens of miscalculation which this barefaced Sultan seems to have fallen into. Perhaps he was a bad arithmetician. We have said that this state of things was so at the time of our story, but we may now add that it still is so in this year of grace 1873. Whether it shall continue to be so remains to be seen!

Having spent some time in fruitless inquiry, Harold and Disco at last to their satisfaction, discovered an Arab dhow of known good character, which was on the point of starting for the Zambesi in the course of a few days, for the purpose of legitimate traffic. It therefore became necessary that our hero should make his purchases and preparations with all possible speed. In this he was entirely guided by his father's agent, a merchant of the town, who understood thoroughly what was necessary for the intended journey.

It is not needful here to enter into full details, suffice it to say that among the things purchased by Harold, and packed up in portable form, were a number of bales of common unbleached cotton, which is esteemed above everything by the natives of Africa as an article of dress -- if we may dignify by the name of dress the little piece, about the size of a moderate petticoat, which is the only clothing of some, or the small scrap round the loins which is the sole covering of other, natives of the interior! There were also several coils of thick brass wire, which is much esteemed by them for making bracelets and anklets; and a large quantity of beads of various colours, shapes, and sizes. Of beads, we are told, between five and six hundred tons are annually manufactured in Great Britain for export to Africa.

Thus supplied, our two friends embarked in the dhow and set sail. Wind and weather were propitious. In few days they reached the mouths of the great river Zambesi, and landed at the port of Quillimane.

Only once on the voyage did they fall in with a British cruiser, which ordered them to lay-to and overhauled them, but on the papers and everything being found correct, they were permitted to pursue their voyage.

The mouths of the river Zambesi are numerous; extending over more than ninety miles of the coast. On the banks of the northern mouth stands --  it would be more appropriate to say festers -- the dirty little Portuguese town of Quillimane. Its site is low, muddy, fever-haunted, and swarming with mosquitoes. No man in his senses would have built a village thereon were it not for the facilities afforded for slaving. At spring or flood tides the bar may be safely crossed by sailing vessels, but, being far from land, it is always dangerous for boats.

Here, then, Harold and Disco landed, and remained for some time for the purpose of engaging men. Appearing in the character of independent travellers, they were received with some degree of hospitality by the principal inhabitants. Had they gone there as simple and legitimate traders, every possible difficulty would have been thrown in their way, because the worthy people, from the Governor downwards, flourished, -- or festered, -- by means of the slave-trade, and legitimate commerce is everywhere found to be destructive to the slave-trade.

Dr Livingstone and others tell us that thousands upon thousands of negroes have, of late years, gone out from Quillimane into slavery under the convenient title of "free emigrants," their freedom being not quite equal to that of a carter's horse, for while that animal, although enslaved, is usually well fed, the human animal is kept on rather low diet lest his spirit should rouse him to deeds of desperate violence against his masters. All agricultural enterprise is also effectually discouraged here. When a man wants to visit his country farm he has to purchase a permit from the Governor. If he wishes to go up the river to the Portuguese towns of Senna or Tette, a pass must be purchased from the Governor. In fact it would weary the reader were we to enumerate the various modes in which every effort of man to act naturally, legitimately, or progressively, is hampered, unless his business be the buying and selling of human beings.

At first Harold experienced great difficulty in procuring men. The master of the trading dhow in which he sailed from Zanzibar intended to remain as short a time as possible at Quillimane, purposing to visit ports further south, and as Harold had made up his mind not to enter the Zambesi by the Quillimane mouth, but to proceed in the dhow to one of the southern mouths, he felt tempted to give up the idea of procuring men until he had gone further south.

"You see, Disco," said he, in a somewhat disconsolate tone, "it won't do to let this dhow start without us, because I want to get down to the East Luavo mouth of this river, that being the mouth which was lately discovered and entered by Dr Livingstone; but I'm not sure that we can procure men or canoes there, and our Arab skipper either can't or won't enlighten me."

"Ah!" observed Disco, with a knowing look, "he won't -- that's where it is, sir. I've not a spark o' belief in that man, or in any Arab on the coast. He's a slaver in disguise, he is, an' so's every mother's son of 'em."

"Well," continued Harold, "if we must start without them and take our chance, we must; there is no escaping from the inevitable; nevertheless we must exert ourselves to-day, because the dhow does not sail till to-morrow evening, and there is no saying what luck may attend our efforts before that time. Perseverance, you know, is the only sure method of conquering difficulties."

"That's so," said Disco; "them's my sentiments 'xactly. Never say die --  Stick at nothing -- Nail yer colours to the mast: them's the mottoes that I goes in for -- always s'posin' that you're in the right."

"But what if you're in the wrong, and the colours are nailed?" asked Harold, with a smile.

"W'y then, sir, of course I'd have to tear 'em down."

"So that perhaps, it would be better not to nail them at all, unless you're very sure -- eh?"

"Oh, of course, sir," replied Disco, with solemn emphasis. "You don't suppose, sir, that I would nail 'em to the mast except I was sure, wery sure, that I wos right? But, as you wos a sayin', sir, about the gittin' of them 'ere men."

Disco had an easy way of changing a subject when he felt that he was getting out of his depth.

"Well, to return to that. The fact is, I would not mind the men, for it's likely that men of some sort will turn up somewhere, but I am very anxious about an interpreter. Without an interpreter we shall get on badly, I fear, for I can only speak French, besides a very little Latin and Greek, none of which languages will avail much among niggers."

Disco assumed a severely thoughtful expression of countenance.

"That's true," he said, placing his right fist argumentatively in his left palm, "and I'm afeard I can't help you there, sir. If it wos to steer a ship or pull a oar or man the fore-tops'l yard in a gale o' wind, or anything else in the seafarin' line, Disco Lillihammer's your man, but I couldn't come a furrin' lingo at no price. I knows nothin' but my mother tongue, -- nevertheless, though I says it that shouldn't, I does profess to be somewhat of a dab at that. Once upon a time I spent six weeks in Dublin, an' havin' a quick ear for moosic, I soon managed to get up a strong dash o' the brogue; but p'raps that wouldn't go far with the niggers."

About two hours after the above conversation, while Harold Seadrift was walking on the beach, he observed his faithful ally in the distance grasping a short thickset man by the arm, and endeavouring to induce him to accompany him, with a degree of energy that fell little short of main force. The man was evidently unwilling.

As the pair drew nearer, Harold overheard Disco's persuasive voice: -- "Come now, Antonio, don't be a fool; it's the best service you could enter. Good pay and hard work, and all the grub that's goin' --  what could a man want more? It's true there's no grog, but we don't need that in a climate where you've only got to go out in the sun without yer hat an' you'll be as good as drunk in ten minutes, any day."

"No, no, not possibil," remonstrated the man, whose swarthy visage betrayed a mixture of cunning, fun, and annoyance. He was obviously a half-caste of the lowest type, but with more pretensions to wealth than many of his fellows, inasmuch as he wore, besides his loin-cloth, a white cotton shooting-coat, very much soiled, beneath the tails of which his thin black legs protruded ridiculously.

"Here you are, sir," cried Disco, as he came up; "here's the man for lingo: knows the native talkee, as well as Portuguese, English, Arabic, and anything else you like, as far as I know. Antonio's his name. Come, sir, try him with Greek, or somethin' o' that sort!"

Harold had much ado to restrain a smile, but, assuming a grave aspect, he addressed the man in French, while Disco listened with a look of profound respect and admiration.

"W'y, wot's wrong with 'ee, man," exclaimed Disco, on observing the blank look of Antonio's countenance; "don't 'ee savay that?"

"I thought you understood Portuguese?" said Harold in English.

"So me do," replied Antonio quickly; "but dat no Portigeese -- dat Spanaish, me 'spose."

"What can you speak, then?" demanded Harold sternly.

"Portigeese, Arbik, Fengleesh, an' two, tree, four, nigger lungwiches."

It was very obvious that, whatever Antonio spoke, he spoke nothing correctly, but that was of no importance so long as the man could make himself understood. Harold therefore asked if he would join his party as interpreter, but Antonio shook his head.

"Why not man -- why not?" asked Harold impatiently, for he became anxious to secure him, just in proportion as he evinced disinclination to engage.

"Speak up, Antonio, don't be ashamed; you've no need to," said Disco. "The fact is, sir, Antonio tells me that he has just bin married, an' he don't want to leave his wife."

"Very natural," observed Harold. "How long is it since you were married?"

"Von veek since I did bought her."

"Bought her!" exclaimed Disco, with a broad grin; "may I ax wot ye paid for her?"

"Paid!" exclaimed the man, starting and opening his eyes very wide, as if the contemplation of the vast sum were too much for him; "lat me zee -- me pay me vife's pairyints sixteen yard ob cottin clothe, an' for me's hut four yard morer."

"Ye don't say that?" exclaimed Disco, with an extended grin. "Is she young an' good-lookin'?"

"Yonge!" replied Antonio; "yis, ver' yonge; not mush more dan baby, an' exiquitely bootiful."

"Then, my good feller," said Disco, with a laugh, "the sooner you leave her the better. A week is a long time, an' absence, you know, as the old song says, makes the heart grow fonder; besides, Mr Seadrift will give you enough to buy a dozen wives, if 'ee want 'em."

"Yes, I'll pay you well," said Harold; "that is, if you prove to be a good interpreter."

Antonio pricked up his ears at this.

"How mush vill 'oo gif?" he asked.

"Well, let me think; I shall probably be away three or four months. What would you say, Antonio, to twenty yards of cotton cloth a month, and a gun into the bargain at the end, if you do your work well?"

The pleased expression of Antonio's face could not have been greater had he been offered twenty pounds sterling a month. The reader may estimate the value of this magnificent offer when we say that a yard of cotton cloth was at that time sevenpence-halfpenny, so that Antonio's valuable services were obtained for about 12 shillings, 6 pence a month, and a gun which cost Harold less than twenty shillings in Zanzibar.

We may remark here that Antonio afterwards proved to be a stout, able, willing man, and a faithful servant, although a most arrant coward.

From this time Harold's difficulties in regard to men vanished. With Antonio's able assistance nine were procured, stout, young, able-bodied fellows they were, and all more or less naked. Two of these were half-caste brothers, named respectively Jose and Oliveira; two were half-wild negroes of the Somali tribe named Nakoda and Conda; three were negroes of the Makololo tribe, who had accompanied Dr Livingstone on his journey from the far interior of Africa to the East Coast, and were named respectively Jumbo, Zombo, and Masiko; and finally two, named Songolo and Mabruki, were free negroes of Quillimane. Thus the whole band, including Disco and the leader, formed a goodly company of twelve stout men.

Of course Harold armed them all with guns and knives. Himself and Disco carried Enfield rifles; besides which, Harold took with him a spare rifle of heavy calibre, carrying large balls, mingled with tin to harden them. This latter was intended for large game. Landing near the East Luavo mouth of the Zambesi, our hero was fortunate enough to procure two serviceable canoes, into which he transferred himself, his men, and his goods, and, bidding adieu to the Arab skipper of the dhow, commenced his journey into the interior of Africa.



Chapter Five.

In Which The Travellers Enjoy Themselves Extremely, And Disco Lillihammer Sees Several Astonishing Sights.

Behold our travellers, then, fairly embarked on the waters of the great African river Zambesi, in two canoes, one of which is commanded by Harold Seadrift, the other by Disco Lillihammer.

Of course these enterprising chiefs were modest enough at first to allow two of the Makololo men, Jumbo and Zombo, to wield the steering-oars, but after a few days' practice they became sufficiently expert, as Disco said, to take the helm, except when strong currents rendered the navigation difficult, or when the weather became so "piping hot" that none but men clad in black skins could work.

We must however guard the reader here from supposing that it is always piping hot in Africa. There are occasional days when the air may be styled lukewarm, when the sky is serene, and when all nature seems joyful and enjoyable, -- days in which a man opens his mouth wide and swallows down the atmosphere; when he feels his health and strength, and rejoices in them, and when, if he be not an infidel, he also feels a sensation of gratitude to the Giver of all good.

On such a day, soon after entering the East Luavo mouth of the Zambesi, the explorers, for such we may almost venture to style them, ascended the smooth stream close to the left bank, Harold leading, Disco following closely in his wake.

The men rowed gently, as if they enjoyed the sweet calm of early morning, and were unwilling to disturb the innumerable flocks of wild-fowl that chuckled among the reeds and sedges everywhere. Harold sat in the stern, leaning back, and only dipping the steering-oar lazily now and then to keep the canoe from running on the bank, or plunging into a forest of gigantic rushes. Disco, having resolved to solace himself with a whiff of his darling pipe, had resigned "the helm" to Jumbo, and laid himself in a position of comfort which admitted of his resting his head on the gunwale in such a manner that, out of the corners of his eyes, he could gaze down into the water.

The part of the river they had reached was so perfectly still that every cloud in the sky, every mangrove, root and spray, and every bending bulrush, was perfectly reproduced in the reflected world below. Plaintive cries of wild-fowl formed appropriate melody, to which chattering groups of monkeys and croaking bull-frogs contributed a fine tenor and bass.

"Hallo, Disco!" exclaimed Harold in a subdued key, looking over his shoulder.

"Ay, ay, sir?" sighed the seaman, without moving his position.

"Range up alongside; I want to speak to you."

"Ay, ay, sir. -- Jumbo, you black-faced villain, d'ee hear that? give way and go 'longside."

Good-humoured Jumbo spoke very little English, but had come to understand a good deal during his travels with Dr Livingstone. He wrinkled his visage and showed his brilliant teeth on receiving the order. Muttering a word to the men, and giving a vigorous stroke, he shot up alongside of the leader's canoe.

"You seem comfortable," said Harold, with a laugh, as Disco's vast visage appeared at his elbow.

"I is."

"Isn't this jolly?" continued Harold.

"No, sir, 'taint."

"Why, what d'you mean?"

"I means that jolly ain't the word, by a long way, for to express the natur' o' my feelin's. There ain't no word as I knows on as 'ud come up to it. If I wor a fylosipher, now, I'd coin a word for the occasion. P'raps," continued Disco, drawing an unusually long whiff from his pipe, "p'raps, not bein' a fylosipher, I might nevertheless try to coin one. Wot's the Latin, now, for heaven?"

"Caelum," replied Harold.

"Sailum, eh? An' wot's the 'arth?"

"Terra."

"Terra? well now, wot rediklous names to give to 'em," said Disco, shaking his head gravely, "I can't see why the ancients couldn't ha' bin satisfied with the names that we'd given 'em. Hows'ever, that's neither here nor there. My notion o' the state o' things that we've got into here, as they now stand, is, that they are sailumterracious, which means heaven-upon-earth, d'ee see?"

As Disco pronounced the word with a powerful emphasis on the u-m part of it the sound was rather effective, and seemed to please him.

"Right; you're right, or nearly so," replied Harold; "but don't you think the word savours too much of perfection, seeing that breakfast would add to the pleasure of the present delightful state of things, and make them even more sailumterracious than they are?"

"No, sir, no; the word ain't too parfect," replied Disco, with a look of critical severity; "part of it is 'arth, and 'arth is imparfect, bein' susceptible of a many improvements, among which undoubtedly is breakfast, likewise dinner an' supper, to say nothin' of lunch an' tea, which is suitable only for babbies an' wimen; so I agrees with you, sir, that the state o' things will be sailumterraciouser if we goes ashore an' has breakfast."

He tapped the head of his very black little pipe on the edge of the canoe, and heaved a sigh of contentment as he watched the ash-ball that floated away on the stream; then, rousing himself, he seized the steering-oar and followed Harold into a small creek, which was pleasantly overshadowed by the rich tropical foliage of that region.

While breakfast was being prepared by Antonio, whose talents as chef-de-cuisine were of the highest order, Harold took his rifle and rambled into the bush in search of game -- any kind of game, for at that time he had had no experience whatever of the sport afforded by the woods of tropical Africa, and, having gathered only a few vague ideas from books, he went forth with all the pleasurable excitement and expectation that we may suppose peculiar to discoverers.

Disco Lillihammer having only consumed his first pipe of tobacco, and holding it to be a duty which he owed to himself to consume two before breakfast, remained at the camp-fire to smoke and chaff Antonio, whose good-nature was only equalled by his activity.

"Wot have 'ee got there?" inquired Disco, as Antonio poured a quantity of seed into a large pot.

"Dis? vy, hims be mapira," replied the interpreter, with a benignant smile. "Hims de cheef food ob dis konterie."

It must be remarked here that Antonio's English, having been acquired from all sorts of persons, in nearly every tropical part of the globe, was somewhat of a jumble, being a compound of the broken English spoken by individuals among the Germans, French, Portuguese, Arabs, and Negroes, with whom he had at various times associated, modified by his own ignorance, and seasoned with a dash of his own inventive fancy.

"Is it good?" asked Disco.

"Goot!" exclaimed Antonio. Being unable to find words to express himself, the enthusiastic cook placed his hand on the region which was destined ere long to become a receptacle for the mapira, and rolled his eyes upwards in rapture. "Hah! oo sall see behind long."

"Before long, you mean," observed the seaman.

"Dat all same ting, s'long's you onerstand him," replied Antonio complacently. -- "Bring vatter now, Jumbo. Put him in careful. Not spill on de fire -- zo -- goot."

Jumbo filled up the kettle carefully, and a broad grin overspread his black visage, partly because he was easily tickled into a condition of risibility by the cool off-hand remarks of Disco Lillihammer, and partly because, having acquired his own small smattering of English from Dr Livingstone, he was intelligent enough to perceive that in regard to Antonio's language there was something peculiar.

"Now, go fitch noder kittle -- queek."

"Yis, sar -- zo -- goot," replied Jumbo, mimicking the interpreter, and going off with a vociferous laugh at his little joke, in which he was joined by his sable clansmen, Masiko and Zombo.

"Hims got 'nuff of impoodidence," said the interpreter, as he bustled about his avocations.

"He's not the only one that's got more than enough impoodidence," said Disco, pushing a fine straw down the stem of his "cutty," to make it draw better. "I say, Tony," (our regardless seaman had already thus mutilated his name), "you seem to have plenty live stock in them parts."

"Plenty vat?" inquired the interpreter, with a perplexed expression.

"Why, plenty birds and beasts, -- live stock we calls it, meanin' thereby livin' creeturs." He pointed towards an opening in the mangroves, through which were visible the neighbouring mud and sand flats, swarming with wild-fowl, and conspicuous among which were large flocks of pelicans, who seemed to be gorging themselves comfortably from an apparently inexhaustible supply of fish in the pools left by the receding tide.

"Ho, yis, me perceive; yis, plenty bird and beast -- fishes too, and crawbs -- look dare."

He pointed to a part of the sands nearest to their encampment which appeared to be alive with some small creatures.

"That's coorious," said Disco, removing his pipe, and regarding the phenomenon with some interest.

"No, 'taint koorous, it's crawbs," replied Antonio.

"Crabs, is it?" said Disco, rising and sauntering down to the sands; for he possessed an inquiring mind, with a special tendency to investigate the habits (pranks, as he called them) of the lower animals, which, in other circumstances, might have made him a naturalist.

Muttering to himself -- he was fond of muttering to himself, it felt companionable, -- "coorious, very coorious, quite 'stroanary," he crept stealthily to the edge of the mangroves, and there discovered that the sands were literally alive with myriads of minute crabs, which were actively engaged -- it was supposed by those who ought to know best -- in gathering their food. The moment the tide ebbed from any part of the sands, out came these crablets in swarms, and set to work, busy as bees, ploughing up the sand, and sifting it, apparently for food, until the whole flat was rendered rough by their incessant labours. Approaching cautiously, Disco observed that each crab, as he went along sidewise, gathered a round bit of moist sand at his mouth, which was quickly brushed away by one of his claws, and replaced by another, and another, as fast as they could be brushed aside.

"Eatin' sand they are!" muttered Disco in surprise; but presently the improbability of sand being very nutritious food, even for crabs, forced itself on him, and he muttered his conviction that they "was scrapin' for wittles."

Having watched the crabs a considerable time, and observed that they frequently interrupted their labours to dart suddenly into their holes and out again -- for the purpose, he conjectured, of "havin' a drop o' summat to wet their whistles," -- Disco thrust the cutty into his vest pocket, and walked a little further out on the flat in the hope of discovering some new objects of interest. Nor was he disappointed. Besides finding that the pools left by the tide swarmed with varieties of little fish -- many of them being "coorious," -- he was fortunate enough to witness a most surprising combat.

It happened thus: -- Perceiving, a little to his right, some small creature hopping about on the sand near to a little pool, he turned aside to observe it more closely. On his drawing near, the creature jumped into the pool. Disco advanced to the edge, gazed intently into the water, and saw nothing except his own reflected image at the bottom. Presently the creature reappeared. It was a small fish -- a familiar fish, too -- which he had known in the pools of his native land by the name of blenny. As the blenny appeared to wish to approach the edge of the pool, Disco retired, and, placing a hand on each knee, stooped, in order to make himself as small as possible. He failed, the diminution in his height being fully counterbalanced by the latitudinal extension of his elbows!

Presently the blenny put its head out of the water, and looked about. We speak advisedly. The blenny is altogether a singular, an exceptional fish. It can, and does, look sidewise, upwards and downwards, with its protruding eyes, as knowingly, and with as much vivacity, as if it were a human being. This power in a fish has something of the same awesome effect on an observer that might possibly result were a horse to raise its head and smile at him.

Seeing that the coast was clear, for Disco stood as motionless as a mangrove tree, blenny hopped upon the dry land. The African blenny is a sort of amphibious animal, living nearly as much out of the water as in it. Indeed its busiest time, we are told, is at low water, when, by means of its pectoral fins it crawls out on the sand and raises itself into something of a standing attitude, with its bright eyes keeping a sharp look-out for the light-coloured flies on which it feeds.

For several seconds Disco gazed at the fish, and the fish gazed around, even turning its head a little, as well as its eyes, on this side and on that. Presently a small fly, with that giddy heedlessness which characterises the race, alighted about two inches in front of blenny's nose. Instantly the fish leaped that vast space, alighted with its underset mouth just over the fly, which immediately rose into it and was entombed.

"Brayvo!" passed through Disco's brain, but no sound issued from his lips.

Presently another of the giddy ones alighted in front of blenny about a foot distant. This appeared to be much beyond his leaping powers, for, with a slow, stealthy motion, like a cat, he began deliberately to stalk his victim. The victim appeared to be blind, for it took no notice of the approaching monster. Blenny displayed marvellous powers of self-control, for he moved on steadily without accelerating his speed until within about two inches of his prey -- then he leapt as before, and another fly was entombed.

"Well done!" exclaimed Disco, mentally, but still his lips and body were motionless as before.

At this point an enemy, in the shape of another blenny, appeared on the scene. It came up out of a small pool close at hand, and seemed to covet the first blenny's pool, and to set about taking possession of it as naturally as if it had been a human being; for, observing, no doubt, that its neighbour was busily engaged, it moved quietly in the direction of the coveted pool. Being a very little fish, it was not observed by Disco, but it was instantly noticed by the first blenny, which, being rather the smaller of the two, we shall style the Little one.

Suddenly Big Blenny threw off all disguise, bounded towards the pool, which was about a foot square, and plunged in. No mortal blenny could witness this unwarrantable invasion of its hearth and home without being stirred to indignant wrath. With eyes that seemed to flash fire, and dorsal fin bristling up with rage, Little Blenny made five tremendous leaps of full three inches each, and disappeared. Another moment and a miniature storm ruffled the pool: for a few seconds the heavings of the deep were awful; then, out jumped Big Blenny and tried to flee, but out jumped Little Blenny and caught him by the tail; round turned the big one and caught the other by the jaw.

"Hallo, Disco! breakfast's ready -- where are you?" shouted Harold from the woods.

Disco replied not. It is a question whether he heard the hail at all, so engrossed was he in this remarkable fight.

"Brayvo!" he exclaimed aloud, when Little Blenny shook his big enemy off and rolled over him.

"Cleverly done!" he shouted, when Big Blenny with a dart took refuge in the pool.

"I knowed it," he cried approvingly, when Little Blenny forced him a second time to evacuate the premises, "Go in an' win, little 'un," thought Disco.

Thus the battle raged furiously, now in the water, now on the sand, while the excited seaman danced round the combatants -- both of whom appeared to have become deaf and blind with rage -- and gave them strong encouragement, mingled with appropriate advice and applause. In fact Disco's delight would have been perfect, had the size of the belligerents admitted of his patting the little blenny on the back; but this of course was out of the question!

At last having struck, worried, bitten, and chased each other by land and sea for several minutes, these pugnacious creatures seized each other by their respective throats, like two bull-dogs, and fell exhausted on the sand.

"It's a draw!" exclaimed Disco, rather disappointed.

"No, 'tain't," he said, as Little Blenny, reviving, rose up and renewed the combat more furiously than ever; but it was soon ended, for Big Blenny suddenly turned and fled to his own pool. Little Blenny did not crow; he did not even appear to be elated. He evidently felt that he had been called on to perform a disagreeable but unavoidable duty, and deemed it quite unnecessary to wave banners, fire guns, or ring bells in celebration of his victory, as he dived back into his pool amid the ringing cheers of Disco Lillihammer.

"Upon my word, if you have not gone stark mad, you must have had a sunstroke," said Harold, coming forward, "what's the matter?"

"Too late! too late!" cried Disco, in a mingled tone of amusement and regret.

"D'ye think it is? Are you incurable already?" asked his friend.

"Too late to see the most a-stonishin' scrimmage I ever did behold in my life," said Disco.

The description of this scrimmage gave the worthy seaman a subject for conversation and food for meditation during the greater part of the time spent over the morning meal, and there is no saying how long he would have kept referring to and chuckling over it -- to the great admiration and sympathy of the black fellows, who are, as a race, excessively fond of jocularity and fun -- had not another of the denizens of the mangrove jungle diverted his attention and thoughts rather suddenly.

This was a small monkey, which, seated on a branch overhead, peered at the breakfast-party from among the leaves, with an expression of inquiry and of boundless astonishment that it is quite impossible to describe. Surprise of the most sprightly nature, if we may say so, sat enthroned on that small monkey's countenance, an expression which was enhanced by the creature's motions, for, not satisfied with taking a steady look at the intruders from the right side of a leaf, it thrust forward its little black head on the left side of it, and then under it, by way of variety; but no additional light seemed to result from these changes in the point of observation, for the surprise did not diminish.

In one of its intent stares it caught the eye of Disco. The seaman's jaws stopped, as if suddenly locked, and his eyes opened to their widest.

The monkey seemed to feel uneasily that it had attracted attention, for it showed the smallest possible glimpse of its teeth. The action, coupled with the leafy shadows which fell on its countenance, had the effect of a smile, which caused Disco to burst into a loud laugh and point upwards. To bound from its position to a safer retreat, and thence stare at Disco with deep indignation, and a threatening display of all its teeth and gums, in addition to its looks of surprise, was the work of a moment on the part of the small monkey, whereat Disco burst into a renewed roar of laughter, in which he was joined by the whole party.

"Are there many o' them fellows hereabouts?" inquired the seaman of Antonio.

"Ho, yis, lots ob 'em. T'ousands ebery whars; see, dare am morer."

He pointed to another part of the umbrageous canopy overhead, where the face of a still smaller monkey was visible, engaged, like the previous one, in an earnest scrutiny of the party, but with a melancholy, rather than a surprised, expression of visage.

"Wot a miserable, broken-hearted thing!" said Disco, grinning, in which act he was immediately copied by the melancholy monkey, though from different motives.

Disco was very fond of monkeys. All his life he had felt a desire to pat and fondle those shivering creatures which he had been accustomed to see on barrel-organs in his native land, and the same strong impulse came over him now.

"Wot a pity the creeturs smell so bad, and ain't cleanly," he remarked, gazing affectionately up among the leaves, "they'd make such capital pets; why, there's another."

This remark had reference to a third monkey, of large dimensions and fierce countenance, which at that moment rudely thrust the melancholy monkey aside, and took its place. The latter, with a humble air and action, took up a new position, somewhat nearer to the fire, where its sad countenance was more distinctly seen.

"Well, it does seem a particularly sorrowful monkey, that," said Harold, laughing, as he helped himself to another canful of tea.

"The most miserable objic' I ever did see," observed Disco.

The negroes looked at each other and laughed. They were accustomed to monkeys, and took little notice of them, but they were mightily tickled by Disco's amusement, for he had laid down his knife and fork, and shook a good deal with internal chuckling, as he gazed upwards.

"One would suppose, now," he said softly, "that it had recently seen its father and mother, and all its brothers and sisters, removed by a violent death, or sold into slavery."

"Ha! they never see that," said Harold; "the brutes may fight and kill, but they never enslave each other. It is the proud prerogative of man to do that."

"That's true, sir, worse luck, as Paddy says," rejoined Disco. "But look there: wot's them coorious things round the creetur's waist -- a pair o' the werry smallest hands -- and, hallo! a face no bigger than a button! I do believe that it's -- "

Disco did not finish the sentence, but he was right. The small melancholy monkey was a mother!

Probably that was the cause of its sorrow. It is a touching thought that anxiety for its tiny offspring perhaps had furrowed that monkey's visage with the wrinkles of premature old age. That danger threatened it on every side was obvious, for no sooner had it taken up its new position, after its unceremonious ejection by the fierce monkey, than the sprightly monkey, before referred to, conceived a plot which it immediately proceeded to carry into execution. Observing that the tail of the sad one hung down in a clear space below the branch on which it sat, the sprightly fellow quickly, but with intense caution and silence, crept towards it, and when within a yard or so sprang into the air and caught the tail!

A wild shriek, and what Disco styled a "scrimmage," ensued, during which the mother monkey gave chase to him of the lively visage, using her arms, legs, and tail promiscuously to grasp and hold on to branches, and leaving her extremely little one to look out for itself. This it seemed quite capable of doing, for no limpet ever stuck to a solid rock with greater tenacity than did that infant to the maternal waist throughout the chase. The hubbub appeared to startle the whole monkey race, revealing the fact that troops of other monkeys had, unobserved, been gazing at the strangers in silent wonder, since the time of their landing.

Pleasant however, though this state of things undeniably was, it could not be expected to last. Breakfast being concluded, it became necessary that Disco should tear himself from the spot which, having first solaced himself with a pipe, he did with a good grace, remarking, as he re-embarked and "took the helm" of his canoe, that he had got more powerful surprises that morning than he had ever before experienced in any previous twelvemonth of his life.

Before long he received many more surprises, especially one of a very different and much less pleasant nature, an account of which will be found in the next chapter.



Chapter Six.

Describes Several New And Surprising Incidents, Which Must Be Read To Be Fully Appreciated.

To travel with one's mouth and eyes opened to nearly their utmost width in a state of surprised stupefaction, may be unavoidable, but it cannot be said to be either becoming or convenient. Attention in such a case is apt to be diverted from the business in hand, and flies have a tendency to immolate themselves in the throat.

Nevertheless, inconvenient though the condition was, our friend Disco Lillihammer was so afflicted with astonishment at what he heard and saw in this new land, that he was constantly engaged in swallowing flies and running his canoe among shallows and rushes, insomuch that he at last resigned the steering-oar until familiarity with present circumstances should tone him down to a safe condition of equanimity.

And no wonder that Disco was surprised; no wonder that his friend Harold Seadrift shared in his astonishment and delight, for they were at once, and for the first time in their lives, plunged into the very heart of jungle life in equatorial Africa! Those who have never wandered far from the comparatively tame regions of our temperate zone, can form but a faint conception of what it is to ramble in the tropics, and therefore can scarcely be expected to sympathise fully with the mental condition of our heroes as they ascended the Zambesi. Everything was so thoroughly strange; sights and sounds so vastly different from what they had been accustomed to see and hear, that it seemed as though they had landed on another planet. Trees, shrubs, flowers, birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles, all were unfamiliar, except indeed, one or two of the more conspicuous trees and animals, which had been so imprinted on their minds by means of nursery picture-books that, on first beholding them, Disco unconsciously paid these books the compliment of saying that the animals "wos uncommon like the picturs."

Disco's mental condition may be said, for the first two or three days, to have been one of gentle ever-flowing surprise, studded thickly with little bursts of keen astonishment.

The first part of the river ran between mangrove jungle, in regard to which he remarked that "them there trees had legs like crabs," in which observation he was not far wrong, for, when the tide was out, the roots of the mangroves rose high out of the mud, forming supports, as it were, for the trees to stand on.

But it was the luxuriance of the vegetation that made the most powerful impression on the travellers. It seemed as if the various groups and families of the vegetable kingdom had been warmed by the sun into a state of unwonted affection, for everything appeared to entertain the desire to twine round and embrace everything else. One magnificent screw-palm in particular was so overwhelmed by affectionate parasites that his natural shape was almost entirely concealed. Others of the trees were decked with orchilla weed. There were ferns so gigantic as to be almost worthy of being styled trees, and palm-bushes so sprawling as to suggest the idea of huge vegetable spiders. Bright yellow fruit gleamed among the graceful green leaves of the mangroves; wild date-palms gave variety to the scene, if that had been needed, which it was not, and masses of umbrageous plants with large yellow flowers grew along the banks, while, down among the underwood, giant roots rose in fantastic convolutions above ground, as if the earth were already too full, and there wasn't room for the whole of them. There was an antediluvian magnificence, a prehistoric snakiness, a sort of primeval running-to-seedness, which filled Harold and Disco with feelings of awe, and induced a strange, almost unnatural tendency to regard Adam and Eve as their contemporaries.

Animal life was not wanting in this paradise. Frequently did our seaman give vent to "Hallo!" "There they go!" "Look out for the little 'un wi' the long tail!" and similar expressions, referring of course to his favourite monkeys, which ever and anon peered out upon the strangers with looks of intensity, for whatever their expression might be --  sadness, grief, interrogation, wrath, surprise -- it was always in the superlative degree. There were birds also, innumerable. One, styled the "king-hunter," sang wild exultant airs, as if it found king-hunting to be an extremely exhilarating occupation, though what sort of kings it hunted we cannot tell. Perhaps it was the king of beasts, perhaps the kingfisher, a bright specimen of which was frequently seen to dart out from the banks, but we profess ignorance on this point. There were fish-hawks also, magnificent fellows, which sat in regal dignity on the tops of the mangrove trees, and the glossy ibis, with others of the feathered tribe too numerous to mention.

Large animals also were there in abundance, though not so frequently seen as those which have been already mentioned. Disco occasionally made known the fact that such, or something unusual, had transpired, by the sudden and violent exclamation of "What's that?" in a voice so loud that "that," whatever it might be, sometimes bolted or took to flight before any one else caught sight of it.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed, on one such occasion, as the canoes turned a bend of the river.

"What now?" demanded Harold, looking at his companion to observe the direction of his eyes.

"I'm a Dutchman," exclaimed Disco in a hoarse whisper that might have been heard half a mile off, "if it's not a zebra!"

"So it is; my rifle -- look sharp!" said Harold eagerly.

The weapon was handed to him, but before it could be brought to bear, the beautiful striped creature had tossed its head, snorted, whisked its tail, kicked up its heels, and dashed into the jungle.

"Give way, lads; let's after him," shouted Disco, turning the canoe's bow to shore.

"Hold on," cried Harold; "you might as well go after a needle in a haystack, or a locomotive."

"So I might," admitted Disco, with a mortified air, resuming his course; "but it ain't in reason to expect a feller to keep quiet w'en he sees one o' the very picturs of his child'ood, so to speak, come alive an' kick up its heels like that."

Buffaloes were also seen in the grassy glades, but it proved difficult to come within range of them; also wart-hogs, and three different kinds of antelope.

Of these last Harold shot several, and they were found to be excellent food.

Human beings were also observed, but those first encountered fled at the sight of the white men, as if they had met with their worst foes; and such was in very truth the case, -- if we may regard the Portuguese half-castes of that coast as white men, -- for these negroes were runaway slaves, who stood the chance of being shot, or drowned, or whipped to death, if recaptured.

Other animals they saw -- some queer, some terrible, nearly all strange --  and last, though not least, the hippopotamus.

When Disco first saw this ungainly monster he was bereft of speech for some minutes. The usual "Hallo!" stuck in his throat and well-nigh choked him. He could only gasp, and point.

"Ay, there goes a hippopotamus," said Harold, with the easy nonchalance of a man who had been to the Zoological Gardens, and knew all about it. Nevertheless it was quite plain that Harold was much excited, for he almost dropped his oar overboard in making a hasty grasp at his rifle. Before he could fire, the creature gaped wide, as if in laughter, and dived.

"Unfortunate!" said Harold, in a philosophically careless tone; "never mind, we shall see lots more of them."

"Ugliness embodied!" said Disco, heaving a deep sigh.

"But him's goot for eat," said Antonio, smacking his lips.

"Is he?" demanded Disco of Jumbo, whose enjoyment of the sailor's expressive looks was so great, that, whenever the latter opened his lips, the former looked back over his shoulder with a broad grin of expectation.

"Ho yis; de hiputmus am fust-rate grub for dis yer boy," replied the negro, rolling his red tongue inside his mouth suggestively.

"He never eats man, does he?" inquired Disco.

"Nevair," replied Antonio.

"He looks as if he might," returned the seaman; "anyhow, he's got a mouth big enough to do it. You're quite sure he don't, I 'spose?"

"Kite sure an' sartin; but me hab seen him tak mans," said Antonio.

"Tak mans, wot d'ee mean by that?"

"Tak him," repeated Antonio. "Go at him's canoe or boat -- bump with him's head -- dash in de timbers -- capsize, so's man hab to swim shore -- all as got clear ob de crokidils."

While Disco was meditating on this unpleasant trait of character in the hippopotamus, the specimen which they had just seen, or some other member of his family, having compassion, no doubt, on the seaman's ignorance, proceeded to illustrate its method of attack then and there by rising suddenly under the canoe with such force, that its head and shoulders shot high out of the water, into which it fell with a heavy splash. Harold's rifle being ready, he fired just as it was disappearing.

Whether he hit or not is uncertain, but next moment the enraged animal rose again under Disco's canoe, which it nearly lifted out of the water in its efforts to seize it in its mouth. Fortunately the canoe was too flat for its jaws to grip; the monster's blunt teeth were felt, as well as heard, to grind across the planks; and Disco being in the stern, which was raised highest, was almost thrown overboard by the jerk.

Rising about two yards off, the hippopotamus looked savagely at the canoe, and was about to dive again when Harold gave it a second shot. The large gun being fortunately ready, had been handed to him by one of the Makololo men. The heavy ball took effect behind the eye, and killed the animal almost instantaneously. The hippopotamus usually sinks when shot dead, but in this case they were so near that, before it had time to sink, Zombo, assisted by his friend Jumbo, made a line fast to it, and it was finally dragged to the shore. The landing, however, was much retarded by the crocodiles, which now showed themselves for the first time, and kept tugging and worrying the carcase much as a puppy tugs and worries a ladies' muff; affording Disco and his friend strong reason to congratulate themselves that the canoe had not been overturned.

The afternoon was pretty well advanced when the landing was accomplished on a small sandy island, and as the spot was suitable for encamping, they determined to remain there for the night, and feast.

There are many points of resemblance between savage and civilised festivities. Whether the performers be the black sons of Africa, or the white fathers of Europe, there is the same powerful tendency to eat too much, and the same display of good-fellowship; for it is an indisputable fact that feeding man is amiable, unless, indeed, he be dyspeptic. There are also, however, various points of difference. The savage, owing to the amount of fresh air and exercise which he is compelled to take, usually eats with greater appetite, and knows nothing of equine dreams or sleepless nights. On the whole, we incline to the belief that, despite his lack of refinement and ceremony, the savage has the best of it in this matter.

Disco Lillihammer's visage, during the progress of that feast, formed a study worthy of a physiognomist. Every new achievement, whether trifling or important, performed by the Makololo triad, Jumbo, Zombo, and Masiko -- every fresh hippopotamus steak skewered and set up to roast by the half-caste brothers Jose and Oliveira -- every lick bestowed on their greasy fingers by the Somali negroes Nakoda and Conda, and every sigh of intense satisfaction heaved by the so-called "freemen" of Quillimane, Songolo and Mabruki, was watched, commented on, and, if we may say so, reflected in the animated countenance of the stout seaman, with such variety of expression, and such an interesting compound of grin and wrinkle, that poor Jumbo, who gazed at him over hippopotamus ribs and steaks, and tried hard not to laugh, was at last compelled to turn away his eyes, in order that his mouth might have fair-play.

But wonderful, sumptuous, and every way satisfactory though that feast was, it bore no comparison whatever to another feast carried on at the same time by another party, about fifty yards off, where the carcase of the hippopotamus had been left half in and half out of the water -- for, of course, being fully more than a ton in weight, only a small portion of the creature was appropriated by the canoe-men. The negroes paid no attention whatever to this other festive party; but in a short time Disco turned his head to one side, and said -- "Wy, wot's that splashin' I hears goin' on over there?"

"I suspect it must be some beast or other that has got hold of the carcase," replied Harold, who was himself busy with a portion of the same.

"Yis, dat am krokidils got 'im," said Antonio, with his mouth full -- very full.

"You don't say so?" said Disco, washing down the steak with a brimming cup of tea.

No one appeared to think it worth while to asseverate the fact, for it was self-evident. Several crocodiles were supping, and in doing so they tore away at the carcase with such violence, and lashed the water so frequently with their powerful tails, as to render it clear that their feast necessitated laborious effort, and seemed less a recreation than a duty. Moreover, they sat at their meat like insatiable gourmands, so long into the night that supper became transmuted into breakfast, and Harold's rest was greatly disturbed thereby. He was too sleepy and lazy, however, to rise and drive them away.

Next morning the travellers started early, being anxious to pass, as quietly as possible, a small Portuguese town, near to which it was said a party of runaway slaves and rebels against the Government were engaged in making depredations.

When grey dawn was beginning to rise above the tree-tops, they left their encampment in profound silence, and rowed up stream as swiftly as possible. They had not advanced far, when, on turning a point covered with tall reeds, Zombo, who was bowman in the leading canoe, suddenly made a sign to the men to cease rowing.

"What's the matter?" whispered Harold.

The negro pointed through the reeds, and whispered the single word "Canoe."

By this time the other canoe had ranged up alongside, and after a brief consultation between Harold and Disco, it was decided that they should push gently into the reeds, and wait till the strange canoe should pass; but a few seconds sufficed to show that the two men who paddled it did not intend to pass down the river, for they pushed straight out towards the deepest part of the stream. They were, however, carried down so swiftly by the current that they were brought quite near to the point of rushes where our travellers lay concealed -- so near that their voices could be distinctly heard. They talked in Portuguese.

Antonio muttered a few words, and Harold observed that there was a good deal of excitement in the looks of his men.

"What's the matter?" he asked anxiously.

Antonio shook his head. "Dat nigger goin' to be drownded," he said; "bad nigger -- obstropolous nigger, suppose."

"Wot!" exclaimed Disco in a whisper, "goin' to be drownded! wot d'ee mean?"

Antonio proceeded to explain that it was a custom amongst the Portuguese slave-owners there, when they found any of their slaves intractable or refractory, to hire some individuals who, for a small sum, would bind and carry off the incorrigible for the purpose of making away with him. One method of effecting this was to tie him in a sack and throw him into the river, the crocodiles making quite sure that the unfortunate being should never again be seen, either alive or dead. But before Antonio had finished his brief explanation he was interrupted by an exclamation from the horrified Englishmen, as they beheld the two men in the canoe raise something between them which for a moment appeared to struggle violently.

"Shove off! give way!" shouted Harold and Disco in the same breath, each thrusting with his paddle so vigorously that the two canoes shot out like arrows into the stream.

At the same instant there was a heavy plunge in the water beside the strange canoe, and the victim sank. Next moment one end of the sack rose to the surface. Both Harold and Disco made straight towards it, but it sank again, and the two murderers paddled to the shore, on which they drew up their canoe, intending to take to the bush, if necessary, for safety.

Once again the sack rose not more than three yards from Disco's canoe. The bold seaman knew that if it disappeared a third time there would be little chance of its rising again. He was prompt in action, and daring to recklessness. In one moment he had leaped overboard, dived, caught the sack in his powerful grasp, and bore it to the surface. The canoe had been steered for him. The instant he appeared, strong and ready hands laid hold of him and his burden, and dragged them both inboard.

"Cut the lashin's and give him air," cried Disco, endeavouring to find his clasp-knife; but one of the men quickly obeyed the order, and opened the sack.

A groan of horror and pity burst from the seaman when he beheld the almost insensible form of a powerful negro, whose back was lacerated with innumerable ragged cuts, and covered with clotted blood.

"Where are the -- "

He stopped short on looking round, and, observing that the two men were standing on the shore, seized a double-barrelled gun. The stream had carried the canoe a considerable distance below the spot where the murder had been attempted, but they were still within range. Without a moment's hesitation Disco took deliberate aim at them and fired.

Fortunately for him and his party Disco was a bad shot -- nevertheless the bullet struck so close to the feet of the two men that it drove the sand and pebbles into their faces. They turned at once and fled, but before they reached the cover of the bushes the second barrel was fired, and the bullet whistled close enough over their heads greatly to accelerate their flight.

The negroes opened their great round eyes, and appeared awe-struck at this prompt display of a thirst for vengeance on the part of one who had hitherto shown no other disposition than hilarity, fun, and good-humour.

Harold was greatly relieved to observe Disco's failure, for, if he had hit either of the fugitives, the consequences might have been very disastrous to their expedition.

On being partially revived and questioned, it turned out that the poor fellow had been whipped almost to death for refusing to be the executioner in whipping his own mother. This was a refinement in cruelty on the part of these professedly Christian Portuguese, which our travellers afterwards learned was by no means uncommon.

We are told by those who know that region well, and whose veracity is unquestionable, that the Portuguese on the east coast of Africa live in constant dread of their slaves rising against them. No wonder, considering the fiendish cruelties to which they subject them! In order to keep them in subjection they underfeed them, and if any of them venture to steal cocoa-nuts from the trees the owners thereof are at liberty to shoot them and throw them into the sea. Slaves being cheap there, and plentiful, are easily replaced, hence a cruel owner never hesitates. If a slave is refractory, and flogging only makes him worse, his master bids the overseer flog him until "he will require no more." Still further to keep them in subjection, the Portuguese then endeavour to eradicate from them all sympathy with each other, and all natural affection, by the following means. If a woman requires to be flogged, her brother or son is selected to do it. Fathers are made to flog their daughters, husbands their wives, and, if two young negroes of different sexes are observed to show any symptoms of growing attachment for each other, these two are chosen for each other's executioners.

The poor wretch whom we have just described as having been saved from death, to which he had been doomed for refusing to become the executioner of his own mother, was placed as tenderly and comfortably as circumstances would admit of in the bottom of the canoe, and then our travellers pushed on with all haste -- anxious to pass the town before the two fugitives could give the alarm.

They were successful in this, probably because the two men may have hid themselves for some time in the jungle, under the impression that the exasperated Englishmen might be searching for them on shore.

Giving themselves time only to take a hurried meal in the middle of the day, our travellers rowed continuously till sunset when, deeming it probable that pursuit, if undertaken at all, must have been abandoned, they put ashore on the right bank of the river and encamped.

When the sufferer had been made as comfortable as circumstances would allow -- for he was much weakened by loss of blood as well as agonised with pain -- and after he had been refreshed with food and some warm tea, Harold questioned him, through the interpreter, as to his previous history.

At first the man was brusque in his manner, and inclined to be sulky, for a long course of cruelty had filled him with an intense hatred of white men. Indeed, an embittered and desperate spirit had begun to induce callous indifference to all men, whether white or black. But kind treatment, to which he was evidently unaccustomed, and generous diet, which was obviously new to him, had a softening influence, and when Harold poured a small glass of rum into his tea, and Antonio added a lump of sugar, and Disco pressed him tenderly to drink it off -- which he did -- the effect was very decided; the settled scowl on his face became unsettled, and gradually melting away, was replaced by a milder and more manly look. By degrees he became communicative, and, bit by bit, his story was drawn from him. It was brief, but very sorrowful.

His name, he said, was Chimbolo. He belonged to a tribe which lived far inland, beyond the Manganja country, which latter was a country of hills. He was not a Manganja man, but he had married a Manganja woman. One night he, with his wife and mother, was paying a visit to the village of his wife's relations, when a band of slave-hunters suddenly attacked the village. They were armed with guns, and at once began to murder the old people and capture the young. Resistance was useless. His relatives were armed only with bows and spears. Being taken by surprise, they all fled in terror, but were pursued and few escaped. His wife, he said -- and a scowl of terrible ferocity crossed Chimbolo's face as he said it -- was about to become a mother at the time. He seized her in his arms on the first alarm, and fled with her into the bush, where he concealed her, and then hurried back to aid his relations, but met them -- old and young, strong and feeble -- flying for their lives. It was not possible to rally them; he therefore joined in the flight. While running, a bullet grazed his head and stunned him. Presently he recovered and rose, but in a few minutes was overtaken and captured. A slave-stick was put on his neck, and, along with a number of Manganja men, women, and children, he was driven down to the coast, and sold, with a number of other men and women, among whom was his own mother, to a Portuguese merchant on the coast, near the East Luavo mouth of the Zambesi. There he was found to be of a rebellious spirit, and at last on positively refusing to lash his mother, his master ordered him to be whipped to death, but, changing his mind before the order had been quite carried out he ordered him to be bound hand and foot and taken away in a sack. As to his wife, he had never heard of her since that night which was about two years past. He knew that she had not been found, because he had not seen her amongst the other captives. If they had found her they would have been sure to carry her off, because -- here Chimbolo's visage again grew diabolical -- she was young, he said, and beautiful.

When all this had been translated into bad English by Antonio, Harold asked if Chimbolo thought it probable that his wife was still alive in the Manganja highlands. To this the former said that he thought it likely.

"W'y, then," said Disco, giving his right thigh a powerful slap, which was his favourite method of emphasising a remark, "wot d'ye say, sir, to lay our course for these same highlands, and try for to find out this poor critter?"

"Just what was running in my own mind, Disco," said Harold, musing over his supper. "It does not make much difference what part of this country we go to, being all new to us; and as Antonio tells me the Manganja highlands are up the Shire river, which was explored by Dr Livingstone not long ago, and is not distant many days' journey from this, I think we can't do better than go there. We shall have a good as well as a definite object in view."

"Wery good, sir; I'm agreeable," returned Disco, reaching forth his pewter plate; "another hunk o' that pottimus, Jumbo; it's better than salt-junk any day; and I say, Jumbo, don't grin so much, else ye'll enlarge yer pretty little mouth, which 'ud be a pity."

"Yis, saar," replied Jumbo, becoming very grave all of a sudden, but on receiving a nod and an expressive wink from the seaman, he exploded again, and rolled backward on the grass, in the performance of which act he capsized Zombo's can of tea, whereupon Zombo leaped upon him in wrath, and Masiko, as in duty bound, came to the rescue.

"Clap a stopper on yer noise, will 'ee?" cried Disco sternly, "else you'll be bringin' all the wild beasts in these parts down on us to see wot it's all about."

"That reminds me," said Harold, when quiet was restored, "that we must now organise ourselves into something of a fighting band -- a company, as it were, of soldiers, -- and take our regular spell of watching by night, for, from all that I hear of the disturbed state of the country just now, with these runaway slaves and rebels, it will be necessary to be on our guard. Of course," he added, smiling, "I suppose I must be captain of the company, and you, Disco, shall be lieutenant."

"Not at all," replied the seaman, shaking his head, and frowning at Jumbo, whose brilliant teeth at once responded to the glance, "not at all, none of your sodgerin' for me. I never could abide the lobsters. Fust-mate, sir, that's wot I am, if I'm to be expected to do my dooty."

"Well then, first-mate be it," rejoined Harold, "and Antonio shall be serjeant-major -- "

"Bo's'n -- bo's'n," suggested Disco; "keep up appearances wotiver ye do, an' don't let the memory of salt water go down."

"Very good," said Harold, laughing; "then you shall be boatswain, Antonio, as well as cook, and I will instruct you in the first part of your duty, which will be to keep watch for an hour while the rest of us sleep. My first-mate will teach you the whistling part of a boatswain's duty, if that should be required -- "

"Ah, and the roar," interrupted Disco, "a bo's'n would be nothin' without his roar -- "

At that moment the woods around them were filled with a tremendous and very unexpected roar, which caused the whole party to spring up, and induced the new bo's'n to utter a yell of terror that would have done credit to the whistle of the most violent bo's'n on the sea. Next moment the travellers were surrounded by a large and excited band of armed negroes.



Chapter Seven.

Enemies Are Changed Into Friends -- Our Travellers Penetrate Into The Interior Of The Land.

To possess the power of looking perfectly calm and unconcerned when you are in reality considerably agitated and rather anxious, is extremely useful in any circumstances, but especially so when one happens to be in the midst of grinning, gesticulating, naked savages.

Our hero, Harold Seadrift possessed that power in an eminent degree, and his first-mate, Disco Lillihammer, was not a whit behind him. Although both had started abruptly to their legs at the first alarm, and drawn their respective revolvers, they no sooner found themselves surrounded by overwhelming numbers than they lowered their weapons, and, turning back to back, faced the intruders with calm countenances.

"Sit down, men, every one of you except Antonio," said Harold, in a quiet, but clear and decided voice.

His men, who, having left their guns in the canoe, were utterly helpless, quietly obeyed.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" demanded Antonio, by Harold's order.

To this a tall negro, who was obviously the leader of the band, replied in the native tongue, -- "It matters little who we are; you are in our power."

"Not quite," said Harold, slightly moving his revolver. "Tell him that he may overcome us, but before he does so my friend and I carry the lives of twelve of his men in our pistols."

The negro chief, who quite understood the powers of a revolver, replied -- "Tell your master, that before he could fire two shots, he and his friend would have each twelve bullets in his body. But I have not time to palaver here. Who are you, and where are you going?"

"We are Englishmen, travelling to see the country," replied Harold.

The chief looked doubtfully at him, and seemed to waver, then suddenly making up his mind, he frowned and said sternly -- "No; that is a lie. You are Portuguese scoundrels. You shall all die. You have robbed us of our liberty, our wives, our children, our homes; you have chained, and tortured, and flogged us!" -- he gnashed his teeth at this point, and his followers grew excited. "Now we have got free, and you are caught. We will let you know what it is to be slaves."

As the negro chief stirred up his wrath by thus recounting his wrongs, and advanced a step, Harold begged Disco, in a low, urgent voice, not to raise his pistol. Then looking the savage full in the face, without showing a trace of anxiety, he said -- "You are wrong. We are indeed Englishmen, and you know that the English detest slavery, and would, if they could, put a stop to it altogether."

"Yes, I know that," said the chief. "We have seen one Englishman here, and he has made us to know that not all men with white faces are devils -- like the Portuguese and Arabs. But how am I to know you are English?"

Again the chief wavered a little, as if half-inclined to believe Harold's statement.

"Here is proof for you," said Harold, pointing to Chimbolo, who, being scarcely able to move, had remained all this time beside the fire leaning on his elbow and listening intently to the conversation. "See," he continued, "that is a slave. Look at him."

As he said this, Harold stepped quickly forward and removed the blanket, with which he had covered his lacerated back after dressing it.

A howl of execration burst from the band of negroes, who pointed their spears and guns at the travellers' breasts, and would have made a speedy end of the whole party if Antonio had not exclaimed "Speak, Chimbolo, speak!"

The slave looked up with animation, and told the rebels how his Portuguese owner had ordered him to be flogged to death, but changed his mind and doomed him to be drowned, -- how that in the nick of time, these white men had rescued him, and had afterwards treated him with the greatest kindness.

Chimbolo did not say much, but what he did say was uttered with emphasis and feeling. This was enough. Those who would have been enemies were suddenly converted into warm friends, and the desperadoes, who would have torn their former masters, or any of their race, limb from limb, if they could have got hold of them, left our adventurers undisturbed in their bivouac, after wishing them a prosperous journey.

It was nevertheless deemed advisable to keep watch during the night. This was done faithfully and conscientiously as far as it went. Harold took the first hour by way of example. He sat over the fire, alternately gazing into its embers while he meditated of home, and round upon the dark forest while he thought of Africa. True to time, he called Disco, who, equally true to his sense of duty, turned out at once with a deep "Ay, ay, sir." The self-styled first-mate placed his back against a tree, and, endeavouring to believe it to be a capstan, or binnacle, or any other object appertaining to the sea, stared at the ghostly stems of the forest-trees until they began to dance hornpipes for his special gratification, or glowered at the shadows until they became instinct with life, and all but induced him to rouse the camp twenty times in the course of his hour's vigil. True to time also, like his predecessor, Disco roused Antonio and immediately turned in.

The vivacious chef de cuisine started up at once, took up his position at the foot of the tree which Disco had just left, leaned his back against it, and straightway went to sleep, in which condition he remained till morning, leaving the camp in unprotected felicity and blissful ignorance.

Fortunately for all parties, Disco awoke in time to catch him napping, and resolved to punish him. He crept stealthily round to the back of the tree against which the faithless man leaned, and reached gently round until his mouth was close to Antonio's cheek, then, collecting all the air that his vast lungs were capable of containing, he poured into Antonio's ear a cumulative roar that threw the camp and the denizens of the wilderness far and near into confusion, and almost drove the whole marrow in Antonio's body out at his heels. The stricken man sprang up as if earth had shot him forth, uttered a yell of terror such as seldom greets the ear, and rushed blindly forward. Repeating the roar, Disco plunged after him. Antonio tumbled over the fire, recovered himself, dashed on, and would certainly have plunged into the river, if not into the jaws of a crocodile, had not Jumbo caught him in his arms, in the midst of a chorus of laughter from the other men.

"How dare 'ee go to sleep on dooty?" demanded Disco, seizing the culprit by the collar, "eh! we might have bin all murdered by rebels or eaten by lions, or had our eyes picked out by gorillas, for all that you would have done to prevent it -- eh?" giving him a shake.

"Oh, pardon, forgif. Nevair doot more again," exclaimed the breathless and trembling Antonio.

"You'd better not!" said Disco, giving him another shake and releasing him.

Having done so, he turned on his heel and bestowed a quiet look, in passing, on Jumbo, which of course threw that unfortunate man into convulsions.

After this little incident a hasty breakfast was taken, the canoes were launched, and the voyage was continued.

It is not necessary to trace the course of our explorers day by day as they ascended the Zambesi, or to recount all the adventures or misadventures that befell them on their journey into the interior. It is sufficient for the continuity of our tale to say that many days after leaving the coast they turned into the Shire river, which flows into the Zambesi about 150 miles from the coast.

There are many fountain-heads of slavery in Africa. The region of the interior, which gives birth to the head-waters of the Shire river, is one of the chief of these. Here lies the great lake Nyassa, which was discovered and partly explored by Dr Livingstone, and hence flows a perennial stream of traffic to Kilwa, on the coast -- which traffic, at the present time, consists almost exclusively of the two kinds of ivory, white and black, the former (elephants' tusks) being carried by the latter (slaves), by which means the slave-trade is rendered more profitable.

Towards this populous and fertile region, then, our adventurers directed their course, when they turned out of the great river Zambesi and began to ascend the Shire.

And here, at the very outset of this part of the journey, they met with a Portuguese settler, who did more to open their eyes to the blighting and withering influence of slavery on the land and on its people than anything they had yet seen.

Towards the afternoon of the first day on the Shire, they landed near the encampment of the settler referred to, who turned out to be a gentleman of a Portuguese town on the Zambesi.

Harold found, to his delight, that he could speak English fluently, and was, moreover, an exceedingly agreeable and well-informed man. He was out at the time on a hunting expedition, attended by a party of slaves.

Harold spent the evening in very pleasant intercourse with Senhor Gamba, and at a later hour than usual returned to his camp, where he entertained Disco with an account of his new acquaintance.

While thus engaged, he was startled by the most appalling shrieks, which proceeded from the neighbouring encampment. Under the impression that something was wrong, both he and Disco leaped up and ran towards it. There, to his amazement and horror, Harold beheld his agreeable friend Senhor Gamba thrashing a young slave unmercifully with a whip of the most formidable character. Only a few lashes from it had been given when Harold ran up, but these were so powerful that the unhappy victim dropped down in a state of insensibility just as he reached the spot.

The Portuguese "gentleman" turned away from the prostrate slave with a scowl, but betrayed a slight touch of confusion on meeting the gaze of Harold Seadrift.

"Senhor!" exclaimed the latter sternly, with mingled remonstrance and rebuke in his tone, "how can you be so cruel? What has the boy done to merit such inhuman chastisement?"

"He has neglected my orders," answered the Portuguese, as though he resented the tone in which Harold spoke.

"But surely, surely," said Harold, "the punishment is far beyond the offence. I can scarcely believe the evidence of my own eyes and ears when they tell me that you have been guilty of this."

"Come," returned Senhor Gamba, softening into a smile, "you English cannot understand our case in this land. Because you do not keep slaves, you take the philanthropic, the religious view of the question. We who do keep slaves have a totally different experience. You cannot understand, you cannot sympathise with us."

"No, truly, we can not understand you," said Harold earnestly, "and God forbid that we should ever sympathise with you in this matter. We detest the gross injustice of slavery, and we abhor the fearful cruelties connected with it."

"That is because, as I said, you are not in our position," rejoined the Senhor, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It is easy for you to take the philanthropic view, which, however, I admit to be the best, for in the eyes of God all men are equal, and though the African be a degraded man, I know enough of him to be sure that he can be raised by kindness and religion into a position not very inferior to our own; but we who keep slaves cannot help ourselves we must act as we do."

"Why so? -- is cruelty a necessity?" asked Harold.

"Yes, it is," replied the Senhor decidedly.

"Then the abolition of slavery is a needcessity too," growled Disco, who had hitherto looked on and listened in silent wonder, debating with himself as to the propriety of giving Senhor Gamba, then and there, a sound thrashing with his own whip!

"You see," continued the Portuguese, paying no attention to Disco's growl, -- "You see, in order to live out here I must have slaves, and in order to keep slaves I must have a whip. My whip is no worse than any other whip that I know of. I don't justify it as right, I simply defend it as necessary. Wherever slavery exists, discipline must of necessity be brutal. If you keep slaves, and mean that they shall give you the labour of their bodies, and of their minds also, in so far as you permit them to have minds, you must degrade them by the whip and by all other means at your disposal until, like dogs, they become the unhesitating servants of your will, no matter what that will may be, and live for your pleasure only. It will never pay me to adopt your philanthropic, your religious views. I am here. I must be here. What am I to do? Starve? No, not if I can help it. I do as others do -- keep slaves and act as the master of slaves. I must use the whip. Perhaps you won't believe me," continued Senhor Gamba, with a sad smile, "but I speak truth when I say that I was tender-hearted when I first came to this country, for I had been well nurtured in Lisbon; but that soon passed away -- it could not last. I was the laughing-stock of my companions. Just to explain my position, I will tell you a circumstance which happened soon after I came here. The Governor invited me to a party of pleasure. The party consisted of himself, his daughters, some officers, and others. We were to go in boats to a favourite island resort, several miles off. I took one of my slaves with me, a lad that I kept about my person. As we were going along, this lad fell into the river. He could not swim, and the tide was carrying him fast away to death. Dressed as I was, in full uniform, I plunged in after him and saved him. The wish alone to save the boy's life prompted me to risk my own. And for this I became the jest of the party; even the ladies tittered at my folly. Next evening the Governor had a large dinner-party. I was there. Having caught cold, I coughed slightly; this drew attention to me. Remarks were made, and the Governor alluded in scoffing terms to my exploit, which created much mirth. 'Were you drunk?' said one. 'Had you lost your senses, to risk your life for a brute of a negro?' said another. 'Rather than spoil my uniform, I would have knocked him on the head with a pole,' said a third; and it was a long time before what they termed my folly was forgotten or forgiven. You think I am worse than others. I am not; but I do not condescend to their hypocrisy. What I am now, I have been made by this country and its associates."

Senhor Gamba said this with the air of one who thinks that he has nearly, if not quite, justified himself. "I am no worse than others," is an excuse for evil conduct, not altogether unknown in more highly favoured lands, and is often followed by the illogical conclusion, "therefore I am not to blame," but although Harold felt pity for his agreeable chance acquaintance, he could not admit that this explanation excused him, nor could he get over the shock which his feelings had sustained; it was, therefore, with comparatively little regret that he bade him adieu on the following morning, and pursued his onward way.

Everywhere along the Shire they met with a more or less hospitable reception from the natives, who regarded them with great favour, in consequence of their belonging to the same nation which had sent forth men to explore their country, defend them from the slave-dealer, and teach them about the true God. These men, of whom mention is made in another chapter, had, some time before this, been sent by the Church of England to the Manganja highlands, at the suggestion of Dr Livingstone, and laid, we believe, the foundation-stone of Christian civilisation in the interior of Africa, though God saw fit to arrest them in the raising of the superstructure.

Among other pieces of useful knowledge conveyed by them to the negroes of the Shire, was the fact that Englishmen are not cannibals, and that they have no special longings after black man steaks!

It may perchance surprise some readers to learn that black men ever entertain such a preposterous notion. Nevertheless, it is literally true. The slavers -- Arabs and Portuguese -- find it in their interest to instil this falsehood into the minds of the ignorant tribes of the interior, from whom the slaves are gathered, in order that their captives may entertain a salutary horror of Englishmen, so that if their dhows should be chased by our cruisers while creeping northward along the coast and run the risk of being taken, the slaves may willingly aid their captors in trying to escape. That the lesson has been well learnt and thoroughly believed is proved by the fact that when a dhow is obliged to run ashore to avoid capture, the slaves invariably take to the woods on the wings of terror, preferring, no doubt to be re-enslaved rather than to be roasted and eaten by white fiends. Indeed, so thoroughly has this been engrained into the native mind, that mothers frequently endeavour to overawe their refractory offspring by threatening to hand them over to the dreadful white monster who will eat them up if they don't behave!



Chapter Eight.

Relates Adventures In The Shire Valley, And Touches On One Or Two Phases Of Slavery.

Everything depends upon taste, as the monkey remarked when it took to nibbling the end of its own tail! If you like a thing, you take one view of it; if you don't like it, you take another view. Either view, if detailed, would be totally irreconcilable with the other.

The lower part of the river Shire, into which our travellers had now entered, is a vast swamp. There are at least two opinions in regard to that region. To do justice to those with whom we don't sympathise, we give our opponent's view first. Our opponent, observe, is an honest and competent man; he speaks truly; he only looks at it in another light from Harold Seadrift and Disco Lillihammer.

He says of the river Shire, "It drains a low and exceedingly fertile valley of from fifteen to twenty miles in breadth. Ranges of wooded hills bound this valley on both sides. After the first twenty miles you come to Mount Morambala, which rises with steep sides to 4000 feet in height. It is wooded to the top, and very beautiful. A small village peeps out about half-way up the mountain. It has a pure, bracing atmosphere, and is perched above mosquito range. The people on the summit have a very different climate and vegetation from those on the plains, and they live amidst luxuriant vegetation. There are many species of ferns, some so large as to deserve the name of trees. There are also lemon and orange trees growing wild, and birds and animals of all kinds." Thus far we agree with our opponent but listen to him as he goes on: -- 

"The view from Morambala is extensive, but cheerless past description. Swamp, swamp-reeking, festering, rotting, malaria-pregnant swamp, where poisonous vapours for several months in the year are ever bulging up and out into the air, -- lies before you as far as the eye can reach, and farther. If you enter the river at the worst seasons of the year, the chances are you will take the worst type of fever. If, on the other hand, you enter it during the best season, when the swamps are fairly dried up, you have everything in your favour."

Now, our opponent gives a true statement of facts undoubtedly, but his view of them is not cheering.

Contrast them with the view of Disco Lillihammer. That sagacious seaman had entered the Shire neither in the "best" nor the "worst" of the season. He had chanced upon it somewhere between the two.

"Git up your steam an' go 'longside," he said to Jumbo one afternoon, as the two canoes were proceeding quietly among magnificent giant-reeds, sedges, and bulrushes, which towered high above them -- in some places overhung them.

"I say, Mister Harold, ain't it splendid?"

"Magnificent!" replied Harold with a look of quiet enthusiasm.

"I does enjoy a swamp," continued the seaman, allowing a thin cloud to trickle from his lips.

"So do I, Disco."

"There's such a many outs and ins an' roundabouts in it. And such powerful reflections o' them reeds in the quiet water. W'y, sir, I do declare w'en I looks through 'em in a dreamy sort of way for a long time I get to fancy they're palm-trees, an' that we're sailin' through a forest without no end to it; an' when I looks over the side an' sees every reed standin' on its other self, so to speak, an' follers the under one down till my eyes git lost in the blue sky an' clouds below us, I do sometimes feel as if we'd got into the middle of fairy-land, --  was fairly afloat on the air, an' off on a voyage through the univarse! But it's them reflections as I like most. Every leaf, an' stalk, an' flag is just as good an' real in the water as out of it. An' just look at that there frog, sir, that one on the big leaf which has swelled hisself up as if he wanted to bust, with his head looking up hopefully to the -- ah! he's down with a plop like lead, but he wos sittin' on his own image which wos as clear as his own self. Then there's so much variety, sir -- that's where it is. You never know wot you're comin' to in them swamps. It may be a openin' like a pretty lake, with islands of reeds everywhere; or it may be a narrow bit like a canal, or a river; or a bit so close that you go scrapin' the gun'les on both sides. An' the life, too, is most amazin'. Never saw nothin' like it nowhere. All kinds, big an' little, plain an' pritty, queer an' 'orrible, swarms here to sitch an extent that I've got it into my head that this Shire valley must be the great original nursery of animated nature."

"It looks like it, Disco."

The last idea appeared to furnish food for reflection, as the two friends here relapsed into silence.

Although Disco's description was quaint, it could scarcely be styled exaggerated, for the swamp was absolutely alive with animal life. The principal occupant of these marshes is the elephant, and hundreds of these monster animals may be seen in one herd, feeding like cattle in a meadow. Owing to the almost impenetrable nature of the reedy jungle, however, it is impossible to follow them, and anxious though Disco was to kill one, he failed to obtain a single shot. Buffaloes and other large game were also numerous in this region, and in the water crocodiles and hippopotami sported about everywhere, while aquatic birds of every shape and size rendered the air vocal with their cries. Sometimes these feathered denizens of the swamp arose, when startled, in a dense cloud so vast that the mighty rush of their wings was almost thunderous in character.

The crocodiles were not only numerous but dangerous because of their audacity. They used to watch at the places where native women were in the habit of going down to the river for water, and not unfrequently succeeded in seizing a victim. This, however, only happened at those periods when the Shire was in flood, when fish were driven from their wonted haunts, and the crocodiles were reduced to a state of starvation and consequent ferocity.

One evening, while our travellers were proceeding slowly up stream, they observed the corpse of a negro boy floating past the canoe; just then a monstrous crocodile rushed at it with the speed of a greyhound, caught it and shook it as a terrier does a rat. Others dashed at the prey, each with his powerful tail causing the water to churn and froth as he tore off a piece. In a few seconds all was gone. That same evening Zombo had a narrow escape. After dusk he ran down to the river to drink. He chanced to go to a spot where a crocodile was watching. It lay settled down in the mud with its head on a level with the water, so that in the feeble light it could not be seen. While Zombo was busy laving the water into his mouth it suddenly rushed at him and caught him by the hand. The limb of a bush was fortunately within reach, and he laid hold of it. There was a brief struggle. The crocodile tugged hard, but the man tugged harder; at the same time he uttered a yell which brought Jumbo to his side with an oar, a blow from which drove the hideous reptile away. Poor Zombo was too glad to have escaped with his life to care much about the torn hand, which rendered him hors de combat for some time after that.

Although Disco failed to get a shot at an elephant, his hopeful spirit was gratified by the catching of a baby elephant alive. It happened thus: -- 

One morning, not very long after Zombo's tussle with the crocodile, Disco's canoe, which chanced to be in advance, suddenly ran almost into the midst of a herd of elephants which were busy feeding on palm-nuts, of which they are very fond. Instantly the whole troop scattered and fled. Disco, taken completely by surprise, omitted his wonted "Hallo!" as he made an awkward plunge at his rifle, but before he could bring it to bear, the animals were over the bank of the river and lost in the dense jungle. But a fine little elephant, at that period of life which, in human beings, might be styled the toddling age, was observed to stumble while attempting to follow its mother up the bank. It fell and rolled backwards.

"Give way for your lives!" roared Disco.

The boat shot its bow on the bank, and the seaman flew rather than leaped upon the baby elephant!

The instant it was laid hold of it began to scream with incessant and piercing energy after the fashion of a pig.

"Queek! come in canoe! Modder come back for 'im," cried Jumbo in some anxiety.

Disco at once appreciated the danger of the enraged mother returning to the rescue, but, resolved not to resign his advantage, he seized the vicious little creature by the proboscis and dragged it by main force to the canoe, into which he tumbled, hauled the proboscis inboard, as though it had been the bite of a cable, and held on.

"Shove off! shove off! and give way, lads! Look alive!"

The order was promptly obeyed, and in a few minutes the baby was dragged into the boat and secured.

This prize, however, was found to be more of a nuisance than an amusement and it was soon decided that it must be disposed of. Accordingly, that very night, much to the regret of the men who wanted to make a meal of it, Disco led his baby squealing into the jungle and set it free with a hearty slap on the flank, and an earnest recommendation to make all sail after its venerable mother, which it did forthwith, cocking its ears and tail, and shrieking as it went.

Two days after this event they made a brief halt at a poor village where they were hospitably received by the chief, who was much gratified by the liberal quantity of calico with which the travellers paid for their entertainment. Here they met with a Portuguese half-caste who was reputed one of the greatest monsters of cruelty in that part of the country. He was, however, not much more villainous in aspect than many other half-castes whom they saw. He was on his way to the coast in a canoe manned by slaves. If Harold and Disco had known that this was his last journey to the coast they would have regarded him with greater interest. As it was, having learned his history from the chief through their interpreter, they turned from him with loathing.

As this half-caste's career illustrates the depths to which humanity may fall in the hot-bed of slavery, as well as, to some extent, the state of things existing under Portuguese rule on the east coast of Africa, we give the particulars briefly.

Instead of the whip, this man used the gun, which he facetiously styled his "minister of justice," and, in mere wantonness, he was known to have committed murder again and again, yet no steps were taken by the authorities to restrain, much less to punish him. Men heard of his murders, but they shrugged their shoulders and did nothing. It was only a wild beast of a negro that was killed, they said, and what was that! They seemed to think less of it than if he had shot a hippopotamus. One of his murders was painfully notorious, even to its minutest particulars. Over the female slaves employed in a house and adjacent lands there is usually placed a head-woman, a slave also, chosen for such an office for her blind fidelity to her master. This man had one such woman, one who had ever been faithful to him and his interests, who had never provoked him by disobedience or ill-conduct, and against whom, therefore, he could have no cause of complaint. One day when half drunk he was lying on a couch in his house; his forewoman entered and made herself busy with some domestic work. As her master lay watching her, his savage disposition found vent in a characteristic joke: "Woman," said he, "I think I will shoot you." The woman turned round and said, "Master, I am your slave; you can do what you will with me. You can kill me if you like; I can do nothing. But don't kill me, master, for if you do, who is there to look after your other women? they will all run away from you."

She did not mean to irritate her master, but instantly the man's brutal egotism was aroused. The savage jest became a fearful reality, and he shouted with rage: -- 

"Say you that! say you that! fetch me my gun. I will see if my women will run away after I have killed you."

Trained to implicit obedience, the poor woman did as she was bid. She brought the gun and handed him powder and ball. At his command she knelt down before him, and the wretch fired at her breast. In his drunken rage he missed his mark -- the ball went through her shoulder. She besought him to spare her. Deaf to her entreaties, he ordered her to fetch more powder and ball. Though wounded and in agony, she obeyed him. Again the gun was loaded, again levelled and fired, and the woman fell dead at his feet.

The facts of this case were known far and wide. The Portuguese Governor was acquainted with them, as well as the ministers of justice, but no one put forth a hand to punish the monster, or to protect his slaves.

But vengeance overtook him at last. On his way down the Zambesi he shot one of his men. The others, roused to irresistible fury, sprang upon him and strangled him.

Then, indeed, the Governor and Magistrates were roused to administer "justice!" They had allowed this fiend to murder slaves at his will, but no sooner had the slaves turned on and killed their master than ceaseless energy and resolution were displayed in punishing those who slew him. Soldiers were sent out in all directions; some of the canoe-men were shot down like wild beasts, the rest were recaptured and publicly whipped to death!

Reader, this is "domestic slavery." This is what Portugal and Zanzibar claim the right to practise. This is what Great Britain has for many years declined to interfere with. This is the curse with which Africa is blighted at the present day in some of her fairest lands, and this is what Portugal has decreed shall not terminate in what she calls her African dominions for some years to come. In other words, it has been coolly decreed by that weakest of all the European nations, that slavery, murder, injustice, and every other conceivable and unmentionable vice and villainy shall still, for some considerable time, continue to be practised on the men, women, and children of Africa!

Higher up the Shire river, the travellers saw symptoms of recent distress among the people, which caused them much concern. Chimbolo, in particular, was rendered very anxious by the account given of the famine which prevailed still farther up the river, and the numerous deaths that had taken place in consequence.

The cause of the distress was a common one, and easily explained. Slave-dealers had induced the Ajawa, a warlike tribe, to declare war against the people of the Manganja highlands. The Ajawa had done this before, and were but too ready to do it again. They invaded the land, captured many of the young people, and slew the aged. Those who escaped to the jungle found on their return that their crops were destroyed. Little seed remained in their possession, and before that was planted and grown, famine began to reduce the ranks, already thinned by war.

Indications of this sad state of things became more numerous as the travellers advanced. Few natives appeared to greet them on the banks of the river as they went along, and these few resembled living skeletons. In many places they found dead bodies lying on the ground in various stages of decomposition, and everywhere they beheld an aspect of settled unutterable despair on the faces of the scattered remnant of the bereaved and starving people.

It was impossible, in the circumstances, for Harold Seadrift to give these wretched people more than very slight relief. He gave them as much of his stock of provisions as he could spare, and was glad when the necessity of continuing the journey on foot relieved him from such mournful scenes by taking him away from the river's bank.

Hiring a party of the strongest men that he could find among them, he at length left his canoes, made up his goods, food, and camp-equipage into bundles of a shape and size suitable to being carried on the heads of men, and started on foot for the Manganja highlands.

"Seems to me, sir," observed Disco, as they plodded along together on the first morning of the land journey -- "seems to me, sir, that Chimbolo don't stand much chance of findin' his wife alive."

"Poor fellow," replied Harold, glancing back at the object of their remarks, "I fear not."

Chimbolo had by that time recovered much of his natural vigour, and although not yet able to carry a man's load, was nevertheless quite capable of following the party. He walked in silence, with his eyes on the ground, a few paces behind Antonio, who was a step or two in rear of his leader, and who, in virtue of his position as "bo's'n" to the party, was privileged to walk hampered by no greater burden than his gun.

"We must keep up his sperrits, tho', poor chap," said Disco, in the hoarse whisper with which he was wont to convey secret remarks, and which was much more fitted to attract attention than his ordinary voice. "It 'ud never do to let his sperrits down; 'cause w'y? he's weak, an' if he know'd that his wife was dead, or took off as a slave, he'd never be able to go along with us, and we couldn't leave him to starve here, you know."

"Certainly not, Disco," returned Harold. "Besides, his wife may be alive, for all we know to the contrary. -- How far did he say the village was from where we landed, Antonio?"

"'Bout two, t'ree days," answered the bo's'n.

That night the party encamped beside the ruins of a small hamlet where charred sticks and fragments of an African household's goods and chattels lay scattered on the ground.

Chimbolo sat down here on the ground, and, resting his chin on his knees, gazed in silence at the ruin around him.

"Come, cheer up, old fellow," cried Disco, with rather an awkward effort at heartiness, as he slapped the negro gently on the shoulder; "tell him, Antonio, not to let his heart go down. Didn't he say that what-dee-call-the-place -- his village -- was a strong place, and could be easily held by a few brave men?"

"True," replied Chimbolo, through the interpreter, "but the Manganja men are not very brave."

"Well, well, never mind," rejoined the sympathetic tar, repeating his pat on the back, "there's no sayin'. P'raps they got courage w'en it came to the scratch. P'raps it never came to the scratch at all up there. Mayhap you'll find 'em all right after all. Come, never say die s'long as there's a shot in the locker. That's a good motto for 'ee, Chimbolo, and ought to keep up your heart even tho' ye are a nigger, 'cause it wos inwented by the great Nelson, and shouted by him, or his bo's'n, just before he got knocked over at the glorious battle of Trafalgar. Tell him that, Antonio."

Whether Antonio told him all that, is extremely doubtful, although he complied at once with the order, for Antonio never by any chance declined at least to attempt the duties of his station, but the only effect of his speech was that Chimbolo shook his head and continued to stare at the ruins.

Next morning they started early, and towards evening drew near to Zomba.

The country through which, during the previous two days, they had travelled, was very beautiful, and as wild as even Disco could desire --  and, by the way, it was no small degree of wildness that could slake the thirst for the marvellous which had been awakened in the breast of our tar, by his recent experiences in Africa. It was, he said -- and said truly -- a real out-and-out wilderness. There were villages everywhere, no doubt but these were so thickly concealed by trees and jungle that they were not easily seen, and most of them were at that time almost depopulated. The grass was higher than the heads of the travellers, and the vegetation everywhere was rankly luxuriant. Here and there open glades allowed the eye to penetrate into otherwise impenetrable bush. Elsewhere, large trees abounded in the midst of overwhelmingly affectionate parasites, whose gnarled lower limbs and twining tendrils and pendant foliage gave a softness to the landscape, which contrasted well with the wild passes and rugged rocks of the middle distance, and the towering mountains which rose, range beyond range, in the far distance.

But as the party approached the neighbourhood of Zomba mountains, few of them were disposed to give much heed to the beauties of nature. All being interested in Chimbolo, they became more or less anxious as to news that awaited him.

On turning a spur of one of the mountains which had hitherto barred their vision, they found themselves suddenly face to face with a small band of Manganja men, whose woe-begone countenances told too eloquently that the hand of the destroyer had been heavy upon them.

Of course they were questioned by Chimbolo, and the replies they gave him were such as to confirm the fears he had previously entertained.

The Ajawa, they said, had, just the day before, burnt their villages, stolen or destroyed their property, killed many of their kinsmen, and carried off their wives and children for slaves. They themselves had escaped, and were now on their way to visit their chief, who was at that time on the banks of the Zambesi, to beg of him to return, in order that he might bewitch the guns of the Ajawa, and so render them harmless!

"Has a woman of your tribe, named Marunga, been slain or captured?" asked Chimbolo eagerly.

To this the men replied that they could not tell. Marunga, they said, was known well to them by name and sight. They did not think she was among the captives, but could not tell what had become of her, as the village where she and her little boy lived had been burnt, and all who had not been killed or captured had taken to the bush. Marunga's husband, they added, was a man named Chimbolo -- not a Manganja man, but a friend of the tribe -- who had been taken by the slavers, under command of a Portuguese half-caste named Marizano, about two years before that time.

Chimbolo winced as though he had been stung when Marizano's name was mentioned, and a dark frown contracted his brows when he told the Manganja men that he was Chimbolo, and that he was even then in search of Marunga and her little boy.

When all this had been explained to Harold Seadrift he told the men that it was a pity to waste time in travelling such a long way to see their chief, who could not, even if he wished, bewitch the guns of the Ajawa, and advised them to turn back and guide him and his men to the place where the attack had been made on the Manganja, so that a search might be made in the bush for those of the people who had escaped.

This was agreed to, and the whole party proceeded on their way with increased speed, Chimbolo and Harold hoping they might yet find that Marunga had escaped, and Disco earnestly desiring that they might only fall in with the Ajawa and have a brush with them, in which case he assured the negroes he would show them a way of bewitching their guns that would beat their chief's bewitchment all to sticks and stivers!

The village in which Marunga had dwelt was soon reached. It was, as they had been told by their new friends, a heap of still smouldering ashes; but it was not altogether destitute of signs of life. A dog was observed to slink away into the bush as they approached.

The moment Chimbolo observed it he darted into the bush after it.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Disco in surprise; "that nigger seems to have took a sudden fancy to the cur? -- Eh, Antonio, wot's the reason of that, think 'ee?"

"Dunno; s'pose where dog be mans be?"

"Ah! or womans," suggested Disco.

"Or womans," assented Antonio.

Just then they heard Chimbolo's shout, which was instantly followed by a succession of female shrieks. These latter were repeated several times, and sounded as though the fugitives were scattering.

"Hims find a nest of womins!" exclaimed Jumbo, throwing down his load and dashing away into the bush.

Every individual of the party followed his example, not excepting Harold and Disco, the latter of whom was caught by the leg, the moment he left the track, by a wait-a-bit thorn -- most appropriately so-called, because its powerful spikes are always ready to seize and detain the unwary passer-by. In the present instance it checked the seaman's career for a few seconds, and rent his nether garments sadly; while Harold, profiting by his friend's misfortune, leaped over the bush, and passed on. Disco quickly extricated himself, and followed.

They were not left far behind, and overtook their comrades just as they emerged on an open space, or glade, at the extremity of which a sight met their eyes that filled them with astonishment, for there a troop of women and one or two boys were seen walking towards them, with Chimbolo in front, having a child on his left shoulder, and performing a sort of insane war-dance round one of the women.

"He's catched her!" exclaimed Disco, with excited looks, just as if Chimbolo had been angling unsuccessfully for a considerable time, and had hooked a stupendous fish at last.

And Disco was right. A few of the poor creatures who were so recently burnt out of their homes, and had lost most of those dearest to them, had ventured, as if drawn by an irresistible spell, to return with timid steps to the scene of their former happiness, but only to have their worst fears confirmed. Their homes, their protectors, their children, their hopes, all were gone at one fell swoop. Only one among them -- one who, having managed to save her only child, had none to mourn over, and no one to hope to meet with -- only one returned to a joyful meeting. We need scarcely say that this was Marunga.

The fact was instantly made plain to the travellers by the wild manner in which Chimbolo shouted her name, pointed to her, and danced round her, while he showed all his glistening teeth and as much of the whites of his eyes as was consistent with these members remaining in their orbits.

Really it was quite touching, in spite of its being ludicrous, the way in which the poor fellow poured forth his joy like a very child, -- which he was in everything except years; and Harold could not help remembering, and recalling to Disco's memory, Yoosoof's observations touching the hardness of negroes' hearts, and their want of natural affection, on the morning when his dhow was captured by the boat of the "Firefly."

The way in which, ever and anon, Chimbolo kissed his poor but now happy wife, was wondrously similar to the mode in which white men perform that little operation, except that there was more of an unrefined smack in it. The tears which would hop over his sable cheeks now and then sparkled to the full as brightly as European tears, and were perhaps somewhat bigger; and the pride with which he regarded his little son, holding him in both hands out at arms'-length, was only excelled by the joy and the tremendous laugh with which he received a kick on the nose from that undutiful son's black little toes.

But Yoosoof never chanced to be present when such exhibitions of negro feeling and susceptibility took place. How could he, seeing that men and women and children -- if black -- fled from him, and such as he, in abject terror? Neither did Yoosoof ever chance to be present when women sat down beside their blackened hearths, as they did that night, and quietly wept as though their hearts would burst at the memory of little voices and manly tones -- not silent in death, but worse than that -- gone, gone for ever! Doubtless they felt though they never heard of, and could not in words express, the sentiment -- 

"Oh for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still."

Yoosoof knew not of, and cared nothing for, such feelings as these. We ask again, how could he? His only experience of the negro was when cowering before him as a slave, or when yelling in agony under his terrible lash, or when brutalised and rendered utterly apathetic by inhuman cruelty.

Harold learned, that night on further conversation with the Manganja men, that a raid had recently been made into those regions by more than one band of slavers, sent out to capture men and women by the Portuguese half-castes of the towns of Senna and Tette, on the Zambesi, and that they had been carrying the inhabitants out of the country at the rate of about two hundred a week.

This however was but a small speck, so to speak, of the mighty work of kidnapping human beings that was going on -- that is still going on in those regions. Yoosoof would have smiled -- he never laughed -- if you had mentioned such a number as being large.

But in truth he cared nothing about such facts, except in so far as they represented a large amount of profit accrueing to himself.

The result of Harold Seadrift's cogitations on these matters was that he resolved to pass through as much of the land as he could within a reasonable time, and agreed to accompany Chimbolo on a visit to his tribe, which dwelt at some distance to the north of the Manganja highlands.



Chapter Nine.

In Which A Savage Chief Astonishes A Savage Animal.

There is something exceedingly pleasant in the act of watching --  ourselves unseen -- the proceedings of some one whose aims and ends appear to be very mysterious. There is such a wide field of speculation opened up in which to expatiate, such a vast amount of curious, we had almost said romantic, expectation created; all the more if the individual whom we observe be a savage, clothed in an unfamiliar and very scanty garb, and surrounded by scenery and circumstances which, albeit strange to us, are evidently by no means new to him.

Let us -- you and me, reader, -- quitting for a time the sad subject of slavery, and leaping, as we are privileged to do, far ahead of our explorers Harold Seadrift and his company, into the region of Central Africa; let you and me take up a position in a clump of trees by the banks of yonder stream, and watch the proceedings of that negro -- negro chief let me say, for he looks like one, -- who is engaged in some mysterious enterprise under the shade of a huge baobab tree.

The chief is a fine, stately, well-developed specimen of African manhood. He is clothed in black tights manufactured in nature's loom, in addition to which he wears round his loins a small scrap of artificial cotton cloth. If an enthusiastic member of the Royal Academy were in search of a model which should combine the strength of Hercules with the grace of Apollo, he could not find a better than the man before us, for, you will observe, the more objectionable points about our ideal of the negro are not very prominent in him. His lips are not thicker than the lips of many a roast-beef-loving John Bull. His nose is not flat, and his heels do not protrude unnecessarily. True, his hair is woolly, but that is scarcely a blemish. It might almost be regarded as the crisp and curly hair that surrounds a manly skull. His skin is black -- no doubt about that, but then it is intensely black and glossy, suggestive of black satin, and having no savour of that dirtiness which is inseparably connected with whitey-brown. Tribes in Africa differ materially in many respects, physically and mentally, just as do the various tribes of Europe.

This chief, as we have hinted, is a "savage;" that is to say, he differs in many habits and points from "civilised" people. Among other peculiarities, he clothes himself and his family in the fashion that is best suited to the warm climate in which he dwells. This display of wisdom is, as you know, somewhat rare among civilised people, as any one may perceive who observes how these over-clothe the upper parts of their children, and leave their tender little lower limbs exposed to the rigours of northern latitudes, while, as if to make up for this inconsistency by an inconsistent counterpoise, they swathe their own tough and mature limbs in thick flannel from head to foot.

It is however simple justice to civilised people to add here that a few of them, such as a portion of the Scottish Highlanders, are consistent inasmuch as the men clothe themselves similarly to the children.

Moreover, our chief, being a savage, takes daily a sufficient amount of fresh air and exercise, which nine-tenths of civilised men refrain from doing, on the economic and wise principle, apparently, that engrossing and unnatural devotion to the acquisition of wealth, fame, or knowledge, will enable them at last to spend a few paralytic years in the enjoyment of their gains. No doubt civilised people have the trifling little drawback of innumerable ills, to which they say (erroneously, we think) that flesh is heir, and for the cure of which much of their wealth is spent in supporting an army of doctors. Savages know nothing of indigestion, and in Central Africa they have no medical men.

There is yet another difference which we may point out: savages have no literature. They cannot read or write therefore, and have no permanent records of the deeds of their forefathers. Neither have they any religion worthy of the name. This is indeed a serious evil, one which civilised people of course deplore, yet, strange to say, one which consistency prevents some civilised people from remedying in the case of African savages, for it would be absurdly inconsistent in Arab Mohammedans to teach the negroes letters and the doctrines of their faith with one hand, while with the other they lashed them to death or dragged them into perpetual slavery; and it would be equally inconsistent in Portuguese Christians to teach the negroes to read "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them," while "domestic slavery" is, in their so-called African territories, claimed as a right and the traffic connected with it sanctioned.

Yes, there are many points of difference between civilised people and savages, and we think it right to point this out very clearly, good reader, because the man at whom you and I are looking just now is a savage.

Of course, being capable of reading this book, you are too old to require to be told that there is nothing of our nursery savage about him. That peculiar abortion was born and bred in the nursery, and dwells only there, and was never heard of beyond civilised lands --  although something not unlike him, alas! may be seen here and there among the lanes and purlieus where our drunkards and profligates resort. No; our savage chief does not roar, or glare, or chatter, or devour his food in its blood like the giant of the famous Jack. He carries himself like a man, and a remarkably handsome man too, with his body firm and upright, and his head bent a little forward, with his eyes fixed on the ground, as if in meditation, while he walks along.

But a truce to digressive explanation. Let us follow him.

Reaching the banks of the river, he stops, and, standing in an attitude worthy of Apollo, though he is not aware that we are looking at him, gazes first up the stream and then down. This done, he looks across, after which he tries to penetrate the depths of the water with his eye.

As no visible result follows, he wisely gives up staring and wishing, and apparently resolves to attain his ends by action. Felling a small tree, about as thick as his thigh, with an iron hatchet he cuts off it a length of about six feet. Into one end of this he drives a sharp-pointed hard-wood spike, several inches long, and to the other end attaches a stout rope made of the fibrous husk of the cocoa-nut. The point of the spike he appears to anoint -- probably a charm of some kind, -- and then suspends the curious instrument over a forked stick at a considerable height from the ground, to which he fastens the other end of the rope. This done, he walks quietly away with an air of as much self-satisfaction as if he had just performed a generous deed.

Well, is that all? Nay, if that were all we should owe you a humble apology. Our chief, "savage" though he be, is not insane. He has an object in view -- which is more than can be said of everybody.

He has not been long gone, an hour or two, when the smooth surface of the river is broken in several places, and out burst two or three heads of hippopotami. Although, according to Disco Lillihammer, the personification of ugliness, these creatures do not the less enjoy their existence. They roll about in the stream like puncheons, dive under one another playfully, sending huge waves to the banks on either side. They gape hideously with their tremendous jaws, which look as though they had been split much too far back in the head by a rude hatchet -- the tops of all the teeth having apparently been lopped off by the same clumsy blow. They laugh too, with a demoniacal "Ha! ha! ha!" as if they rejoiced in their excessive plainness, and knew that we -- you and I, reader -- are regarding them with disgust, not unmingled with awe.

Presently one of the herd betakes himself to the land. He is tired of play, and means to feed. Grass appears to be his only food, and to procure this he must needs go back from the river a short way, his enormous lips, like an animated mowing-machine, cutting a track of short cropped grass as he waddles along.

The form of that part of the bank is such that he is at least inclined, if not constrained, to pass directly under the suspended beam. Ha! we understand the matter now. Most people do understand, when a thing becomes obviously plain. The hippopotamus wants grass for supper; the "savage" chief wants hippopotamus. Both set about arranging their plans for their respective ends. The hippopotamus passes close to the forked stick, and touches the cord which sustains it in air like the sword of Damocles. Down comes the beam, driving the spike deep into his back. A cry follows, something between a grunt, a squeak, and a yell, and the wounded animal falls, rolls over, jumps up, with unexpected agility for such a sluggish, unwieldy creature, and rumbles, rushes, rolls, and stumbles back into the river, where his relatives take to flight in mortal terror. The unfortunate beast might perhaps recover from the wound, were it not that the spike has been tipped with poison. The result is that he dies in about an hour. Not long afterwards the chief returns with a band of his followers, who, being experts in the use of the knife and hatchet, soon make mince-meat of their game -- laden with which they return in triumph to their homes.

Let us follow them thither.



Chapter Ten.

Describes African Domesticity, And Many Other Things Relative Thereto, Besides Showing That Alarms And Flights, Surprises And Feasts, Are Not Confined To Particular Places.

When our negro chief -- whose name, by the way, was Kambira -- left the banks of the river, followed by his men bearing the hippopotamus-flesh, he set off at a swinging pace, like to a man who has a considerable walk before him.

The country through which they passed was not only well wooded, but well watered by numerous rivulets. Their path for some distance tended upwards towards the hills, now crossing over mounds, anon skirting the base of precipitous rocks, and elsewhere dipping down into hollows; but although thus serpentine in its course, its upward tendency never varied until it led them to the highest parts of a ridge from which a magnificent prospect was had of hill and dale, lake, rivulet and river, extending so far that the distant scenery at the horizon appeared of a thin pearly-grey colour, and of the same consistency as the clouds with which it mingled.

Passing over this ridge, and descending into a wide valley which was fertilised and beautified by a moderately-sized rivulet, Kambira led his followers towards a hamlet which lay close to the stream, nestled in a woody hollow, and, like all other Manganja villages, was surrounded by an impenetrable hedge of poisonous euphorbia -- a tree which casts a deep shade, and renders it difficult for bowmen to aim at the people inside.

In the immediate vicinity of the village the land was laid out in little gardens and fields, and in these the people -- men, women, and children, --  were busily engaged in hoeing the ground, weeding, planting, or gathering the fruits of their labour.

These same fruits were plentiful, and the people sang with joy as they worked. There were large crops of maize, millet beans, and ground-nuts; also patches of yams, rice, pumpkins, cucumbers, cassava, sweet potatoes, tobacco, cotton, and hemp, which last is also called "bang," and is smoked by the natives as a species of tobacco.

It was a pleasant sight for Kambira and his men to look upon, as they rested for a few minutes on the brow of a knoll near a thicket of bramble bushes, and gazed down upon their home. Doubtless they thought so, for their eyes glistened, so also did their teeth when they smilingly commented on the scene before them. They did not, indeed, become enthusiastic about scenery, nor did they refer to the picturesque grouping of huts and trees, or make any allusion whatever to light and shade; no, their thoughts were centred on far higher objects than these. They talked of wives and children, and hippopotamus-flesh; and their countenances glowed -- although they were not white -- and their strong hearts beat hard against their ribs -- although they were not clothed, and their souls (for we repudiate Yoosoof's opinion that they had none), their souls appeared to take quiet but powerful interest in their belongings.

It was pleasant also, for Kambira and his men to listen to the sounds that floated up from the valley, -- sweeter far than the sweetest strains of Mozart or Mendelssohn, -- the singing of the workers in the fields and gardens, mellowed by distance into a soft humming tone; and the hearty laughter that burst occasionally from men seated at work on bows, arrows, fishing-nets, and such-like gear, on a flat green spot under the shade of a huge banyan-tree, which, besides being the village workshop, was the village reception-hall, where strangers were entertained on arriving, -- also the village green, where the people assembled to dance, and sing, and smoke "bang," to which last they were much addicted, and to drink beer made by themselves, of which they were remarkably fond, and by means of which they sometimes got drunk; -- in all which matters the intelligent reader will not fail to observe that they bore a marked resemblance to many of the civilised European nations, except, perhaps, in their greater freedom of action, lightness of costume, and colour of skin.

The merry voices of children, too, were heard, and their active little black bodies were seen, while they engaged in the play of savages --  though not necessarily in savage play. Some romped, ran after each other, caught each other, tickled each other, occasionally whacked each other -- just as our own little ones do. Others played at games, of which the skipping-rope was a decided favourite among the girls, but the play of most of the older children consisted in imitating the serious work of their parents. The girls built little huts, hoed little gardens, made small pots of clay, pounded imaginary corn in miniature mortars, cooked it over ideal fires, and crammed it down the throats of imitation babies; while the boys performed deeds of chivalric daring with reed spears, small shields, and tiny bows and arrows, or amused themselves in making cattle-pens, and in sculpturing cows and crocodiles. Human nature, in short, was powerfully developed, without anything particular to suggest the idea of "savage" life, or to justify the opinion of Arabs and half-caste Portuguese that black men are all "cattle."

The scene wanted only the spire of a village church and the tinkle of a Sabbath bell to make it perfect.

But there was a tinkle among the other sounds, not unlike a bell which would have sounded marvellously familiar to English ears had they been listening. This was the ringing of the anvil of the village blacksmith. Yes, savage though they were, these natives had a blacksmith who wrought in iron, almost as deftly, and to the full as vigorously, as any British son of Vulcan. The Manganja people are an industrious race. Besides cultivating the soil extensively, they dig iron-ore out of the hills, and each village has its smelting-house, its charcoal-burners, its forge with a pair of goatskin bellows, and its blacksmith -- we might appropriately say, its very blacksmith! Whether the latter would of necessity, and as a matter of course, sing bass in church if the land were civilised enough to possess a church, remains to be seen! At the time we write of he merely hummed to the sound of the hammer, and forged hoes, axes, spears, needles, arrow-heads, bracelets, armlets, necklets, and anklets, with surprising dexterity.

Pity that he could not forge a chain which would for ever restrain the murderous hands of the Arabs and half-caste Portuguese, who, for ages, have blighted his land with their pestilential presence!

After contemplating the picture for a time, Kambira descended the winding path that led to the village. He had not proceeded far when one of the smallest of the children -- a creature so rotund that his body and limbs were a series of circles and ovals, and so black that it seemed an absurdity even to think of casting a shadow on him -- espied the advancing party, uttered a shrill cry of delight, and ran towards them.

His example was followed by a dozen others, who, being larger, outran him, and, performing a war-dance round the men, possessed themselves, by amicable theft, of pieces of raw meat with which they hastened back to the village. The original discoverer of the party, however, had other ends in view. He toddled straight up to Kambira with the outstretched arms of a child who knows he will be welcomed.

Kambira was not demonstrative, but he was hearty. Taking the little ball of black butter by the arms, he whirled him over his head, and placed him on his broad shoulders, with a fat leg on each side of his neck, and left him there to look after himself. This the youngster did by locking his feet together under the man's chin, and fastening his fat fingers in his woolly hair, in which position he bore some resemblance to an enormous chignon.

Thus was he borne crowing to the chief's hut, from the door of which a very stout elderly woman came out to receive them.

There was no one else in the hut to welcome them, but Yohama, as the chief styled her, was sufficient; she was what some people call "good company." She bustled about making preparations for a feast, with a degree of activity that was quite surprising in one so fat -- so very fat -- asking questions the while with much volubility, making remarks to the child, criticising the hippopotamus-meat, or commenting on things in general.

Meanwhile Kambira seated himself in a corner and prepared to refresh himself with a pipe of bang in the most natural and civilised fashion imaginable; and young Obo -- for so Yohama called him -- entered upon a series of gymnastic exercises with his father -- for such Kambira was --  which partook of the playfulness of the kitten, mingled with the eccentricity and mischief of the monkey.

It would have done you good, reader, if you possess a spark of sympathy, to have watched these two as they played together. The way in which Obo assaulted his father, on whose visage mild benignity was enthroned, would have surprised you. Kambira was a remarkably grave, quiet and reserved man, but that was a matter of no moment to Obo, who threatened him in front, skirmished in his rear, charged him on the right flank with a reed spear, shelled him on the left with sweet potatoes, and otherwise harassed him with amazing perseverance and ingenuity.

To this the enemy paid no further attention than lay in thrusting out an elbow and raising a knee, to check an unusually fierce attack, or in giving Obo a pat on the back when he came within reach, or sending a puff of smoke in his face, as if to taunt and encourage him to attempt further deeds of daring.

While this was going on in the chief's hut, active culinary preparations were progressing all over the village -- the women forsook their hoes and grinding-mortars, and the looms on which they had been weaving cotton cloth, the men laid down various implements of industry, and, long ere the sun began to descend in the west, the entire tribe was feasting with all the gusto, and twenty times the appetite, of aldermen.

During the progress of the feast a remarkably small, wiry old negro, entertained the chief and his party with a song, accompanying himself the while on a violin -- not a European fiddle, by any means, but a native production -- with something like a small keg, covered with goatskin, for a body, a longish handle, and one string which was played with a bow by the "Spider." Never having heard his name, we give him one in accordance with his aspect.

Talk of European fiddlers! No Paganini, or any other nini that ever astonished the Goths and Vandals of the north, could hold a candle -- we had almost said a fiddle -- to this sable descendant of Ham, who, squatted on his hams in the midst of an admiring circle, drew forth sounds from his solitary string that were more than exquisite, -- they were excruciating.

The song appeared to be improvised, for it referred to objects around, as well as to things past, present, and to come; among others, to the fact that slave parties attacked villages and carried off the inhabitants.

At such points the minstrel's voice became low and thrilling, while his audience grew suddenly earnest, opened their eyes, frowned, and showed their teeth; but as soon as the subject was changed the feeling seemed to die away. It was only old memories that had been awakened, for no slavers had passed through their country for some time past, though rumours of an attack on a not very distant tribe had recently reached and greatly alarmed them.

Thus they passed the afternoon, and when the cool of the evening drew on a dance was proposed, seconded, and carried unanimously.

They were about to begin when a man was seen running down the path leading to the village at a speed which proved him to be the bearer of tidings. In a few minutes he burst into the midst of them with glaring eyeballs and labouring chest -- for he had run fast, though not far, and told his news in rapid short sentences -- to the effect that a band of slavers, led by Portuguese, were on their way to the valley, within a mile or so of it, even while he spoke; that he thought the leader was Marizano; and that they were armed with the loud-sounding guns!

The consternation consequent on this news was universal, and there was good ground for it, because Marizano was a well-known monster of cruelty, and his guns had rendered him invincible hitherto, wherever he went, the native spear and bow being utterly useless in the hands of men who, however courageous, were shot down before they could come within arrow-range of their enemies.

It is the custom of the slave-dealers, on going into the interior for the purpose of procuring slaves, to offer to buy them from such tribes as are disposed to sell. This most of the tribes are willing to do. Fathers do not indeed, sell their own children, or husbands their wives, from preference, but chiefs and head-men are by no means loath to get rid of their criminals in this way -- their bad stock, as it were, of black ivory. They also sell orphans and other defenceless ones of their tribes, the usual rate of charge being about two or three yards of calico for a man, woman, or child.

But the Arab slave-dealer sometimes finds it difficult to procure enough of "cattle" in this way to make up a band sufficiently large to start with for the coast because he is certain to lose four out of every five, at the lowest estimate, on his journey down. The drove, therefore, must be large. In order to provide it he sends out parties to buy where they can, and to steal when they have the chance. Meanwhile he takes up his quarters near some tribe, and sets about deliberately to produce war. He rubs up old sores, foments existing quarrels, lends guns and ammunition, suggests causes of dispute, and finally gets two tribes to fight. Of course many are slaughtered, fearful barbarities and excesses are committed, fields are laid waste and villages are burnt, but this is a matter of no consequence to our Arab. Prisoners are sure to be taken, and he buys the prisoners; for the rest, -- there are plenty of natives in Africa!

When all else fails, not being very particular, he sends off a party under some thorough-going scoundrel, well-armed, and with instructions to attack and capture wherever they go.

No wonder, then, that the rumoured approach of Marizano and his men caused the utmost alarm in Kambira's village, and that the women and children were ordered to fly to the bush without delay. This they required no second bidding to do, but, oh! it was a sad sight to see them do it. The younger women ran actively, carrying the infants and leading the smaller children by the hands, and soon disappeared; but it was otherwise with the old people. These, men and women, bowed with age, and tottering as much from terror as decrepitude, hobbled along, panting as they went, and stumbling over every trifling obstruction in their path, being sometimes obliged to stop and rest, though death might be the consequence; and among these there were a few stray little creatures barely able to toddle, who had probably been forgotten or forsaken by their mothers in the panic, yet were of sufficient age to be aware, in their own feeble way, that danger of some sort was behind them, and that safety lay before. By degrees all -- young and old, strong and feeble -- gained the shelter of the bush, and Kambira was left with a handful of resolute warriors to check the invaders and defend his home.

Well was it at that time for Kambira and his men that the approaching band was not Marizano and his robbers.

When the head of the supposed enemy's column appeared on the brow of the adjacent hill, the Manganja chief fitted an arrow to his bow, and, retiring behind a hut, as also did his followers, resolved that Marizano should forfeit his life even though his own should be the penalty. Very bitter were his thoughts, for his tribe had suffered from that villain at a former period, and he longed to rid the land of him.

As he thought thus he looked at his followers with an expression of doubt for he knew too well that the Manganja were not a warlike tribe, and feared that the few who remained with him might forsake him in the hour of need. Indeed, much of his own well-known courage was to be attributed to the fact, that his mother had belonged to a family more or less nearly connected with the Ajawa, who are very warlike -- too much so, in truth, for it is they who, to a large extent are made use of by the slave-dealers to carry on war with the neighbouring tribes. Kambira's men, however, looked resolute, though very grave.

While he was thus meditating vengeance, he observed that one of the approaching band advanced alone without arms, and making signs of peace. This surprised him a little, but dreading treachery, he kept under the shelter of a hut until the stranger was close to the village; then, observing that the party on the hill had laid down their arms and seated themselves on the grass, he advanced, still, however, retaining his weapons.

The stranger was a little man, and appeared timid, but seeing that the chief evidently meant no mischief, and knowing that the guns of his friends had him within range, he drew near.

"Where come you from?" demanded Kambira.

To this Antonio -- for it was he -- replied that his party came from the coast; that they wanted to pass through the land to see it, and to find out what it produced and what its people had to sell; that it was led by two Englishmen, who belonged to a nation that detested slavery -- the same nation that sent out Dr Livingstone, who, as everybody knew, had passed through that land some years before. They were also, he said, countrymen of the men of God who had come out to teach the Manganja the Truth, who had helped them in their troubles, delivered them from the slave-traders, and some of whom had died in their land. He added that there were Manganja men and women in their company.

The "men of God" to whom Antonio referred, and to whom he had been expressly told by Harold Seadrift to refer, were those devoted missionaries mentioned in a previous chapter, who, under the leadership of the amiable and true-hearted Bishop Mackenzie, established a mission among these very Manganja hills in the year 1861. By a rare combination of Christian love and manly courage under very peculiar circumstances, they acquired extraordinary power and influence over the natives in the space of a few months, and laid the foundation of what might have been --  perhaps may yet be -- true Christianity in Central Africa. But the country was unhappily involved at the time in one of the wars created by the Portuguese and Arab slave-traders. The region was almost depopulated by man-stealers, and by the famine that resulted from the culture of the land having been neglected during the panic. The good bishop and several of his devoted band sank under the combined effects of climate and anxiety, and died there, while the enfeebled remnant were compelled, sorrowfully, to quit the field, to the deep regret of the surviving Manganja.

When, therefore, Antonio mentioned Bishop Mackenzie and Dr Livingstone, a gleam of intelligent interest lit up Kambira's swarthy countenance, and he was about to speak, but suddenly checked himself, and a stern frown chased the gleam away.

"The Manganja," he said, after a few moments' silence, during which poor Antonio eyed him with some distrust, "know well that these men of God were not of the same country as the Arab and the Portuguese; that they hated slavery and loved the Manganja, and that the graves of some of them are with us now; but we know also that some white men are great liars. How am I to make sure that your leaders are English? Why did you not bring down the Manganja men and women you say are with you?"

"The women were footsore, and fell behind with their men," answered Antonio, "and we thought it best not to wait for them."

"Go," rejoined Kambira, waving his hand; "if you be true men let the Englishmen come to me, and also the Manganja, without guns, then I will believe you. -- Go."

The peremptory manner in which this was said left no room for reply. Antonio therefore returned to his friends, and the chief to his cover.

On consultation and consideration it was agreed that Kambira's advice should be acted on, "For," said Disco, removing the pipe with which he had been solacing himself during Antonio's absence, "we can plant our fellers on the knoll here with a blunderbuss each, and arrange a signal so that, if there should be anything like foul play, we'd have nothin' to do but hold aloft a kercher or suthin o' that sort, an' they'd pour a broadside into 'em afore they could wink -- d'ee see?"

"Not quite clearly," replied Harold, smiling, "because some of our fellows can't take an aim at all, much less a good one, so they'd be as likely to shoot us as them."

Disco pondered this a little, and shook his head, then shook the ashes out of his pipe, and said that on the whole he was willing to risk it --  that they "could not expect to travel through Afriky without risking summat."

As Chimbolo with his wife and the rest of the party came up at that moment the case was put before him. He at once advised compliance with Kambira's request saying that the presence of himself and his friends would be quite sufficient to put the chief's mind at rest.

In a few minutes the plan was carried out and Kambira satisfied of the good faith of his visitors. Nevertheless he did not at once throw open his arms to them. He stood upon his dignity; asked them a good many questions, and answered a good many more, addressing himself always to Antonio as the spokesman, it being a point of etiquette not to address the principal of the party. Then, presents were exchanged, in the management of which a considerable time was spent. One of the warriors having in the meantime been despatched to recall the fugitives, these began to pour out of the woods, the frail old people and forsaken toddlers being the last to return, as they had been the last to fly.

After this, fires were kindled, fowls were chased, caught, slain, plucked, roasted, and boiled; hippopotamus-flesh was produced, the strangers were invited to make themselves at home, which they very soon did. Beer and bang were introduced; the celebrated fiddler was reinstated, the dance, which had been so long delayed, was at last fairly begun, and, as if to make the picture perfect and felicity complete, the moon came out from behind a thick cloud, and clothed the valley with a flood of silver light.



Chapter Eleven.

Reveals Disco's Opinions About Savages, And The Savages' Opinions Of Disco, And Other Weighty Matters.

As two or three of Harold's people were not very well just at that time, he resolved to remain at Kambira's village for a few days to give them rest, and afterwards to push on to the country of his friend Chimbolo.

This arrangement he came to the more readily that he was short of provisions, and Kambira told him that a particular part of the country near the shores of a lake not far distant abounded with game of all sorts.

To Disco Lillihammer he explained his plans next day, while that worthy, seated under the shade of a banyan-tree, was busily engaged with what he styled his "mornin' dooties" -- namely, the filling and smoking of his cutty-pipe.

"You see, Disco," he said, "it won't do to knock up the men with continuous travel, therefore I shall give them a spell of rest here. Kambira tells me that there is plenty of game, large and small, to be had not far off, so that we shall be able to replenish our stock of meat and perchance give the niggers a feast such as they have not been accustomed to of late, for it is not too much to expect that our rifles will do more execution, at all events among lions and elephants, than native spears. Besides, I wish to see something of the people, who, being what we may call pure out-and-out savages -- "

"Savages!" interrupted Disco, removing his pipe, and pointing with the stem of it to the village on an eminence at the outskirts of which they were seated; "d'ee call them folk savages?"

Harold looked at the scene before him, and paused for a few moments; and well he might, for not fifty yards off the blacksmith was plying his work energetically, while a lad sat literally between a pair of native bellows, one of which he blew with his left hand, the other with his right and, beyond these, groups of men and women wrought at their primitive looms or tilled their vegetable gardens and patches of land.

"Savages!" repeated Disco, still pointing to the village with the stem of his pipe, and gazing earnestly at his companion, "humph!"

It is probable that Disco might have said more, but he was an accurate judge of the precise moment when a pipe is about to go out, and delay will prove fatal. He therefore applied himself diligently to suck and cherish the dying spark. Having revived its powers to such an extent that clouds enveloped his visage, and his nose, being red, loomed luridly through them, he removed the pipe, and again said, "Humph! They ain't a bit more savages, sir, than you or me is."

"Perhaps not," replied Harold. "To say truth, it would be difficult to point out any peculiarity that justifies the name, except the fact that they wear very little clothing, and neither go to school nor church."

"They wears no clothin'," rejoined Disco, "'cause they don't need for to do so; an' they don't go to church or school, 'cause they hain't got none to go to -- that same bein' not the fault o' the niggers, but o' them as knows better."

"There's truth in what you say, Disco," returned Harold, with a smile, "but come, you must admit that there is something savage in the custom they have of wearing these hideous lip-rings."

The custom to which he referred is one which prevails among several of the tribes of Africa, and is indeed so utterly hideous and outrageous that we should be justified in refusing to believe it, were we not assured of the fact by Dr Livingstone and other missionaries and travellers of unquestionable integrity. The ring is worn in the upper lip, not hanging from it but fitted into a hole in it in such a manner as to thrust the lip straight and far out from the face. As the ring is about the size of an ordinary napkin-ring, it may be easily believed, that time is required for the formation of the deformity. At an early age the middle of the upper lip of a girl is pierced close to the nose, and a small pin introduced to prevent the hole closing up. After it is healed the pin is taken out and a larger one forced into its place, and so for weeks, months, and years the process of increasing the size of the lip goes on, until a ring of two inches in diameter can be introduced. Nearly all the women in these parts use this ring, or, as it is called, pelele. Some make them of bamboo, others of ivory or tin. When a wearer of the pelele smiles, the action of the cheek muscles draws the lip tight which has the effect of raising the ring towards the eyebrows, so that the nose is seen in the middle of it, and the teeth are exposed, a revelation which shows that the latter have been chipped to sharp points so as to resemble the teeth of a cat or crocodile.

"No doubt," said Disco, in reply to Harold's remark, "the lip-rings are uncommon ugly, but the principle o' the thing, sir, that's w'ere it is, the principle ain't no wuss than ear-rings. The savages, as we calls 'em, bores holes in their lips an' sticks rings into 'em. The civilised folk, as we calls ourselves, bores holes in their ears an' sticks rings into 'em. W'ere's the difference? that's wot I want to know."

"There's not much difference in principle," said Harold, laughing, "but there is a great difference in appearance. Ear-rings hang gracefully; lip-rings stick out horribly."

"H'm! it appears to me that that's a matter o' taste, now. Howsoever, I do admit that lip-rings is wuss than ear-rings; moreover it must make kissin' somewhat difficult, not to say onpleasant, but, as I said before, so I says again, It's all in the principle w'ere it lies. W'y, look here, sir, -- savages, as we call 'em, wear brass rings round their necks, our women wear gold and brass chains. The savages wear anklets, we wear bracelets. They have no end o' rings on their toes, we have 'em on our fingers. Some savages shave their heads, some of us shaves our faces. Their women are raither given to clothin' which is too short and too narrer, ours come out in toggery far too wide, and so long sometimes, that a feller daren't come within a fathom of 'em astarn without runnin' the risk o' trampin' on, an' carrying away some o' the canvas. The savage women frizzes out their hair into most fantastical shapes, till the very monkeys has to hold their sides sittin' in the trees larfin' at 'em -- and wot do we do in regard to that? W'y, some of our women puts on a mixture o' hairy pads, an' combs, an' pins, an' ribbons, an' flowers, in a bundle about twice the size o' their heads, all jumbled together in such a way as to defy description; an' if the monkeys was to see them, they'd go off into such fits that they'd bu'st altogether an' the race would become extinct in Afriky. No, sir; it's my opinion that there ain't no such thing as savages -- or, if you choose to put it the tother way, we're all savages together."

Disco uttered the last part of his speech with intense energy, winding it up with the usual slap on the thigh, delivered with unusual fervour, and then, becoming aware that the vital spark of the cutty had all but fled, he applied himself to its resuscitation, in which occupation he found relief to his feelings, and himself formed a brilliant illustration of his remarks on savage customs.

Harold admitted that there was much truth in what he said, but rather inclined to the opinion that of the two sets of savages the uncivilised were, if anything, the wildest. Disco however, contrary to his usual habits, had nailed his colours to the mast on that point and could not haul them down. Meanwhile Harold's opinion was to some extent justified by the appearance of a young man, who, issuing from the jungle close at hand, advanced towards them.

Most of the men at the village displayed a good deal of pride, if not taste, in the arrangement of their hair. Some wore it long and twisted into a coil which hung down their backs; others trained and stiffened it in such a way that it took the form of buffalo horns, while some allowed it to hang over the shoulders in large masses, and many shaved it either entirely, or partially in definite patterns. But the young dandy who now approached outdid all others, for he had twisted his hair into innumerable little tails, which, being stiffened by fillets of the inner bark of a tree, stuck straight out and radiated from the head in all directions. His costume otherwise was simple enough, consisting merely of a small kilt of white calico. He was accompanied by Antonio.

"We've be come from Kambira," said the interpreter, "to tell you for come to feast."

"All right," said Disco, rising; "always ready for wittles if you only gives us an hour or two between times. -- I say, Tony," (he had by that time reduced the interpreter's name to this extent), "ask this feller what he means by makin' sitch a guy of hisself."

"Hims say it look well," said Antonio, with a broad grin.

"Looks well -- eh? and ask him why the women wear that abominable pelele."

When this question was put to the black dandy, he looked at Disco evidently in surprise at his stupidity. "Because it is the fashion," he said.

"They wear it for beauty, to be sure! Men have beards and whiskers; women have none, and what kind of creature would woman be without whiskers, and without a pelele? She would have a mouth like a man, and no beard!"

The bare idea of such a state of things tickled the dandy so much that he went into roars of laughter, insomuch that all the radiating tails of his head quivered again. The effect of laughter and tails together was irresistible. Harold, Disco, and Antonio laughed in sympathy, till the tears ran down their cheeks, and then returned to the village where Kambira and his chief men awaited them.

While enjoying the feast prepared for them, Harold communicated his intentions and desires to the chief, who was delighted at the prospect of having such powerful allies on a hunting expedition.

The playful Obo meanwhile was clambering over his father's person like a black monkey. He appeared to be particularly fond of his father, and as love begets love, it is not surprising that Kambira was excessively fond of Obo. But Obo, becoming obstreperous, received an amicable punch from his father, which sent him headlong into a basket of boiled hippopotamus. He gave a wild howl of alarm as Disco snatched him out of the dish, dripping with fat, and set him on his knee.

"There, there, don't blubber," said the seaman, tenderly wiping off the fat while the natives, including Kambira, exploded with laughter. "You ain't burnt, are you?"

As Obo could not reply, Disco put his finger into the gravy from which the urchin had been rescued, and satisfied himself that it was not hot enough to have done the child injury. This was also rendered apparent by his suddenly ceasing to cry, struggling off Disco's knee, and renewing his assaults on his easy-going father.

Accepting an egg which was offered him by Yohama, Harold broke it, and entered into conversation with Kambira through the medium of Antonio.

"Is your boy's mother a -- Hollo! there's a chick in this egg," he exclaimed, throwing the offensive morsel into the fire.

Jumbo, who sat near the place where it fell, snatched it up, grinned, and putting it into his cavernous mouth, swallowed it.

"Dem's betterer wid chickies," he said, resuming his gravity and his knife and fingers, -- forks being held by him in light esteem.

"Ask him, Antonio, if Obo's mother is alive," said Harold, trying another egg, which proved to be in better condition.

The interpreter, instead of putting the question without comment, as was his wont, shook his head, looked mysterious, and whispered -- "No better ask dat. Hims lost him's wife. The slave-hunters cotch her some time ago, and carry her off when hims away hunting. Hims awful mad, worser dan mad elerphint when hims speak to 'bout her."

Harold of course dropped the subject at once, after remarking that he supposed Yohama was the child's grandmother.

"Yis," said Antonio; "she be Kambira's moder, an' Obo's gran'moder -- bof at once."

This fact was, we may almost say, self-evident for Obo's attentions and favours were distributed exclusively between Yohama and Kambira, though the latter had unquestionably the larger share.

During the course of the feast, beer was served round by the little man who had performed so deftly on the violin the previous evening.

"Drink," said Kambira hospitably; "I am glad to see my white brothers here; drink, it will warm your hearts."

"Ay, an' it won't make us drunk," said Disco, destroying Jumbo's peace of mind by winking and making a face at him as he raised the calabash to his lips. "Here's long life to you, Kambira, an' death to slavery."

There can be no doubt that the chief and his retainers would have heartily applauded that sentiment if they had understood it, but at the moment Antonio was too deeply engaged with another calabash to take the trouble to translate it.

The beer, which was pink, and as thick as gruel, was indeed too weak to produce intoxication unless taken in very large quantities; nevertheless many of the men were so fond of it that they sometimes succeeded in taking enough to bring them to the condition which we style "fuddled." But at that time the particular brew was nearly exhausted, so that temperance was happily the order of the day.

Having no hops in those regions, they are unable to prevent fermentation, and are therefore obliged to drink up a whole brewing as quickly as possible after it is made.

"Man, why don't ye wash yer face?" said Disco to the little fiddler as he replenished his calabash; "it's awful dirty."

Jumbo laughed, of course, and the small musician, not understanding what was said, followed suit out of sympathy.

"Wash him's face!" cried Antonio, laughing, "him would as soon cut off him's head. Manganja nevair wash. Ah me! You laugh if you hear de womans ask me yesterday -- 'Why you wash?' dey say, 'our men nevair do.' Ho! ho! dey looks like it too."

"I'm sure that cannot be said of Kambira or any of his chief men," said Harold.

"Perhaps not," retorted Antonio, "but some of 'um nevair wash. Once 'pon a time one man of dis tribe foller a party me was with. Not go way for all we tell 'um. We said we shoot 'um. No matter, hims foller still. At last we say, 'You scoun'rel, we wash you!' Ho! how hims run! Jist like zebra wid lion at 'um's tail. Nevair see 'um after dat -- nevair more!"

"Wot a most monstrous ugly feller that is sittin' opposite Kambira, on the other side o' the fire -- the feller with the half-shaved head," said Disco in an undertone to Harold during a temporary pause in eating.

"A well-made man, however," replied Harold. -- "I say, Disco," he added, with a peculiar smile, "you think yourself rather a good-looking fellow, don't you, now?"

The worthy seaman, who was indeed an exceptionally good-looking tar, modestly replied -- "Well now, as you have put it so plump I don't mind if I do confess that I've had some wild suspicions o' that sort now and then."

"Then you may dismiss your suspicions now, for I can assure you that you are regarded in this land as a very monster of ugliness," said Harold, laughing.

"In the estimation of niggers your garments are hideous; your legs they think elephantine, your red beard frightful, and your blue eyes savage -- savage! think of that."

"Well, well," retorted Disco, "your own eyes are as blue as mine, an' I don't suppose the niggers think more of a yaller beard than a red one."

"Too true, Disco; we are both ill-favoured fellows here, whatever we may be elsewhere; however, as we don't intend to take Manganja wives it won't matter much. But what think you of our plan, now that Kambira is ready to fall in with it?"

"It seems a good one. When do we start?"

"To-morrow," said Harold.

"Wery good," replied Disco, "I'm agreeable."

The morrow came, and with the early light all the people turned out to witness the departure of the hunters. Scouts had been previously sent out in all directions to make sure that no enemies or slave-traders were at that time in their immediate neighbourhood, and a strong force of the best warriors was left to guard the village.

Of Harold's band, two half-castes, Jose and Oliveira, volunteered to stay in camp with the guard, and two, Songolo and Mabruki, the freemen of Quillimane, remained in the village to recruit their health, which had failed. Chimbolo likewise remained, the wounds on his back not having healed sufficiently to admit of the hard labour of hunting. All the rest accompanied the hunters, and of these the three Makololo men, Jumbo, Zombo, and Masiko, were incomparably the best and bravest. Of course the volatile Antonio also went, being indispensable.

On setting out -- each man with his sleeping-mat on his back and his little wooden pillow hung at his neck, -- there was a great deal of shouting and ho-ho-ing and well-wishing on the part of those who remained behind, but above all the noise there arose a shrill cry of intense and agonising despair. This proceeded from the small windpipe of little Obo, who had not until the last moment made the appalling discovery that Kambira was going away without him!

There was something very touching in the cry of the urchin, and something which brought vividly to the minds of the Englishmen the infantine community of their own land. There was the same sudden gaze of horror on realising the true position of affairs, -- the same sharp shriek and frantic struggle to escape from the grasp of those who held him back from following his father, -- the same loud cry of agony on finding that his efforts were vain, and then, the wide-open mouth, the close-shut eyes, and the awful, prolonged silence -- suggestive of fits --  that betokens the concentration of mind, heart, and lungs into that tremendous roar of unutterable significance which appears to be the safety-valve of the human family, black and white, at that tender period of life.

Poor Obo! his sobs continued to burst out with steam-engine power, and his eyes to pour cataracts of tears into Yohama's sympathetic bosom, long after the hunting party had left the hills behind them, and advanced into the almost impenetrable jungles of the low grounds.



Chapter Twelve.

Describes A Hunting Expedition Which Was Both Exciting And Successful.

Down by the reedy margin of a pretty large lake -- where wild-fowl innumerable made the air vocal with their cries by day, and frogs, in numbers inconceivable, chirped and croaked a lullaby to men who slept, and a symphony to beasts that howled and growled and prowled at night in bush and brake -- Kambira pitched his camp.

He did not indeed, select the moist level of the fever-breeding marshes, but he chose for his temporary habitation the dry summit of a wooded hill which overlooked the lake.

Here the natives of the neighbourhood said that elephants had been lately seen, and buffaloes, zebras, etcetera, were at all times numerous.

After two long days' march they had reached the spot, and encamped late in the evening. Next morning early the business of the expedition began. Various parties of natives, armed with bows and arrows and spears, were sent out in different directions, but the principal band was composed of Kambira and his chief men, with Harold and his party.

They did not go far before game was found. Guinea-fowl were numerous, and those who were aimed with bows soon procured a goodly supply of these, but our travellers did not waste their energies or powder on such small game. Besides these, monkeys peeped inquisitively at the hunters from among the trees, and myriads of turtle-doves were seen in the covers. As they advanced, wild pigs, elands, waterbucks, koodoos, and other creatures, were seen in herds, and the natives dropped off, or turned aside in pursuit of these, so that ere long the band remaining with Kambira was reduced to about forty men.

Coming to a small river in which were a number of deep pools and shallows, they saw several hippopotami lying asleep, their bodies nearly all out of the water, appearing like masses of black rock in the stream. But at the same place they discovered fresh traces of elephants and buffaloes, therefore the hippopotami were left unmolested, save that Harold sent a bullet amongst them, partly to let the natives hear the report of his gun, and partly to see how the animals would take it.

They all started to their feet at once, and stared around them with looks of stolid surprise that were almost equal to the looks of the natives, to whom fire-arms were little known, except by report. Another shot sent the whole herd with a heavy plunge into deep water.

"It's a queer country," observed Disco when they had resumed their march. "Just look at them there lizards with red and blue tails running about among the rocks an' eatin' up the white ants like one o'clock."

Disco might have said like twelve o'clock, if numbers would have added to the force of his remark, for the little creatures referred to were miraculously active in pursuit of their food.

"But I s'pose," continued Disco, "the niggers would think our country a queerer place than this."

"Undoubtedly they would," replied Harold; "just fancy what would be the feelings of Kambira if he were suddenly transported into the heart of London."

"Hallo!" exclaimed Disco, stopping suddenly and pointing to one of the men in advance, who had crouched and made signals to his friends to halt, "breakers ahead -- eh?"

"More likely buffaloes," whispered Harold, as he cocked his rifle and advanced quickly with Kambira, who carried a short spear or javelin.

On reaching an opening in the bushes, a small herd of zebras was observed not much more than a hundred yards in advance.

"Will the white man's gun kill so far?" asked the chief, turning to Antonio.

The interpreter made no reply, but pointed to Harold, who was in the act of taking aim. The loud report was followed by the fall of the nearest zebra. Disco also fired and wounded another, which bounded away in wild alarm with its fellows.

The natives yelled with delight, and Disco cheered in sympathy.

"You've hit him," said Harold, as he reloaded.

"Ay, but I han't disabled him. Better luck next time. I think I took him somewhere on the port bow."

"If by that you mean the left shoulder," returned Harold, with a laugh, "it's likely he won't run far. What does Kambira think of the white man's gun?" he added, turning round.

The tall chief nodded approvingly, and said, with a grave countenance -- "Good, good; it is good -- better than this," shaking his short spear.

At that moment a small antelope, which had been startled and put to flight by some of the other bands of hunters, came crashing wildly towards them, ignorant of the enemy in its front until within about thirty yards. It turned at a sharp angle and plunged into the jungle, but the spear which Kambira had shaken whizzed though the air and pierced its heart before it had time to disappear.

"A splendid heave!" cried Disco, with enthusiasm; "why, man alive, you'd make yer fortin' as a harpooner if ye was to go to the whale-fishin'. --  Hallo! there's somethin' else; w'y, the place is swarmin'. It's for all the world like a zoological ga'rdings let loose."

As he spoke, the hoofs of a herd of ponderous animals were heard, but the rank grass and underwood concealed them entirely from view. The whole party rushed to the nearest opening, and were just in time to see the tail of an irate buffalo make a magnificent flourish in the air as its owner plunged into cover.

There was no further attempt at conversation after this. The near presence of large game was too exciting, so that merely a word of advice, direction, or inquiry, passed as the party advanced rapidly -- one or two of the most active going before as pioneers.

While Disco was striding along with flashing eyes, rifle ready, and head turning from side to side in momentary expectation of something bounding suddenly out of somewhere, he chanced to cast his eyes upwards, and, to his horror, beheld two huge serpents coiled together among the branches of a tree close to his head.

Uttering a yell of alarm -- for he entertained an almost superstitious dread of serpents -- he fired blindly upwards, and dashed to one side so violently that he tumbled himself and Harold into a bush of wait-a-bit thorns, out of which the laughing natives found it difficult to extract them.

"What is the matter, man?" said Harold somewhat testily.

"Have a care! look! Avast! A bite'll be death, an' no mistake!" cried Disco, pointing to the reptiles.

Harold fired at once and brought them both down, and the natives, attacking them with sticks, soon killed them.

"No fear," said Antonio, with a chuckle. "Dem not harm nobody, though ums ugly an' big enough."

This was true. They were a couple of pythons, and the larger of the two, a female, was ten feet long; but the python is a harmless creature.

While they were talking, smoke was observed to rise from an isolated clump of long grass and bushes not far from the banks of the river, much to the annoyance of Kambira, who feared that the fire might spread and scare away the game. It was confined, however, to the place where it began, but it had the effect of driving out a solitary buffalo that had taken refuge in the cover. Jumbo chanced to be most directly in front of the infuriated animal when it burst out, and to him exclusively it directed its attentions.

Never since Jumbo was the size of Obo had that laughter-loving savage used his lithe legs with greater energy than on this occasion. An ostrich might have envied him as he rushed towards the river, into which he sprang headlong when the buffalo was barely six feet behind him.

Of course Harold fired, as well as Disco, and both shots told, as also a spear from Kambira, nevertheless the animal turned abruptly on seeing Jumbo disappear, and charged furiously up the bank, scattering its enemies right and left. Harold fired again at little more than fifty yards off, and heard the bullet thud as it went in just behind the shoulder, yet strange to say, it seemed to have no other effect than to rouse the brute to greater wrath, and two more bullets failed to bring him down.

This toughness of the buffalo is by no means uncommon, but different animals vary much in their tenacity of life. Some fall at once to the first well-directed shot; others die hard. The animal the hunters were now in pursuit of, or rather which was in pursuit of the hunters, seemed to be of the latter class. Harold fired another shot from behind a tree, having loaded with a shell-bullet, which exploded on hitting the creature's ribs. It fell, much to the satisfaction of Disco, of whom it happened to be in pursuit at the time. The seaman at once stopped and began to reload, and the natives came running forward, when Antonio, who had climbed a tree to be out of harm's way, slipped down and ran with great bravery up to the prostrate animal.

Just as he reached it the buffalo sprang up with the activity of a cat, and charged him. Antonio turned and ran with such rapidity that his little legs became almost invisible, like those of a sparrow in a hurry. He gained a tree, and had just time to climb into it when the buffalo struck it like a battering-ram, hard enough almost to have split both head and tree. It paused a few seconds, drew back several paces, glared savagely at Antonio, and then charged again and again, as if resolved either to shake him out of the tree, or give itself a splitting headache, but another shell from Harold, who could hardly take aim for laughing, stretched the huge animal dead upon the ground. Altogether, it took two shells and five large solid rifle-balls to finish him.

"That wos a pretty good spurt," said Disco, panting, as he joined Harold beside the fallen beast. "It's well-known that a starn chase is a long 'un, but this would have been an exception to the rule if you hadn't shot him, sir. He pretty nigh made short work o' me. He was a'most aboard of me w'en you fired."

"True," said Harold; "and had that tree not grown where it stands, and grown tough, too, I suspect he would have made short work of Antonio too."

"Bah!" said the interpreter, with affected carelessness, "him was but a slow brute, after all."

Disco looked at Jumbo, who was none the worse of his ducking, and shut his right eye smartly. Jumbo opened his cavernous mouth, and exploded so violently that his double row of brilliant teeth must have been blown out and scattered on the ground, had they not been miraculously strong.

"Come, now," said Kambira, who had just given orders to some of his followers to remain behind and look after the carcase, "we go to find elephants."

"Have we much chance of findin' them?" inquired Disco.

Kambira thought they had, because fresh traces had been recently seen in the neighbourhood, whereupon Disco said that he would prefer to go after lions, but Kambira assured him that these animals were not so easy to find, and much more dangerous when attacked. Admitting the force of this, though still asserting his preference of lions to elephants, the bloodthirsty son of Neptune shouldered his rifle and followed his leader.

While the main party of hunters were thus successfully pushing along, the other bands were not idle, though, possessing no fire-arms, they were less noisy. In fact their proceedings were altogether of the cat-catty. One fellow, as black as a coal, as lithe as an eel, and as long -- according to Disco's standard -- as a fathom of pump-water, having come upon a herd of buffalo unseen by them, and being armed with a small bow and quiver of arrows, suddenly dropped on all-fours and began to glide through the long grass.

Now there is a particular little bird in those regions which calls for special notice here. It is a very singular bird, inasmuch as it has constituted itself the guardian of the buffalo. It frequently sits upon that animal's back, and, whenever it sees the approach of man, or any other danger, it flaps its wings and screams to such an extent, that the buffalo rushes off without waiting to inquire or see what is the matter; and the small guardian seems to think itself sufficiently rewarded with the pickings it finds on the back of its fat friend. So vigilant is this little creature, that it actually renders the approach of the hunter a matter of great difficulty in circumstances when, but for it, he might approach with ease.

Our wary native was, however, aware of this little fellow's propensities, and took precautions to outwit the bird rather than the beast. It may perhaps cause some surprise to be told that a small bow and arrows were a sufficiently powerful species of artillery to bring to bear against such noble game, but the surprise will vanish when we state that the arrows were poisoned.

Having crawled to within range, the fathom of black pump-water suddenly arose and let fly an arrow. The missile went deep into the side of a majestic bull. The little bird fluttered and screamed too late. The bull at once dashed away at full speed, starting off the whole herd in alarm. The black fathom followed at the top of his speed, and was joined by a number of other black fathoms, who were quite aware of what had been done. The buffaloes were soon out of sight, but the fathoms followed the trail with the unerring pertinacity of fate. After a long run they came up with the stricken bull, which had fallen behind its fellows, and waited patiently until the poison took full effect. In a short time the animal fell, and the successful hunters fell to work upon his carcase with their knives.

Leaving them thus employed, we will return to Kambira and his friends.

They had not gone far when a fine water-buck was observed feeding beside a creek.

Kambira laid his hand on Harold's shoulder and pointed to it with a smile, which might have been interpreted, "Now, then, there's a chance for you!"

Harold fired, and the water-buck dropped.

"Good," said Kambira.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Disco.

And well he might, for at that moment an enormous crocodile, which had evidently been watching the water-buck, seized and dragged it into the water. It was not deep, however, and the wounded animal made a desperate plunge, hauled the crocodile several yards, and tore itself out of its hideous jaws. It then jumped into the stream and was swimming across when another crocodile made a dash at it, but Harold sent a ball into its ugly head, which appeared to make it change its mind. It disappeared, and the water-buck turning, made for the bank from which it had started. Just as it reached it the vital spark fled --  the fine head dropped and the body turned over.

It will be seen from what has been told, that on this occasion the rifles did most of the work. The natives who followed Harold had nothing to do but look on exultingly, glare, dance, show their teeth and gums, and secure the game. We cannot perhaps, expect the good-natured reader to follow us through all the details of that day's work; but it would be unpardonable were we to close the chapter without referring to the principal event of the day, which occurred a couple of hours after the shooting of the water-buck.

It happened thus: -- When the hunters began to grow tired, and the prospect of falling in with large game became less hopeful, the chief determined to return to camp; but Disco felt so disappointed at not having seen an elephant or a lion, that he expressed a wish to continue the chase with a small select party. Harold laughed at the idea of the seaman leading such a party, but offered no objection, although he did not care to accompany his friend, having, as he said, had enough of it, and being desirous of having a long chat with the chief in camp.

"You see, sir," said Disco, patting the stock of his rifle with his right hand, "we chance to have got, so to speak, into the heart of a shoal o' big fish, an' there's no sayin' how soon they may take it into their heads to up anchor, and make sail for other grounds. Therefore, says I, blaze away at 'em while you've got the chance."

"But you may have as good a chance to-morrow, or next day," suggested Harold.

"We ain't sure o' that sir. To-morrow, they say, never comes," returned Disco. "It's my ambition to let fly a broadside at a lion or a elephant so I means for to go on; an' wot I says is, Who wolunteers to sail in company?"

When the party were given to understand what "wolunteers" meant, the three Makololo joined the tar with alacrity, also the Somali negroes Nakoda and Conda, and about a dozen of the natives, armed with spears. Disco's own men were armed with their guns. Antonio, being necessary to Harold, returned to camp; but this was a matter of little importance, as Jumbo and his fellow-countrymen knew enough of English to act as interpreters.

Every one who has had a few years' experience of life knows the truth of the proverb which asserts that "fortune favours the brave." Its truth was exemplified on the present occasion not more than an hour after the little band of heroes had set out.

Disco led the way, as a matter of course, holding, as he said, that no nigger could possibly be equal to a white sailor in the matter of steering, whether ashore or afloat. He steered by the sun, and directed his course to nowhere in particular, being influenced chiefly by the form of the ground and the appearance of the jungle.

Jumbo grinned a good deal at the sententious gravity with which the leader delivered his orders, and the self-important strides with which he passed over the land. He would have grinned still more, perhaps have laughed outright if he had understood that the occasional off-hand kicks which Disco bestowed on a thick bush here and there, were given in the hope that a lion might thereby be set up, as one dislodges a rabbit or a hare!

At last on reaching the crest of a mound which was comparatively free of underwood, Disco beheld a sight which caused him to drop on his hands and knees as though he had been shot.

Not more than fifty yards off a herd of cow elephants and their calves were seen feeding quietly on tall heavy-seeded grass in the plain below.

"Avast!" said Disco, in a hoarse whisper, at the same time crouching behind a bush, and making frantic signals to the rest of the party to advance with extreme caution.

"Wat 'um see?" inquired Jumbo in a low whisper, creeping up to his excited leader.

There was no need for a reply. A glance over the top of the bush sufficed.

"Be quiet as mice now, lads," said Disco, when all the members of his party had crept around him, and become aware of the presence of elephants. "Get your guns laid, and if any one of you dares to pull a trigger till I give the word, I'll keel-haul him."

This, or something distantly resembling it, having been explained to the men who carried guns, they lay down and took aim.

The noise made by the hunters attracted the attention of the nearest elephant, and, with true motherly instinct she placed her young one between her fore-legs for protection.

"We fire right in de middel ob de lot?" inquired Zombo hastily.

"Not at all," whispered Disco; "let every man point at the nearest one --  the one that lays broadside on to us, wi' the little un under her bows. Now -- ready -- present -- fire!"

Bang went the seven guns with a degree of precision that might have put to shame any corps of volunteer riflemen in England; up went the trunks and tails of the elephants, little and big, and away rushed the whole herd in dire alarm. But the wounded animal suddenly stumbled and fell on its knees, then leaped up and ran on heavily.

Meanwhile Disco, who had discharged only one barrel of his heavy gun, leaped over the bushes, and rushed forward at a pace which for a few seconds enabled him to keep ahead even of the fleet natives. The elephants, however, easily left them all behind, and it appeared as if the affair were about to end in disappointment, when the wounded beast again stumbled.

"Hold on! halt!" cried Disco in a voice of thunder.

He kneeled at the same time, took aim, and fired.

Whether it was this last shot or the effects of previous loss of blood, we cannot tell; but after receiving it, the ponderous animal rolled over on its side, and died.

To say that the natives became temporarily insane would give but a feeble idea of what now took place, because few readers are likely to be aware of the amazing power of the negro to give expression to the vagaries of insanity. We shall therefore content ourselves by saying that they cheered, laughed, howled, shouted, danced, and yelled -- and leave the rest to imagination.

"Now, then, boys, avast howlin'. Clap a stopper on your bellows, will 'ee?" said Disco, in a boatswain's roar, that effectually quelled the tumult. "Cut off to camp, every mother's son of you, an bring up Kambira an' all the boys, with as many knives and dishes as ye can muster, for this mountain of flesh ain't to be cut up in a hurry, an' the sun won't be long o' goin' to bed. Away with 'ee! Let's see how you can wag yer black legs, an' I'll keep watch over the carcase. If anything comes to have a look at it -- a lion, for instance, -- so much the worse for the lion!"

It was in vain that Jumbo explained there was no necessity for sending more than one of the party to the camp. Disco was a strict disciplinarian, and, having given the order, enforced it in a manner which admitted of no disobedience. They therefore departed, leaving the seaman seated on the elephant, smoking his pipe with his gun beside him.

But Jumbo did not go far. He soon turned aside from his companions, and returned to the scene of the hunt, resolved if possible to give his leader a fright. Gaining the skirts of the jungle which surrounded the open space where Disco kept watch, he crept cautiously as near to him as possible.

Disco still sat smoking and eyeing the elephant with a smile of satisfaction. Presently he rose, -- retreated a few yards from the carcase, and stood admiring it with his head on one side, as if it were a picture and he a connoisseur. He had in this act approached somewhat nearer to Jumbo, who saluted him with a most awful growl.

No monkey in Africa could have dropped its pipe, had it been a smoker, or sprung to seize its gun, had it been a sportsman, with greater agility than did Disco Lillihammer on that trying occasion! Getting on the other side of the dead elephant he faced round, cocked both barrels, and prepared to receive whatever might come.

Jumbo, lying very low behind a bank of earth for safety, gave another low growl. Disco started and half raised his piece. Jumbo then threw a large stone towards a neighbouring bush, which it struck and caused to rustle.

This was enough for Disco, who took a quick aim, and let fly the contents of both barrels into the bush.

Jumbo noiselessly but swiftly crept back into the woods, chuckling as he went, leaving Disco to reload in wild haste. But his haste was uncalled for. There was no more growling; no more rustling in the bushes.

"I've done for him," muttered Disco, after waiting patiently at the "ready" for some time. "But it won't do for me to ventur' up to it all by myself. Pr'aps it's a lion, an' they do say that it's chancy work to go near a wounded lion. To be sure the growl wasn't so loud as I'd have expected o' the king o' the forest, but then they don't always growl loud. Anyhow I'll keep a bright look-out an' wait till the niggers return."

Philosophising thus, the bold seaman mounted guard over the elephant.

Meanwhile Jumbo, having got out of earshot of his friend, indulged in a loud laugh and made after his friends, but, observing the visage of a small yellow-coloured monkey among the leaves overhead, a thought flashed into his mind and induced him to change his plans.

Throwing his spear dexterously he transfixed the monkey and brought it down. Returning with great caution to the bush into which Disco had fired, and gliding with the noiseless motion of a snake the latter part of the way, he placed the dead monkey on the ground and left it there.

It was by that time too late to overtake his comrades. He therefore waited until they returned, and then joined the party in rear, as though he had followed them from the camp.

The same wild exhibition of delight was about to be enacted when the party came trooping up, but Disco quickly checked it by the astounding announcement that he thought he had shot a lion, or somethin' o' that sort!

"You don't mean it!" said Harold, rather excited.

"All I know is," said Disco, "that I heerd somethin' uncommon like a lion growl twice in yonder bush, an' saw the bush move too, so I fired a broadside that seemed to finish him at once, for there was no more rustlin' after that."

"An' no more growlin'?" asked Jumbo, with much simplicity of countenance.

"Not a growl, nor nothin' else," answered Disco.

"Well, get your guns ready, lads," said Harold, "and stand by to fire while we go and search the bush."

So saying, Harold and Disco advanced together with their rifles ready, while the natives, who were more or less alarmed, according to their respective degrees of courage, scattered in a semicircle well in rear. Kambira, armed with a spear, kept close to Harold, and Jumbo, with unwonted bravery, walked alongside of Disco. Antonio, quietly retiring, took refuge in a tree.

"Yoo's sure you hit um?" inquired Jumbo in a whisper.

"Can't say I'm sure," replied Disco, "but we'll soon see."

"Was um's growl very bad?" asked Jumbo.

"Hold yer long tongue!" said Disco testily, for he was becoming excited.

"Look! see dere!" exclaimed Jumbo in an energetic whisper.

"What? where?"

"Look! right troo de bush. Dis way. Dar, don' you zee um's skin, --  t'other side? Fire!"

"Why, eh!" exclaimed Disco, peering keenly through the leaves, "yellow hair! yes -- its -- "

Stopping abruptly he pointed his gun at the bush and poured the contents of both barrels into it. Then, clubbing his weapon and brandishing it in the air, he uttered a wild cry -- went crashing through the bush, and next moment stood aghast before the yellow monkey, whose little carcase he had almost blown to atoms.

We won't chronicle the roars of laughter, the yells of delight that followed, -- the immense amount of chaffing, the innumerable witticisms and criticisms that ensued -- no, no! regard for the gallant seaman constrains us to draw a veil over the scene and leave it, as we have left many things before, and shall leave many things yet to come, to the reader's vivid imagination.

Fortunately for Disco, the superior attractions of the dead elephant soon drew off attention from this exploit. The natives proceeded to cut up the huge mass of meat, and this was indeed an amazing spectacle. At first the men stood round the carcase in dead silence, while Kambira delivered a species of oration, in which he pointed out minutely the particular parts of the animal which were to be apportioned to the head-men of the different fires of which the camp was composed, -- the left hind-leg and the parts around the eyes being allotted to his English visitors. These points settled, the order was given to "cut up," and immediately the excitement which had been restrained burst forth again with tenfold violence. The natives seemed to be quite unable to restrain their feelings of delight, as they cut away at the carcase with spears and knives. They screamed as well as danced with glee. Some attacked the head, others the flanks, jumping over the animal or standing on it the better to expedite their operations; some ever and anon ran off screaming with masses of bloody meat, threw it on the grass and went back for more, while others, after cutting the carcase open, jumped inside and wallowed about in their eagerness to reach and cut out the precious fat -- all talking and shouting at the utmost pitch of their voices.

"Well, now," said Disco to Harold, with a grin of amusement, "the likes o' that I never did see nowheres. Cuttin' up a Greenland whale is nothin' to it."

"Come, come," said Harold, checking his laughter and seizing an excited negro by the shoulder, "no fighting allowed."

This had reference to two who chanced to have taken a fancy for the same mass of meat, and were quarrelling so violently over it that blows seemed on the point of following, but having let off part of their superabundant energy in words, they rushed back to expend the remainder on their dead friend.

Suddenly a sharp agonised yell was heard inside the carcase. Next moment Zombo jumped out all bloody and furious, holding up his right hand. While groping about inside, one of his too eager comrades outside had laid about rather incautiously with his knife, drove it through the meat and sliced Zombo's left hand. He was easily soothed, however; Harold bound up the cut with a piece of rag, and Zombo went to work as recklessly as ever.

In a marvellously short time tons of meat were cut up and divided amongst the band, and, before daylight had quite disappeared, the hunters were on their way back to camp, while a troop of hyenas and other carnivora were gorging themselves with the elephant's remains.



Chapter Thirteen.

The Encampment And The Supper -- Discussions, Political And Otherwise --  Kambira Receives A Shock, And Our Wanderers Are Thrown Into Perplexity.

Turn we now to a more peaceful scene. The camp is almost quiet, the stars are twinkling brightly overhead, the fires are glimmering fitfully below. The natives, having taken the edge off their appetites, have stretched their dusky forms on their sleeping-mats, and laid their woolly heads on their little wooden pillows. The only persons moving are Harold Seadrift and Disco Lillihammer -- the first being busy making notes in a small book, the second being equally busy in manufacturing cloudlets from his unfailing pipe, gazing the while with much interest at his note-making companion.

"They was pretty vigorous w'en they wos at it, sir," said Disco, in reference to supper, observing that his companion looked up from his book, "but they wos sooner done than I had expected."

"Yes, they weren't long about it," replied Harold, with an abstracted air, as he resumed his writing.

Lest the reader should erroneously imagine that supper is over, it is necessary here to explain what taking the edge off a free African's appetite means.

On reaching camp after the cutting up of the elephant, as detailed in the last chapter, the negroes had set to work to roast and boil with a degree of vigour that would have surprised even the chefs de cuisine of the world's first-class hotels. Having gorged themselves to an extent that civilised people might perhaps have thought dangerous, they had then commenced an uproarious dance, accompanied by stentorian songs, which soon reduced them to the condition of beings who needed repose. Proceeding upon the principle of overcoming temptation by giving way to it, they at once lay down and went to sleep.

It was during this stage of the night's proceedings that Disco foolishly imagined that supper had come to a close. Not many minutes after the observation was made, and before the black cutty-pipe was smoked out, first one and then another of the sleepers awoke, and, after a yawn or two, got up to rouse the fires and put on the cooking-pots. In less than a quarter of an hour the whole camp was astir, conversation was rife, and the bubbling of pots that had not got time to cool, and the hissing of roasts whose fat had not yet hardened, mingled with songs whose echoes were still floating in the brains of the wild inhabitants of the surrounding jungle. Roasting, boiling, and eating were recommenced with as much energy as if the feast had only just begun.

Kambira, having roused himself, gave orders to one of his men, who brought one of the elephant's feet and set about the cooking of it at Harold's fire. Kambira and Disco, with Antonio and Jumbo, sat round the same fire.

There was a hole in the ground close beside them which contained a small fire; the embers of this were stirred up and replenished with fuel. When the inside was thoroughly heated, the elephant's foot was placed in it, and covered over with hot ashes and soil, and another fire kindled above the whole.

Harold, who regarded this proceeding with some surprise, said to Kambira -- through Antonio -- "Who are you cooking that for?"

"For my white guests," replied the chief.

"But we have supped already," said Harold; "we have already eaten as much as we can hold of the elephant's trunk and tongue, both of which were excellent -- why prepare more?"

"This is not for to-night, but for to-morrow," returned Kambira, with a smile. "The foot takes all night to cook."

This was a sufficient explanation, and in truth the nature of the dish required that it should be well done. When, on the morrow, they were called to partake of it they found that it was, according to Disco's estimation, "fust-rate!" It was a whitish mass, slightly gelatinous and sweet, like marrow, and very palatable. Nevertheless, they learned from experience that if the effect of bile were to be avoided, a long march was necessary after a meal of elephant's foot!

Meanwhile the proceedings of the natives were food enough for our travellers for the time being. Like human creatures elsewhere, they displayed great variety of taste. Some preferred boiled meat, others roast; a few indulged in porridge made of mapira meal. The meal was very good, but the porridge was doubtful, owing to the cookery. It would appear that in Africa, as in England, woman excels in the culinary art. At all events, the mapira meal was better managed by them, than by the men. On the present occasion the hunters tumbled in the meal by handfuls in rapid succession as soon as the water was hot, until it became too thick to be stirred about, then it was lifted off the fire, and one man held the pot while another plied the porridge-stick with all his might to prevent the solid mass from being burnt. Thus it was prepared, and thus eaten, in enormous quantities. No wonder that dancing and profuse perspiration were esteemed a necessary adjunct to feeding!

At the close of the second edition of supper, which went into four or five editions before morning, some of the men at the fire next to that of Kambira engaged in a debate so furious, that the curiosity of Disco and Harold was excited, and they caused Antonio to translate much of what was said. It is not possible to give a connected account of this debate as translated by Antonio. To overcome the difficulty we shall give the substance of it in what Disco styled Antonio's "lingo."

There were about a dozen natives round the fire, but two of them sustained the chief part in the debate. One of these was a large man with a flat nose; the other was a small man with a large frizzy head.

"Hold 'oos tongue," said Flatnose (so Antonio named him); "tongue too long -- far!"

"Boh! 'oos brains too short," retorted Frizzyhead contemptuously.

An immense amount of chattering by the others followed these pithy remarks of the principals.

The question in debate was, Whether the two toes of the ostrich represented the thumb and forefinger in man, or the little and ring fingers? But in a few minutes the subject changed gradually, and somehow unaccountably, to questions of a political nature, -- for, strange to say, in savage Africa, as in civilised England, politics are keenly discussed, doubtless at times with equal wisdom in the one land as in the other.

"What dat 'oo say?" inquired Flatnose, on hearing some muttered remarks of Frizzyhead in reference to the misgovernment of chiefs. Of course there, as here, present company was understood to be excepted.

"Chiefs ob no use -- no use at all!" said Frizzyhead so vehemently that the men at several of the nearest fires ceased to talk, and began to listen.

"Ob no use?" cried Flatnose, with vehemence so superior that the attention of the whole camp was arrested.

"No!" replied Frizzyhead, still more energetically, "ob no use at all. We could govern ourselves betterer, so what de use of 'um? The chief 'ums fat an' hab plenty wife, but we, who do all de hard work, hab hunger, an' only one wife, prehaps none at all. Dis is bad, unjust, wrong."

There was a general shout of "eehee!" from all quarters, which was equivalent to our "hear, hear."

"'Oo know noting at all," retorted Flatnose, who was a loyal subject. "Is not de chief de fader of de peepil? Can dere be peepil widout a fader -- eh? God made de chief -- who says dat chief is not wise? He is wise, but um's child'n am big fools!"

Kambira nodded his head and smiled at this, and there was a general inclination on the part of most of the audience to applaud, for there, as elsewhere, men have a tendency to be blown about by every wind of doctrine.

It was amusing to observe the earnestness and freedom with which men of the lowest grade assaulted the opinions of their betters on this occasion. Unable at other times, or in any other way, to bring themselves into importance, they were glad of the opportunity to do so with their tongues, and, like their civilised types, they assumed an air of mock modesty.

"Oh!" cried one of these, in reply to Flatnose, "we is littil infants; we is still holdin' on to de boosums ob our moders; we not able to walk alone; we knows notin' at all; but on dis point, we knows that you old men speak like de ignorint peepil. We nebber hear such nonsense --  nebber!"

No notice was taken of this, but Frizzyhead, whose passion was rising to white heat in consequence of the glibness of his opponent's tongue, cried out -- "'Oo cannot prove wat 'ou says?"

"Oh yes, can prove it well 'nuff," replied Flatnose, "but 'oos no' got brain for onerstand."

This last was too much for poor Frizzyhead, who leaped up, stuttered, and cried -- "Can 'oo outrun me, then?"

"Ye -- ye -- yes!" gasped Flatnose, springing up.

Away they went like two hunted springboks, and ran for a mile, then turned and came back into camp streaming with perspiration, little Frizzyhead far ahead of the big man, and rejoicing in the fact that he could beat his opponent in a race, if not in an argument. Thus was peace restored. Pity that civilised arguments cannot be terminated in the same way!

While these discussions were going on, Disco observed that hyenas were occasionally to be seen prowling near the verge of the bushes around them, as if anxious to join in the feast, which no doubt was the case.

"Don't they do mischief sometimes?" he inquired of Antonio.

"No; him a cowardly beast. Him come at mans when sleepin' or dyin', but not at oder time. 'Oo like see me catch um?"

"Why, yes, if 'ee can do it," answered Disco, with a slight look of contempt at his friend, who bore too much resemblance in some points to the hyena.

"Come here, den."

They went together into the jungle a little distance, and halted under the branch of a large tree. To this Antonio suspended a lump of raw flesh, at such a height from the ground that a hyena could only reach it by leaping. Directly underneath it he planted a short spear in the earth with its point upward.

"Now, come back to fire," he said to Disco; "'ou soon hear sometin'."

Antonio was right. In a short time afterwards a sharp yell was heard, and, on running to the trap, they found a hyena in its death-agonies. It had leaped at the meat, missed it, and had come down on the spear and impaled itself.

"Well, of all the fellers I ever know'd for dodges," said Disco, on reseating himself at the fire, "the men in these latitudes are the cleverest."

By this time dancing was going on furiously; therefore, as it would have been impossible to sleep, Disco refilled his pipe and amused himself by contemplating the intelligent countenance of Kambira, who sat smoking bang out of a huge native meerschaum on the other side of the fire.

"I wonder," said Harold, who lay stretched on a sleeping-mat, leaning on his right arm and gazing contemplatively at the glowing heart of the fire; "I wonder what has become of Yoosoof?"

"Was 'ee thinkin' that he deserved to be shoved in there?" asked Disco, pointing to the fire.

"Not exactly," replied Harold, laughing; "but I have frequently thought of the scoundrel, and wondered where he is and what doing now. I have sometimes thought too, about that girl Azinte, poor thing. She -- "

He paused abruptly and gazed at Kambira with great surprise, not unmixed with alarm, for the chief had suddenly dropped his pipe and glared at him in a manner that cannot be described. Disco observed the change also, and was about to speak, when Kambira sprang over the fire and seized Harold by the arm.

There was something in the movement, however, which forbade the idea of an attack, therefore he lay still.

"What now, Kambira?" he said.

"Antonio," cried the chief, in a voice that brought the interpreter to his side in a twinkling; "what name did the white man speak just now?"

"Azinte," said Harold, rising to a sitting posture.

Kambira sat down, drew up his knees to his chin, and clasped his hands round them.

"Tell me all you know about Azinte," he said in a low, firm voice.

It was evident that the chief was endeavouring to restrain some powerful feeling, for his face, black though it was, indicated a distinct degree of pallor, and his lips were firmly compressed together. Harold therefore, much surprised as well as interested, related the little he knew about the poor girl, -- his meeting with her in Yoosoof's hut; Disco's kindness to her, and her subsequent departure with the Arab.

Kambira sat motionless until he had finished.

"Do you know where she is gone?" he inquired.

"No. I know not; but she was not in the boat with the other slaves when we sailed, from which I think it likely that she remained upon the coast. -- But why do you ask, Kambira, why are you so anxious about her?"

"She is my wife," muttered the chief between his teeth; and, as he said so, a frown that was absolutely diabolical settled down on his features.

For some minutes there was a dead silence, for both Harold and Disco felt intuitively that to offer consolation or hope were out of the question.

Presently Kambira raised his head, and a smile chased the frown away as he said -- "You have been kind to Azinte, will you be kind to her husband?"

"We should be indeed unworthy the name of Englishmen if we said no to that," replied Harold, glancing at Disco, who nodded approval.

"Good. Will you take me with you to the shores of the great salt lake?" said Kambira, in a low, pathetic tone, "will you make me your servant, your slave?"

"Most gladly will I take you with me as a friend," returned Harold. "I need not ask why you wish to go," he added, -- "you go to seek Azinte?"

"Yes," cried the chief, springing up wildly and drawing himself up to his full height, "I go to seek Azinte. Ho! up men! up! Ye have feasted enough and slept enough for one night. Who knows but the slavers may be at our huts while we lie idly here? Up! Let us go!"

The ringing tones acted like a magic spell. Savage camps are soon pitched and sooner raised. In a few minutes the obedient hunters had bundled up all their possessions, and in less than a quarter of an hour the whole band was tracking its way by moonlight through the pathless jungle.

The pace at which they travelled home was much more rapid than that at which they had set out on their expedition. Somehow, the vigorous tones in which Kambira had given command to break up the camp, coupled with his words, roused the idea that he must have received information of danger threatening the village, and some of the more anxious husbands and fathers, unable to restrain themselves, left the party altogether and ran back the whole way. To their great relief, however, they found on arriving that all was quiet. The women were singing and at work in the fields, the children shouting at play, and the men at their wonted occupation of weaving cotton cloth, or making nets and bows, under the banyan-trees.

Perplexity is not a pleasant condition of existence, nevertheless, to perplexity mankind is more or less doomed in every period of life and in every mundane scene -- particularly in the jungles of central Africa, as Harold and his friends found out many a time to their cost.

On arriving at the native village, the chief point that perplexed our hero there was as to whether he should return to the coast at once, or push on further into the interior. On the one hand he wished very much to see more of the land and its inhabitants; on the other hand, Kambira was painfully anxious to proceed at once to the coast in search, of his lost wife, and pressed him to set off without delay.

The chief was rather an exception in regard to his feelings on this point. Most other African potentates had several wives, and in the event of losing one of them might have found consolation in the others. But Kambira had never apparently thought of taking another wife after the loss of Azinte, and the only comfort he had was in his little boy, who bore a strong resemblance, in some points, to the mother.

But although Harold felt strong sympathy with the man, and would have gone a long way out of his course to aid him, he could not avoid perceiving that the case was almost, if not altogether, a hopeless one. He had no idea to what part of the coast Azinte had been taken. For all he knew to the contrary, she might have been long ago shipped off to the northern markets, and probably was, even while he talked of her, the inmate of an Arab harem, or at all events a piece of goods -- a "chattel" -- in the absolute possession of an irresponsible master. Besides the improbability of Kambira ever hearing what had become of his wife, or to what part of the earth she had been transported, there was also the difficulty of devising any definite course of action for the chief himself, because the instant he should venture to leave the protection of the Englishmen he would be certain to fall into the hands of Arabs or Portuguese, and become enslaved.

Much of this Harold had not the heart to explain to him. He dwelt, however, pretty strongly on the latter contingency, though without producing much effect. Death, the chief replied, he did not fear, and slavery could easily be exchanged for death.

"Alas! not so easily as you think," said Harold, pointing to Chimbolo, whose sad story he had heard; "they will try every kind of torture before they kill you."

Chimbolo nodded his head, assenting, and ground his teeth together fiercely when this was said.

Still Kambira was unmoved; he did not care what they did to him. Azinte was as life to him, and to search for her he would go in spite of every consideration.

Harold prevailed on him, however, to agree to wait until he should have spent another month in visiting Chimbolo's tribe, after which he promised faithfully to return and take him along with his party to the coast.

Neither Harold nor Disco was quite at ease in his mind after making this arrangement, but they both agreed that no other course could be pursued, the former saying with a sigh that there was no help for it, and the latter asserting with a grunt that the thing "wos unawoidable."

On the following day the journey of exploration was resumed. Kambira accompanied his friends a few miles on the road, and then bade them farewell. On the summit of an elevated ridge the party halted and looked back. Kambira's manly form could be seen leaning on his spear. Behind him the little village lay embosomed in luxuriant verdure, and glowing in the bright sunshine, while songs and sounds of industry floated towards them like a sweet melody. It was with a feeling of keen regret that the travellers turned away, after waving their hands in reply to a parting salute from the stalwart chief, and, descending to the plain, pushed forward into the unknown wilderness beyond.



Chapter Fourteen.

Camping, Travelling, Shooting, Dreaming, Poetising, Philosophising, And Surprising, In Equatorial Africa.

At sunset the travellers halted in a peculiarly wild spot and encamped under the shelter of a gigantic baobab tree.

Two rousing fires were quickly kindled, round which the natives busied themselves in preparing supper, while their leaders sat down, the one to write up his journal, the other to smoke his pipe.

"Well, sir," said Disco, after a few puffs delivered with extreme satisfaction, "you do seem for to enjoy writin'. You go at that log of yours every night, as if it wos yer last will and testament that ye couldn't die happy without exikootin' an' signin' it with yer blood."

"A better occupation, isn't it," replied Harold, with a sly glance, "than to make a chimney-pot of my mouth?"

"Come, sir," returned Disco, with a deprecatory smile, "don't be too hard on a poor feller's pipe. If you can't enjoy it, that's no argiment against it."

"How d'you know I can't enjoy it?"

"Why? cos I s'pose you'd take to it if you did."

"Did you enjoy it when you first began?" asked Harold.

"Well, I can't 'zactly say as I did."

"Well, then, if you didn't, that proves that it is not natural to smoke, and why should I acquire an unnatural and useless habit?"

"Useless! why, sir, on'y think of wot you loses by not smokin' -- wot a deal of enjoyment!"

"Well, I am thinking," replied Harold, affecting a look of profound thoughtfulness, "but I can't quite make it out -- enjoyment? let me see. Do I not enjoy as good health as you do?"

"O, cer'nly, sir, cer'nly. You're quite up to the mark in that respect."

"Well then, I enjoy my food as well, and can eat as much, can't I?"

"No doubt of it," replied Disco, with a grin; "I was used to be considered raither a dab at wittles, but I must say I knocks under to you, sir."

"Very good," rejoined Harold, laughing; "then as to sleep, I enjoy sleep quite as soundly as yourself; don't I?"

"I can't say as to that," replied Disco. "You see, sir, as I never opens my eyes arter shuttin' of 'em till the bo's'n pipes all hands ahoy, I've no means of knowin' wot you accomplish in that way."

"On the whole, then, it seems that I enjoy everything as much as you do, and -- "

"No, not everything; you don't enjoy baccy, you know. -- But please, sir, don't go for to moralise; I can't stand it. You'll spile my pipe if ye do!"

"Well, I shall spare you," said Harold, "all the more that I perceive supper is about -- "

At that moment Antonio, who had gone down to a streamlet which trickled close at hand, gave utterance to a hideous yell, and came rushing into camp with a face that was pea-green from terror.

"Ach!" he gasped, "a lion! queek! your guns!" Every one leaped up and seized his weapon with marvellous alacrity on receiving an alarm so violent and unlooked-for.

"Where away?" inquired Disco, blazing with excitement, and ready at a moment's notice to rush into the jungle and fire both barrels at whatever should present itself.

"No, no, don' go," cried Antonio in alarm; "be cautionous."

The interpreter's caution was enforced by Chimbolo, who laid his hand on Disco's arm, and looked at him with such solemnity that he felt it necessary to restrain his ardour.

Meanwhile Antonio with trembling steps led Harold to a point in the thicket whence he beheld two bright phosphoric-looking objects which his companion said were the lion's eyes, adding that lion's eyes always shone in that way.

Harold threw forward his rifle with the intention of taking aim, but lowered it quickly, for he felt convinced that no lion could possibly have eyes so wide apart unless its head were as large as that of an elephant.

"Nonsense, Antonio!" he said, laughing; "that cannot be a lion."

"Ho, yis, him's a lion, for sure," Antonio returned, positively.

"We shall see."

Harold raised his rifle and fired, while Antonio turned and fled, fully expecting the wounded beast to spring. Harold himself half looked for some such act, and shrank behind a bush by way of precaution, but when the smoke cleared away, he saw that the two glowing eyes were gazing at him as fixedly as ever.

"Pooh!" exclaimed Disco, brushing past; "I knows wot it is. Many a time I've seed 'em in the West Injies."

Saying which, he went straight up to the supposed lion, picked up a couple of glow-worms, and brought them to the camp-fires, much to the amusement of the men, especially of Jumbo, and greatly to the confusion of the valorous interpreter, who, according to his invariable custom when danger threatened, was found to have sought refuge in a tree.

This incident furnished ground for much discussion and merriment during supper, in which Antonio, being in no wise ashamed of himself, joined noisily; and Chimbolo took occasion to reprove Disco for his rashness, telling him that it was impossible to kill lions in the jungle during the darkness of night, and that, if they did pay them a visit, it would be wise to let them be, and trust to the camp-fires keeping them at a respectful distance. To which Disco retorted that he didn't believe there was any lions in Afriky, for he'd heard a deal about 'em an' travelled far, but had not yet heard the sound of their woices, an', wot was more, didn't expect to.

Before that night was far advanced, Disco was constrained to acknowledge himself in error, for a veritable lion did actually prowl down to the camp, and salute them with a roar which had a wonderfully awe-inspiring effect on every member of the party, especially on those who heard it for the first time in their lives.

Just before the arrival of this nocturnal visitor, one of the men had been engaged in some poetic effusions, which claim preliminary notice here, because they were rudely terminated by the lion.

This man was one of Kambira's people, and had joined the party by permission. He was one of those beings who, gifted with something like genius, or with superior powers of some sort, have sprung up in Africa, as elsewhere, no doubt from time immemorial, to dazzle their fellows for a little, and then pass away, leaving a trail of tradition behind them. The existence there, in time past, of men of mind far in advance of their fellows, as well as of heroes whose physical powers were marvellous, may be assumed from the fact that some such exist at the present time, as well as from tradition. Some of these heroes have excited the admiration of large districts by their wisdom, others by their courage or their superior dexterity with the spear and bow, like William Tell and Robin Hood, but the memory of these must soon have been obliterated for want of literature. The man who had joined Harold was a poet and a musician. He was an improvvisatore, composed verses on the incidents that occurred as they travelled along, and sang them with an accompaniment on an instrument called the sansa, which had nine iron keys and a calabash for a sounding-board.

The poet's name was Mokompa. With the free and easy disposition of his race, he allowed his fancy to play round the facts of which he sang, and was never at a loss, for, if the right word did not come readily, he spun out the measure with musical sounds which meant nothing at all.

After supper was over, or rather when the first interval of repose occurred, Mokompa, who was an obliging and hearty little fellow, was called on for a song. Nothing loath, he seized his sansa and began a ditty, of which the following, given by Antonio, may be regarded as a remarkably free, not to say easy, translation: -- 

Mokompa's Song.

Kambira goes to hunt, Yo ho! Him's spear am nebber blunt, Yo ho! Him kill de buff'lo quick, An' lub de porridge thick; Him chase de lion too, An' stick um troo an' troo. De 'potimus as well, An' more dan me can tell, Hab down before um fell, Yo ho! De English come to see, Yo ho! Dat werry good for we, Yo ho! No' take us 'way for slaves, Nor put us in our graves, But set de black mans free, W'en cotch um on de sea. Dem splendid shooters, too, We knows what dey can do Wid boil an' roast an' stew, Yo ho! One makes um's gun go crack, Yo ho! An elephant on um's back, Yo ho! De drefful lion roar, De gun goes crack once more, De bullet fly an' splits One monkey into bits, Yo ho! De glow-worm next arise, De Englishman likewise Wid werry much surprise, An' hit um 'tween de eyes, "Hooray! hooray!" um cries, An' run to fetch um's prize --  Yo ho!

The last "Yo ho!" was given with tremendous energy, and followed by peals of laughter.

It was at this point that the veritable lion thought proper to join in, which he did, as we have said, with a roar so tremendous that it not only put a sudden stop to the music, but filled the party with so much alarm that they sprang to their arms with surprising agility.

Mindful of Chimbolo's previous warning, neither Harold nor Disco sought to advance, but both looked at their savage friend for advice.

Now, in some parts of Africa there exists a popular belief that the souls of departed chiefs enter into lions and render them sacred, and several members of Harold Seadrift's party entertained this notion. Chimbolo was one of these. From the sounds of growling and rending which issued from the thicket, he knew that the lion in question was devouring part of their buffalo-meat which had been hung on the branch of a neighbouring tree, not, however, near enough to the fires to be visible. Believing that the beast was a chief in disguise, Chimbolo advanced a little towards the place where he was, and, much to our traveller's amusement, gave him a good scolding.

"You call yourself a chief, do you -- eh?" he said sternly. "What kind of a chief can you be, to come sneaking about in the dark like this, trying to steal our buffalo-meat! Are you not ashamed of yourself? A pretty chief, truly; you are like the scavenger-beetle, and think of yourself only; you have not the heart of a chief. Why don't you kill your own beef? You must have a stone in your chest, and no heart at all."

"That's werry flowery lingo, but it don't seem to convince him," said Disco, with a quiet smile, as the lion, which had been growling continuously over its meal all the time, wound up Chimbolo's speech with another terrific roar.

At this point another believer in transmigration of souls, a quiet man who seldom volunteered remarks on any subject, stepped forward and began seriously to expostulate with the lion.

"It is very wrong of you," he said, "to treat strangers in this fashion. You might have more respect for Englishmen who have come to see your land, and never did you any harm. We are travelling peaceably through the country; we never kill anybody, and never steal anything; the buffalo-meat is ours, not yours, and it ill becomes a great chief like you to be prowling about in the dark, like a hyena, trying to steal the meat of strangers. Surely you can hunt for yourself -- there is plenty of meat in the forest."

As the lion was equally deaf to this man's reasoning, Harold thought it right to try a more persuasive plan. He drew up in a line all the men who had guns, and at a word of command they fired a volley of balls into the jungle, in the direction whence the sounds issued. A dead silence followed, but it was deemed advisable not to venture in to see the effect, as men had frequently lost their lives by so doing. A watch, however, was kept during the night, and the fires were well replenished, for they knew that the king of the forest usually shrinks from doing his evil deeds in the light of a strong camp-fire. We say usually -- because they are not always thus shy. Authentic instances are on record of lions having leaped into the centre of a bivouac, and carried off one of the men in spite of being smitten in the face with flaming firebrands. Fortunately the lion of which we write thought "discretion the better part of valour." He retired peaceably, nevertheless Disco and his friend continued to dream of him all night so vividly that they started up several times, and seized their rifles, under the impression that he had roared his loudest into their very ears, and after each of these occasions they crept back into their sleeping bags to re-dream of the lion!

The "bag" which formed each man's couch was made simply of two mats sewed together, and left open, not at one of the ends but at one of the sides, so that a man could roll out of or into it more easily than he could have slid, feet first, into a sack. It was large enough also for two to sleep inside together, always supposing that the two were of accommodating dispositions!

That they had now reached a land which swarmed with wild animals was intimated to some extent by the running past, within fifty yards of their bivouac, of a troop of elephants. It was daybreak at the time, so that, having been thus rudely aroused, they did not deem it necessary to return to rest but after taking a hasty mouthful of food, set forth on their journey.

The usual mode of proceeding on the march was as follows: -- They rose about five o'clock, or soon after the appearance of dawn, and swallowed a cup of tea, with a bit of biscuit, then some of the men folded up the blankets and stowed them away in the bags, others tied up the cooking utensils, etcetera, in bundles, and hung them at the ends of carrying-sticks, which they bore upon their shoulders. The process did not take long. They were soon on the march, either in single file, if the path were narrow, or in groups, according to fancy, where the ground admitted of their spreading out. About nine, a convenient spot was chosen for a halt to breakfast, which meat, although not "eaten the night before in order to save time in the morning," was at all events cooked on the previous evening for the same end, so that it only needed warming up. Then the march was resumed; a short rest was allowed in the heat of the day, when, of course, Disco had a pipe and much sagacious intercourse with his fellows, and they finally encamped for the remainder of the day and night early in the afternoon. Thus they travelled five or six hours at a stretch, and averaged from twelve to fifteen miles a day, which is about as much as Europeans can stand in a hot climate without being oppressed. This Disco called "taking it easy," and so it was when compared with the custom of some travellers, whose chief end would appear to be the getting over as much ground as possible in a given time, in order that they may afterwards boast of the same, and for the accomplishment of which they are obliged to abuse and look ferocious at the blacks, cock their pistols, and flourish their whips, in a manner which is only worthy of being styled contemptible and cowardly. We need not say that our friends Harold and Disco had no such propensities. They had kindly consideration for the feelings of their "niggers," coupled with great firmness; became very sociable with them, and thus got hearty, willing work out of them. But to return from this digression.

During the day, the number of animals of all sorts that were seen was so great as to induce Disco to protest, with a slap of his thigh, that the whole land, from stem to stern, seemed to him to be one prodigious zoological garden -- it did, an' no mistake about it.

Disco was not far wrong. He and Harold having started ahead of the party, with Chimbolo as their guide, came on a wonderful variety of creatures in rapid succession. First, they fell in with some large flocks of guinea-fowl, and shot a few for dinner. As they advanced, various birds ran across their path, and clouds of turtle-doves filled the air with the blatter of their wings as they rose above the trees. Ducks, geese, and francolins helped to swell the chorus of sounds.

When the sun rose and sent a flood of light over a wide and richly wooded vale, into which they were about to descend, a herd of pallahs stood gazing at the travellers in stupid surprise, and allowed them to approach within sixty yards before trotting leisurely away. These and all other animals were passed unmolested, as the party had sufficient meat at the time, and Harold made it a point not to permit his followers to shoot animals for the mere sake of sport, though several of them were uncommonly anxious to do so. Soon afterwards a herd of waterbucks were passed, and then a herd of koodoos, with two or three magnificently-horned bucks amongst them, which hurried off to the hillsides on seeing the travellers. Antelopes also were seen, and buffaloes, grazing beside their path.

Ere long they came upon a small pond with a couple of elephants standing on its brink, cooling their huge sides by drawing water into their trunks and throwing it all over themselves. Behind these were several herds of zebras and waterbucks, all of which took to flight on "getting the wind" of man. They seemed intuitively to know that he was an enemy. Wild pigs, also, were common, and troops of monkeys, large and small, barked, chattered, grinned, and made faces among the trees.

After pitching the camp each afternoon, and having had a mouthful of biscuit, the two Englishmen were in the habit of going off to hunt for the daily supply of fresh meat accompanied by Chimbolo as their guide and game-carrier, Antonio as their interpreter, and Mokompa as their poet and jester. They did not indeed, appoint Mokompa to that post of honour, but the little worthy took it upon himself, for the express purpose of noting the deeds of the white men, in order to throw his black comrades into convulsions over supper by a poetic recital of the same.

"It pleases them, an' it don't hurt us," was Disco's observation on this head.

On the afternoon, then, of which we write, the party of four went out to hunt, while the encampment was being prepared under the superintendence of Jumbo, who had already proved himself to be an able manager and cook, as also had his countrymen Masiko and Zombo.

"What a rich country!" exclaimed Harold, looking round in admiration from the top of a small hillock on as fine a scene as one could wish to behold, "and what a splendid cotton country it might be if properly cultivated!"

"So it is," said Disco, "an' I shouldn't wonder if there wos lots of gold too, if we only knew where to look for it."

"Gold!" exclaimed Antonio, who sat winking placidly on the stump of a fallen tree; "dere be lots ob gold near Zambesi -- an' oder ting too."

"Let's hear wot are some of the other things," said Disco.

"What are dere? -- oh, let me see: der be coal, lots ob coal on Zambesi, any amount ob it, an' it burn fuss-rate, too. Dere be iron-ore, very much, an' indigo, an' sugar-cane, an ivory; you hab hear an' see yooself about de elephants an' de cottin, an' tobacco. Oh! great plenty ob eberyting eberywhere in dis yere country, but," said Antonio, with a shrug of his shoulders, "no can make noting out ob it on account ob de slave-trade."

"Then I 'spose 'ee don't approve of the slave-trade?" said Disco.

"No, dat am true," replied Antonio; "de country very good for slave-trader, but no good for man like me what want to trade proper."

"H'm! I've more respect for 'ee than I had," said Disco. "I 'spose you've bin up in these parts before now, have 'ee?"

"No, nevah, but I hab sister what marry one nigger, one slave, what sold himself, an' him tell me much 'bout it. Hims bin up here many time."

"Sold himself!" repeated Harold in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Mean dat," returned Antonio. "Him was a black free-man -- call him Chibanti; him was all alone in de world, lose fader, moder, broder, sister, wife, eberyting by slave-trader, who steal dem all away or murder dem. So Chibanti him say, 'What de use of be free?' So him go to one master, who berry good to hims niggers -- gib dem plenty to eat an' little to do -- an' sole hisself to him."

"An' wot did he get for himself?" asked Disco.

"Got ninety yard ob cottin cloth."

"Did he consider himself cheap or dear at that?" inquired Disco.

"Oh, dear -- awful dear!"

"What has come of him now?" asked Harold.

"Dunno," answered Antonio. "After him got de cloth, hims master send him to Quillimane wid cargo ob ivory, an' gib him leave to do leetil trade on hims own account; so him bought a man, a woman, an' a boy, for sixty yard ob cottin, an' wid de rest hired slaves for de voyage down, an' drove a mos' won'erful trade. But long time since me hear ob him. P'raps hims good master be dead, an' him go wid de rest of de goods an' chattels to a bad master, who berry soon make him sorry him sole hisself."

Pushing forward for several days in the manner which we have attempted to describe, our travellers passed through many varied scenes, which, however, all bore one mark in common, namely, teeming animal and vegetable life. Human beings were also found to be exceedingly numerous, but not so universally distributed as the others, for, although many villages and hamlets were passed, the inhabitants of which were all peacefully inclined and busy in their fields, or with their native cotton, iron, and pottery manufactures, vast expanses of rich ground were also traversed, which, as far as man was concerned, appeared to be absolute solitudes.

Entering upon one of these about noon of a remarkably fine day, Harold could not help remarking on the strange stillness which pervaded the air. No sound was heard from beast, bird, or insect; no village was near, no rippling stream murmured, or zephyr stirred the leaves; in short, it was a scene which, from its solitude and profound silence, became oppressive.

"W'y, sir," said Disco, whose face was bathed in perspiration, "it do seem to me as if we'd got to the fag-end of the world altogether. There ain't nothin' nowhere."

Harold laughed, and said it looked like it. But Disco was wrong. It was only the hour when animals seem to find a siesta indispensable, and vegetables as well as air had followed their example. A few minutes sufficed to prove their mistake, for, on entering a piece of woodland, a herd of pallahs, and another of water-bucks, appeared, standing as quiet and still as if they were part of a painted landscape. Then, in passing a thick clump of thorns, they could see, through openings in the bushes, the dim phantom-like forms of buffaloes, with heads lowered and eyes glaring at them, ready to charge, if need be, though too lazy from heat, apparently, to begin the 'fray, and willing to act on the principle of "let be for let be." Still farther on, a native was observed keeping at a respectful distance. He had seen the travellers from afar, and come with noiseless tread to get a nearer view.

Halting to rest the party for a few minutes in a shady hollow, Harold threw himself at full length on the grass, but Disco, who, strange to say, did not feel inclined to smoke at the moment -- probably because he had only just finished his fifth pipe a few minutes previously --  sauntered on alone to the top of the next ridge.

He had barely reached the summit when Harold, who chanced to be looking after him, observed that he crouched suddenly behind a bush, and, after gazing steadfastly for a few seconds over the hill, turned and ran back, making excessively wild demonstrations with head and arms, but uttering no sound.

Of course the whole party sprang up and ran towards the excited mariner, and soon were near enough to understand that his violent actions were meant to caution them to make no noise.

"Hush!" he said eagerly, on coming near enough to be heard; "keep quiet as mice. There's a slave-gang, or somethin' uncommon like it, goin' along on right athwart us."

Without a word of reply, the whole party hurried forward and gained a point of observation behind the low bushes which crowned the ridge.



Chapter Fifteen.

Shows Some Of The Effects Of The Slave-Trade At The Fountain-Head.

Down in a gorge, just below the spot where Harold Seadrift and his men lay concealed, a strange sight met the eyes of the two Englishmen, in regard to which, despite all that they had heard and seen, and were prepared to see, they were as much shocked as if it had never been presented even to their imaginations up to that moment.

It was a gang of slaves winding its way slowly but steadily through the gorge.

The head of the dusky procession was just emerging on the open ground beyond the gorge when the travellers first came upon it. The slaves advanced towards the spot where they lay, passing under it so closely that they could see the very expressions on the faces of the men, women, and children who composed the gang. These expressions were varied and very terrible. Our travellers had now reached the fountain-head whence the perennial stream of "Black Ivory" flows out of Africa. The process of manufacture, although considerably advanced, had not yet reached that perfection of callous subjection and settled despair which had struck our Englishmen so forcibly in the slave-market of Zanzibar. There was anxiety not unmingled with faint hope in the faces of some of the women; and a few of the more stalwart and courageous among the men wore a fierce, determined aspect which told of manhood not yet absolutely prostrated in the dust of abject servility, while, in regard to some of the children, surprise at the peculiar circumstances of their surroundings had not yet been swallowed up in a condition of chronic terror.

They marched in a long line, fastened to each other by chains and ropes and heavy "gorees" or slave-sticks. The latter implements were poles from six to seven feet long, with a fork at the end of each, in which the necks of the men were fitted and secured by means of an iron bolt, passing across the throat and riveted at both ends. To render marching possible with such encumbrances, the men went in couples, one behind the other, so that the slave-stick of the leading man could be tied to the stick of his fellow behind, which was slewed round to the front for the purpose. Their wrists were also tied, some in front, others behind their backs. Secured thus, Hercules himself might have been reduced to obedience, especially if he had felt the frequent sting of the cruel lash that was laid on these captives, a lash whose power was made manifest by the numerous seams and scars which crossed and recrossed their backs and limbs. The women and children were deemed sufficiently secure by being fastened to each other with ropes and iron rings round their necks. All were naked, with the exception of a little piece of cloth round the loins, and some of the women had infants of a few weeks old strapped to their backs by means of this shred of cloth, while others carried baskets on their heads containing meal for the sustenance of the party during their journey.

In advance of the line marched a tall, powerfully-built half-caste, armed with a musket and small axe, and clad in a loose coat, short drawers reaching the knees, and straw hat. He was obviously the commander of the band. Behind him came several negroes, also armed with muskets, and with thick wands for the purpose of flagellation. These wore loin-cloths and turbans or red caps, but nothing more. They laughed, talked and strutted as they went along, forming a marked contrast to the silent and depressed slaves.

At intervals along the line, and in rear, there were stationed one or two of these drivers, who urged on their "cattle" with more or less cruelty, according to their individual impulses or natures.

We need scarcely say that this sight filled Harold and Disco not only with feelings of horror and pity, but with sensations of towering indignation that almost suffocated them. Those who only read of such things at home can form but a faint conception of what it is actually to behold them.

"We must fight!" muttered Harold between his teeth.

Disco could not speak, but he looked at his companion, and gave a nod that plainly indicated the state of his feelings.

"'Sh!" hissed Chimbolo, creeping up at that moment and laying his hand, which trembled violently, on Harold's shoulder, "Marizano!"

"What! the scoundrel in advance?"

Chimbolo pointed to the leader of the slave-gang, and almost foamed at the mouth with suppressed rage.

At that moment their attention was attracted to a woman who walked immediately behind the slavers. She was a young and, according to African ideas, a comely girl, but was apparently very weak -- so weak that she panted and stumbled as she went along, a circumstance which was accounted for by the little infant tied to her back, which could not have been more than a couple of weeks old. Stumbling against the fallen branch of a tree, she fell at last with a low wail to the ground, and made no effort, as on previous occasions, to recover herself.

The whole gang stopped, and Marizano, turning back, pushed the woman with his foot.

A fine-looking young man, who was the leader in a couple secured by a slave-stick, seemed to regard this woman with a degree of interest that argued near relationship. He started forward half involuntarily when the Portuguese half-caste kicked her. He had forgotten for an instant his fellow in rear, as well as the bar of the goree across his throat, which checked him violently; at the same time one of the drivers, who had observed the movement, laid a supple wand across his bare back so sharply as to draw forth a terrific yell of agony.

This was too much for Disco Lillihammer. Unable to restrain himself, he leaped up, seized his rifle by the muzzle with both hands, and, swinging it round his head, rushed upon Marizano with a bursting shout of rage and defiance.

It is probable that the half-caste leader, who was by no means destitute of courage, would have stood his ground had his assailant been a man of colour, but this unexpected apparition of a white man with a fiery countenance and blue eyes that absolutely flashed as he rushed forward with irresistible fury, was too much for him. Firing hastily, and with bad aim, Marizano turned and fled into the woods, followed by all his men. There was however a large band of Ajawa savages in rear, armed with bows and poisoned arrows. When he encountered these the Portuguese chief halted, and, rallying his men, took shelter behind trees and began to fire at the advancing enemy.

Seeing this, Harold drew his men together and made them fire a united volley, which had the effect of utterly routing the slavers. Disco meanwhile, finding that he could not overtake Marizano, at last did what he ought to have done at first -- kneeled down, took deliberate aim at him, and fired. His agitation prevented accuracy of aim; nevertheless he succeeded in sending a bullet through the fleshy part of the man's arm, above the elbow, which effectually put him to flight.

Returning to the slaves, who had been left standing where they were first stopped, in a state of great surprise and perplexity, he assisted his companions in freeing them. This was easy enough in regard to the women and children, but the gorees on the men were very difficult to remove. Being riveted, as we have said, it became necessary to split the forks with hatchets, an operation which endangered the heads of the poor captives and hurt their galled necks considerably. It was accomplished however in the midst of a deal of excitement and hurried conversation, while Jumbo and his comrades kindled fires, and Harold bade the women cook the meal -- which they had hitherto carried -- for themselves and their children. They seemed to consider this too good news to be true, but on being encouraged, began with alacrity.

"Don't be afeared, lass," cried Disco, patting a young woman on the head, "eat as much as 'ee like. You need it, poor thing, an' stuff the childer till they can't hold no more. Bu'st 'em if 'ee can. The slavers won't come back here in a hurry. Ha! I only wish they would, an' let us have a brush with 'em. But there's no such luck. Cowards never fight 'xcept w'en they're sure to win. -- Now, piccaninny, here you are," he said, stuffing some raw mapira meal into the open mouth of a thin little girl of about six or seven, who was gazing at him in open-eyed surprise; "don't put off time, you're half-starved already!"

The little black skeleton began to chew the dry meal with evident satisfaction, but without taking her eyes off her deliverer.

"Who are you?" asked a somewhat older girl of Harold, whom she regarded with looks of reverence and wonder.

Of course Harold did not understand her, but he immediately called Antonio, who translated.

"Who are you?" she said; "the other people tied and starved us, but you cut the ropes and tell us to eat; what sort of people are you? Where did you come from?"

To this Harold replied briefly that he was an Englishman, who hated slavers and slavery, but he said nothing more at that time, as he intended to have a palaver and explanation with the freed captives after their meal was over.

There was a great clapping of hands among the slaves, expressive of gratitude, on hearing that they were free.

About a hundred sat down to that meal, most of whom were women and children, and the manner in which they devoured the food set before them, told eloquently of their previous sufferings. At first they timidly held back, scarce venturing to believe that their new captors, as they thought them, were in earnest. But when their doubts and fears were removed, they attacked the mapira porridge like ravening wolves. Gradually the human element began to reappear, in the shape of a comment or a smile, and before long the women were chatting together, and a few of the stronger among the young children were making feeble attempts to play.

When the oldest man of the party, who appeared to be between twenty and thirty, was brought forward and questioned, he gave some interesting and startling information.

"Tell him," said Harold to Antonio, "that we are Englishmen; that we belong to the same nation as the great white man Dr Livingstone, who travelled through this land some years ago -- the nation which hates slavery because the Great God hates it, and would have all men to be free, to serve each other in love, and to do to other people as they would have other people do to them. Ask him, also, where he comes from, and who captured him and his companions."

To this the negro replied -- "What the white man says may be true, but the white men seem to tell lies too much. The men who killed our warriors, burned our villages, and took our women and children away, came to us saying that they were friends; that they were the servants of the same people as the white man Livingstone, and wanted to trade with us. When we believed and trusted them, and were off our guard, they fired on us with their guns. We know not what to think or to believe."

Harold was much perplexed by this reply, for he knew not what evidence to cite in proof that he, at least was not a deceiver.

"Tell him," he said at length, "that there are false white men as well as true, and that the best proof I can give him that I am one of the true is, to set him and his friends at liberty. They are now as free to go where they please as we are."

On receiving this assurance the negro retired to consult with his friends. Meanwhile Antonio, who seemed to have been touched by the unvarying kindness with which he had been treated by his employers, opened his mind to them, and gave them a good deal of information, of which the substance is as follows: -- 

At that time the merchants of the Portuguese inland town of Tette, on the Zambesi, were carrying on the slave-trade with unusual vigour, for this reason, that they found it difficult to obtain ivory except in exchange for slaves. In former years they had carried on a trade in ivory with a tribe called the Banyai, these Banyai being great elephant-hunters, but it happened that they went to war with another tribe named the Matabele, who had managed to steal from them all their women and children. Consequently, the forlorn Banyai said to the Tette merchants, when they went to trade with them as they had been accustomed to do, "We do not want your merchandise. Bring us women and children, and you shall have as much ivory as you wish."

These good people of Tette -- being chiefly half-caste Portuguese, and under Portuguese government, and claiming, as they do, to be the possessors of that region of Africa -- are so utterly incapable of holding their own, that they are under the necessity of paying tribute to a tribe of savages who come down annually to Tette to receive it, and who, but for that tribute, would, as they easily could, expel them from the land. These merchants of Tette, moreover, in common with all the Portuguese in Africa, are by the laws of Portugal prohibited from engaging in the export slave-trade. They are not, however, forbidden to engage temporarily in the "domestic slave-trade," hence they had sent out slaving parties -- in other words, robbers, kidnappers, murderers -- who hired the warlike Ajawa tribe to aid them in killing the Manganja men, and robbing them of their wives and little ones, by which means they were enabled to supply the demand for such "cattle" among the Banyai, and thus obtained the desired supply of ivory! So vigorously had this slave traffic been carried on, at the time of which we write, that no fewer than two hundred people -- mostly women and children -- were carried out of the hill-country every week.

In a short time the negro returned to the place where Harold and Disco were seated, and said that he believed his white deliverers were true men, but added that he and his people had no home to go to; their village having been burnt, and all the old people and warriors killed or dispersed by Marizano, who was a terribly cruel man. In proof of this assertion he said that only the day before, Marizano had shot two of the women for attempting to untie their thongs; a man had been killed with an axe because he had broken-down with fatigue; and a woman had her infant's brains dashed out because she was unable to carry it, as well as the load assigned to her.

"It is difficult to decide what one should do in these circumstances," said Harold to Disco. "You know it would never do to leave these helpless people here to starve; but if we take them on with us our progress will be uncommonly slow."

"We'd better take 'em back," said Disco.

"Back! Where to?"

"W'y, to the last village wot we passed through. It ain't more than a day's march, an' I'm sure the old feller as is capting of it would take care o' the lot."

"There is good advice in that, yet I grudge to go back," said Harold; "if there were a village the same distance in advance, I would rather take them on."

"But there ain't," returned Disco. "Hallo! I say, wot's wrong with Tony?"

The interpreter came forward with a look of much excitement as he spoke.

"What now, Antonio?"

"Oh! it's drefful," replied the interpreter. "Dey tells me have hear Marizano speak ob anoder slaving party what go straight to Kambira's village for attack it."

"Who told you that? Are they sure?" asked Harold hastily.

"Two, t'ree mans tole me," replied Antonio. "All say same ting. Too late to help him now, me's 'fraid."

"Never say too late," cried Disco, starting up; "never say die while there's a shot in the locker. It may be time enough yet if we only look sharp. I votes that we leave nearly all the provisions we have with these poor critters here; up anchor, 'bout ship, clap on all sail, and away this werry minit."

Harold agreed with this advice heartily, and at once acted on it. The arrangements were quickly made, the provisions distributed, an explanation made, and in less than an hour the travellers were retracing their steps in hot haste.

By taking a straight line and making forced marches, they arrived in sight of the ridge where they had last seen Kambira, on the evening of the third day. As they drew near Harold pushed impatiently forward, and, outrunning his companions, was first to reach the summit. Disco's heart sank within him, for he observed that his companion stood still, bowed his head, and covered his face with both hands. He soon joined him, and a groan burst from the seaman's breast when he saw dense volumes of smoke rising above the spot where the village had so recently lain a picture of peaceful beauty.

Even their followers, accustomed though they were, to scenes and deeds of violence and cruelty, could not witness the grief of the Englishmen unmoved.

"P'raps," said Disco, in a husky voice, "there's some of 'em left alive, hidin' in the bushes."

"It may be so," replied Harold, as he descended the slope with rapid strides. "God help them!"

A few minutes sufficed to bring them to the scene of ruin, but the devastation caused by the fire was so great that they had difficulty in recognising the different spots where the huts had stood. Kambira's hut was, however, easily found, as it stood on a rising ground. There the fight with the slavers had evidently been fiercest, for around it lay the charred and mutilated remains of many human bodies. Some of these were so far distinguishable that it could be told whether they belonged to man, woman, or child.

"Look here!" said Disco, in a deep, stern voice, as he pointed to an object on the ground not far from the hut.

It was the form of a woman who had been savagely mangled by her murderers. The upturned and distorted face proved it to be Yohama, the grandmother of little Obo. Near to her lay the body of a grey-haired negro, who might to judge from his position, have fallen in attempting to defend her.

"Oh! if the people of England only saw this sight!" said Harold, in a low tone; "if they only believed in and realised this fact, there would be one universal and indignant shout of 'No toleration of slavery anywhere throughout the world!'"

"Look closely for Kambira or his son," he added, turning to his men.

A careful search among the sickening remains was accordingly made, but without any discovery worth noting being made, after which they searched the surrounding thickets. Here sad evidence of the poor fugitives having been closely pursued was found in the dead bodies of many of the old men and women, and of the very young children and infants; also the bodies of a few of the warriors. All these had been speared, chiefly through the back. Still they were unsuccessful in finding the bodies of the chief or his little boy.

"It's plain," said Disco, "that they have either escaped or been took prisoners."

"Here is some one not quite dead," said Harold, -- "Ah! poor fellow!"

He raised the unfortunate man's head on his knee, and recognised the features of the little man who had entertained them with his tunes on the native violin.

It was in vain that Antonio tried to gain his attention while Disco moistened his lips with water. He had been pierced in the chest with an arrow. Once only he opened his eyes, and a faint smile played on his lips, as if he recognised friends, but it faded quickly and left the poor musician a corpse.

Leaving, with heavy hearts, the spot where they had spent such pleasant days and nights, enjoying the hospitality of Kambira and his tribe, our travellers began to retrace their steps to the place where they had left the rescued slaves, but that night the strong frame of Disco Lillihammer succumbed to the influence of climate. He was suddenly stricken with African fever, and in a few hours became as helpless as a little child.

In this extremity Harold found it necessary to encamp. He selected the highest and healthiest spot in the neighbourhood, caused his followers to build a rude, but comparatively comfortable, hut and set himself diligently to hunt for, and to tend, his sick friend.



Chapter Sixteen.

Treats Of Love, Hatred, And Sorrow, And Proves That Slavery And Its Consequences Are Not Confined To Black Men And Women.

We must now change the scene to the garden of that excellent Governor, Senhor Francisco Alfonso Toledo Bignoso Letotti, and the date to three months in advance of the period in which occurred the events related in the last chapter.

"Maraquita, I am sorry to find that you still persist in encouraging that morbid regret for the loss of one who cannot now be recovered."

Thus spoke the Governor in tones that were unusually petulant for one who idolised his child.

"Father, why did you sell her without saying a word to me about your intention? It was very, very, very unkind -- indeed it was."

Poor Maraquita's eyes were already red and swollen with much weeping, nevertheless she proceeded to increase the redness and the swelling by a renewed burst of passionate distress.

The worthy Governor found it difficult to frame a reply or to administer suitable consolation, for in his heart he knew that he had sold Azinte, as it were surreptitiously, to Marizano for an unusually large sum of money, at a time when his daughter was absent on a visit to a friend. The noted Portuguese kidnapper, murderer, rebel and trader in black ivory, having recovered from his wound, had returned to the town, and, being well aware of Azinte's market value, as a rare and remarkably beautiful piece of ivory of extra-superfine quality, had threatened, as well as tempted, Governor Letotti beyond his powers of resistance. Marizano did not want the girl as his own slave. He wanted dollars, and, therefore, destined her for the markets of Arabia or Persia, where the smooth-tongued and yellow-skinned inhabitants hold that robbery, violence, and cruelty, such as would make the flesh of civilised people creep, although horrible vices in themselves, are nevertheless, quite justifiable when covered by the sanction of that miraculous talisman called a "domestic institution." The British Government had, by treaty, agreed to respect slavery in the dominions of the Sultan of Zanzibar, as a domestic institution with which it would not interfere!

Governor Letotti's heart had smitten him at first for he really was an amiable man, and felt kindly disposed to humanity at large, slaves included. Unfortunately the same kindliness was concentrated with tenfold power on himself, so that when self-interest came into play the amiable man became capable of deeds that Marizano himself might have been proud of. The only difference, in fact, between the two was that the Governor, like the drunkard, often felt ashamed of himself, and sometimes wished that he were a better man, while the man-stealer gloried in his deeds, and had neither wish nor intention to improve.

"Maraquita," said Senhor Letotti, still somewhat petulantly, though with more of remonstrance in his tone, "how can you speak so foolishly? It was out of my power you know, to speak to you when you were absent about what I intended to do. Besides, I was, at the time, very much in need of some ready money, for, although I am rich enough, there are times when most of my capital is what business men called 'locked up,' and therefore not immediately available. In these circumstances, Marizano came to me with a very tempting offer. But there are plenty of good-looking, amiable, affectionate girls in Africa. I can easily buy you another slave quite as good as Azinte."

"As good as Azinte!" echoed Maraquita wildly, starting up and gazing at her father with eyes that flashed through her tears, "Azinte, who has opened her heart to me -- her bursting, bleeding heart -- and told me all her former joys and all her present woes, and who loves me as she loves -- ay, better than she loves -- her own soul, merely because I dropped a few tears of sympathy on her little hand! Another as good as Azinte!" she cried with increasing vehemence; "would you listen with patience to any one who should talk to you of another as good as Maraquita?"

"Nay, but," remonstrated the Governor, "you are now raving; your feelings towards Azinte cannot be compared with my love for you."

"If you loved me as I thought you did, you would not -- you could not --  have thus taken from me my darling little maid. Oh! shame, shame on you, father -- "

She could say no more, but rushed from the room to fling herself down and sob out her feelings in the privacy of her own chamber, where she was sought out by the black cook, who had overheard some of the conversation, and was a sympathetic soul. But that amiable domestic happened to be inopportunely officious; she instantly fled from the chamber, followed by the neatest pair of little slippers imaginable, which hit her on the back of her woolly head, -- for Maraquita, like other spoilt children, had made up her mind not to be comforted.

Meanwhile the Governor paced the floor of his drawing-room with uneasy feelings, which, however, were suddenly put to flight by the report of a gun. Hastening to the window, he saw that the shot had been fired by a war-steamer which was entering the bay.

"Ha! the 'Firefly;' good!" exclaimed the Governor, with a gratified look; "this will put it all right."

He said nothing more, but left the room hastily. It may however be as well to explain that his remark had reference to the mutual affection which he was well aware existed between his daughter and the gallant Lieutenant Lindsay. He had not, indeed, the most remote intention of permitting Maraquita to wed the penniless officer, but he had no objection whatever to their flirting as much as they pleased; and he readily perceived that nothing would be more likely to take the Senhorina's thoughts off her lost maid than the presence of her lover.

There was a bower in a secluded corner of the Governor Letotti's garden, a very charming bower indeed, in which Lieutenant Lindsay had been wont at times when duty to the Queen of England permitted, to hold sweet converse with the "queen of his soul." What that converse was it neither becomes us to say nor the reader to inquire. Perhaps it had reference to astronomy, perchance to domestic economy. At all events it was always eminently satisfactory to both parties engaged, save when the Senhorina indulged in a little touch of waywardness, and sent the poor officer back to his ship with a heavy heart, for the express purpose of teaching him the extent of her power and the value of her favour. She overclouded him now and then, just to make him the more ardently long for sunshine, and to convince him that in the highest sense of the word he was a slave!

To this bower, then, the Senhorina returned with a sad heart and swollen eyes, to indulge in vain regrets. Her sorrows had overwhelmed her to such an extent that she failed to observe the 'Firefly's' salute. It was therefore with a look of genuine surprise and agitation that she suddenly beheld Lieutenant Lindsay, who had availed himself of the first free moment, striding up the little path that led to the bower.

"Maraquita!" he exclaimed, looking in amazement at the countenance of his lady-love, which was what Norsemen style "begrutten."

But Maraquita was in no mood to be driven out of her humour, even by her lover.

"I am miserable," she said with vehemence, clenching one of her little fists as though she meditated an assault on the lieutenant -- "utterly, absolutely, inconsolably miserable."

If Lindsay had entertained any doubt regarding the truth of her assertion, it would have been dispelled by her subsequent conduct, for she buried her face in a handkerchief and burst into tears.

"Beloved, adorable, tender, delicious Maraquita," were words which leapt into the lieutenant's mind, but he dare not utter them with his lips. Neither did he venture to clasp Maraquita's waist with his left arm, lay her pretty little head on his breast and smooth her luxuriant hair with his right hand, though he felt almost irresistibly tempted so to do --  entirely from feelings of pity, of course, -- for the Senhorina had hitherto permitted no familiarities beyond a gentle pressure of the hand on meeting and at parting.

It is unnecessary to repeat all that the bashful, though ardent, man of war said to Maraquita, or all that Maraquita said to the man of war; how, ignoring the celestial orbs and domestic economy, she launched out into a rhapsodical panegyric of Azinte; told how the poor slave had unburdened her heart to her about her handsome young husband and her darling little boy in the far off interior, from whom she had been rudely torn, and whom she never expected to see again; and how she, Maraquita, had tried to console Azinte by telling her that there was a heaven where good people might hope to meet again, even though they never met on earth, and a great deal more besides, to all of which the earnest lieutenant sought to find words wherewith to express his pity and sympathy, but found them not, though he was at no loss to find words to tell the queen of his soul that, in the peculiar circumstances of the case, and all things considered, his love for her (Maraquita) was tenfold more intense than it had ever been before!

"Foolish boy," said the Senhorina, smiling through her tears, "what is the use of telling me that? Can it do any good to Azinte?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," replied the lieutenant. "Well, then, don't talk nonsense, but tell me what I am to do to recover my little maid."

"It is impossible for me to advise," said the lieutenant with a perplexed look.

"But you must advise," said Maraquita, with great decision.

"Well, I will try. How long is it since Azinte was taken away from you?"

"About two weeks."

"You say that Marizano was the purchaser. Do you know to what part of the coast he intended to convey her?"

"How should I know? I have only just heard of the matter from my father."

"Well then, you must try to find out from your father all that he knows about Marizano and his movements. That is the first step. After that I will consider what can be done."

"Yes, Senhor," said Maraquita, rising suddenly, "you must consider quickly, and you must act at once, for you must not come here again until you bring me news of Azinte."

Poor Lindsay, who knew enough of the girl's character to believe her to be thoroughly in earnest, protested solemnly that he would do his utmost.

All that Maraquita could ascertain from her father was, that Marizano meant to proceed to Kilwa, the great slave-depot of the coast, there to collect a large cargo of slaves and proceed with them to Arabia, whenever he had reason to believe that the British cruisers were out of the way. This was not much to go upon, but the Senhorina was as unreasonable as were the Egyptians of old, when they insisted on the Israelites making bricks without straw.

He was unexpectedly helped out of his dilemma by Captain Romer, who called him into his cabin that same evening, told him that he had obtained information of the movements of slavers, which induced him to think it might be worth while to watch the coast to the northward of Cape Dalgado, and bade him prepare for a cruise in charge of the cutter, adding that the steamer would soon follow and keep them in view.

With a lightened heart Lindsay went off to prepare, and late that night the cutter quietly pulled away from the 'Firefly's' side, with a well-armed crew, and provisioned for a short cruise.

Their object was to proceed as stealthily as possible along the coast, therefore they kept inside of islands as much as possible, and cruised about a good deal at nights, always sleeping on board the boat, as the low-lying coast was very unhealthy, but landing occasionally to obtain water and to take a survey of the sea from convenient heights.

Early one morning as they were sailing with a very light breeze, between two small islands, a vessel was seen looming through the haze, not far from shore.

Jackson, one of the men, who has been introduced to the reader at an earlier part of this narrative, was the first to observe the strangers.

"It's a brig," he said; "I can make out her royals."

"No, it's a barque," said the coxswain.

A little midshipman, named Midgley, differed from both, and said it was a large dhow, for he could make out the top of its lateen sail.

"Whatever it is, we'll give chase," said Lindsay, ordering the men to put out the oars and give way, the sail being of little use.

In a few minutes the haze cleared sufficiently to prove that Midgley was right. At the same time it revealed to those on board the dhow that they were being chased by the boat of a man-of-war. The little wind that blew at the time was insufficient to enable the dhow to weather a point just ahead of her, and the cutter rowed down on her so fast that it was evidently impossible for her to escape.

Seeing this, the commander of the dhow at once ran straight for the shore. Before the boat could reach her she was among the breakers on the bar, which were so terrible at that part of the coast as to render landing in a small boat quite out of the question. In a few minutes the dhow was hurled on the beach and began to break up, while her crew and cargo of slaves swarmed into the sea and tried to gain the shore. It seemed to those in the boat that some hundreds of negroes were struggling at one time in the seething foam.

"We must risk it, and try to save some of the poor wretches," cried Lindsay; "give way, lads, give way!"

The boat shot in amongst the breakers, and was struck by several seas in succession, and nearly swamped ere it reached the shore. But they were too late to save many of the drowning. Most of the strongest of the slaves had gained the shore and taken to the hills in wild terror, under the impression so carefully instilled into them by the Arabs, that the only object the Englishmen had in view was to catch, cook, and eat them! The rest were drowned, with the exception of two men and seven little children, varying from five to eight years of age, who were found crawling on the beach, in such a state of emaciation that they could not follow their companions into the bush. They tried, however, in their own feeble, helpless way, to avoid capture and the terrible fate which they thought awaited them.

These were soon lifted tenderly into the boat.

"Here, Jackson," cried Lindsay, lifting one of the children in his strong arms, and handing it to the sailor, "carry that one very carefully, she seems to be almost gone. God help her, poor, poor child!"

There was good cause for Lindsay's pity, for the little girl was so thin that every bone in her body was sticking out -- her elbow and knee-joints being the largest parts of her shrunken limbs, and it was found that she could not rise or even stretch herself out, in consequence, as was afterwards ascertained, of her having been kept for many days in the dhow in a sitting posture, with her knees doubled up against her face. Indeed, most of the poor little things captured were found to be more or less stiffened from the same cause.

An Arab interpreter had been sent with Lindsay, but he turned out to be so incapable that it was scarcely possible to gain any information from him. He was either stupid in reality, or pretended to be so. The latter supposition is not improbable, for many of the interpreters furnished to the men-of-war on that coast were found to be favourable to the slavers, insomuch that they have been known to mislead those whom they were paid to serve.

With great difficulty the cutter was pulled through the surf. That afternoon the 'Firefly' hove in sight, and took the rescued slaves on board.

Next day two boats from the steamer chased another dhow on shore, but with even less result than before, for the whole of the slaves escaped to the hills. On the day following, however, a large dhow was captured, with about a hundred and fifty slaves on board, all of whom were rescued, and the dhow destroyed.

The dhows which were thus chased or captured were all regular and undisguised slavers. Their owners were openly engaged in what they knew was held to be piracy alike by the Portuguese, the Sultan of Zanzibar, and the English. They were exporting slaves from Africa to Arabia and Persia, which is an illegal species of traffic. In dealing with these, no difficulty was experienced except the difficulty of catching them. When caught, the dhows were invariably destroyed and the slaves set free -- that is to say, carried to those ports where they might be set free with safety.

But there were two other sorts of traffickers in the bodies and souls of human beings, who were much more difficult to deal with.

There were, first the legal slave-traders, namely, the men who convey slaves by sea from one part of the Sultan of Zanzibar's dominions to another. This kind of slavery was prosecuted under the shelter of what we have already referred to as a domestic institution! It involved, as we have said before, brutality, injustice, cruelty, theft, murder, and extermination, but, being a domestic institution of Zanzibar, it was held to be legal, and the British Government have recognised and tolerated it by treaty for a considerable portion of this century!

It is, however, but justice to ourselves to say, that our Government entered into the treaty with the view of checking, limiting, and mitigating the evils of the slave-trade. We have erred in recognising any form of slavery, no matter how humane our object was -- one proof of which is that we have, by our interference, unintentionally increased the evils of slavery instead of abating them.

It is worth while remarking here, that slavery is also a domestic institution in Arabia and Persia. If it be right that we should not interfere with the Zanzibar institution, why should we interfere with that of Arabia or Persia? Our treaty appears to have been founded on the principle that we ought to respect domestic institutions. We maintain a squadron on the east coast of Africa to stop the flow of Africans to the latter countries, while we permit the flow by treaty, as well as by practice, to the former. Is this consistent? The only difference between the two cases is one of distance, not of principle.

But to return to our point -- the legal traders. In consequence of the Sultan's dominions lying partly on an island and partly on the mainland, his domestic institution necessitates boats, and in order to distinguish between his boats and the pirates, there is a particular season fixed in which he may carry his slaves by sea from one part of his dominions to another; and each boat is furnished with papers which prove it to be a "legal trader." This is the point on which the grand fallacy of our interference hinges. The "domestic institution" would be amply supplied by about 4000 slaves a year. The so-called legal traders are simply legalised deceivers, who transport not fewer than 30,000 slaves a year! It must be borne in mind that these 30,000 represent only a portion -- the Zanzibar portion -- of the great African slave-trade. From the Portuguese settlements to the south, and from the north by way of Egypt, the export of negroes as slaves is larger. It is estimated that the total number of human beings enslaved on the east and north-east coast of Africa is about 70,000 a year. As all authorities agree in the statement that, at the lowest estimate, only one out of every five captured survives to go into slavery, this number represents a loss to Africa of 350,000 human beings a year. They leave Zanzibar with full cargoes continually, with far more than is required for what we may term home-consumption. Nevertheless, correct papers are furnished to them by the Sultan, which protects them from British cruisers within the prescribed limits, namely, between Cape Dalgado and Lamoo, a line of coast about 1500 miles in extent. But it is easy for them to evade the cruisers in these wide seas and extensive coasts, and the value of Black Ivory is so great that the loss of a few is but a small matter. On reaching the northern limits the legal traders become pirates. They run to the northward, and take their chance of being captured by cruisers.

The reason of all this is very obvious. The Sultan receives nearly half a sovereign a head for each slave imported into Zanzibar, and our Governments, in time past, have allowed themselves to entertain the belief, that, by treaty, the Sultan could be induced to destroy this the chief source of his revenue!

Surely it is not too much to say, that Great Britain ought to enter into no treaty whatever in regard to slavery, excepting such as shall provide for the absolute, total, and immediate extirpation thereof by whatsoever name called.

Besides these two classes of slavers, -- the open, professional pirates, and the sneaking, deceiving "domestic" slavers, -- there are the slave-smugglers. They are men who profess to be, and actually are, legal traders in ivory, gum, copal, and other produce of Africa. These fellows manage to smuggle two or three slaves each voyage to the Black Ivory markets, under pretence that they form part of the crew of their dhows. It is exceedingly difficult, almost impossible, for the officers of our cruisers to convict these smugglers -- to distinguish between slaves and crews, consequently immense numbers of slaves are carried off to the northern ports in this manner. Sometimes these dhows carry Arab or other passengers, and when there are so many slaves on board that it would be obviously absurd to pretend that they formed part of the crew, the owner dresses the poor wretches up in the habiliments that come most readily to hand, and passes them off as the wives or servants of these passengers. Any one might see at a glance that the stupid, silent, timid-looking creatures, who have had almost every human element beaten out of them, are nothing of the sort, but there is no means of proving them other than they are represented to be. If an interpreter were to ask them they would be ready to swear anything that their owner had commanded; hence the cruisers are deceived in every way -- in many ways besides those now mentioned -- and our philanthropic intentions are utterly thwarted; for the rescuing and setting free of 1000 or 2000 negroes a year out of the 30,000 annually exported, is not an adequate result for our great expense in keeping a squadron on the coast, especially when we consider that hundreds, probably thousands, of slaves perish amid horrible sufferings caused by the efforts of the man-stealers to avoid our cruisers. These would probably not lose their lives, and the entire body of slaves would suffer less, if we did not interfere at all.

From this we do not argue that non-interference would be best, but that as our present system of repression does not effectively accomplish what is aimed at, it ought to be changed. What the change should be, many wise and able men have stated. Their opinion we cannot quote here, but one thing taught to us by past experience is clear, we cannot cure the slave-trade by merely limiting it. Our motto in regard to slavery ought to be -- Total and immediate extinction everywhere.



Chapter Seventeen.

Strong Measures Lead To Unexpected Discoveries.

"I'm terribly worried and perplexed," said Lieutenant Lindsay one afternoon to Midshipman Midgley, as they were creeping along the coast in the neighbourhood of Cape Dalgado.

"Why so?" inquired the middy.

"Because I can learn nothing whatever about the movements of Marizano," replied the Lieutenant. "I have not spoken to you about this man hitherto, because -- because -- that is to say -- the fact is, it wasn't worth while, seeing that you know no more about him than I do, perhaps not so much. But I can't help thinking that we might have learned something about him by this time, only our interpreter is such an unmitigated ass, he seems to understand nothing -- to pick up nothing."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the midshipman; "I'm surprised to hear you say so, because I heard Suliman whispering last night with that half-caste fellow whom we captured along with the other niggers, and I am confident that he mentioned the name of Marizano several times."

"Did he? Well now, the rascal invariably looks quite blank when I mention Marizano's name, and shakes his head, as if he had never heard of it before."

"Couldn't you intimidate him into disgorging a little of his knowledge?" suggested Midgley, with an arch look.

"I have thought of that," replied Lindsay, with a frown. "Come, it's not a bad idea; I'll try! Hallo! Suliman, come aft, I want you."

Lieutenant Lindsay was one of those men who are apt to surprise people by the precipitancy of their actions. He was not, indeed, hasty; but when his mind was made up he was not slow in proceeding to action. It was so on the present occasion, to the consternation of Suliman, who had hitherto conceived him to be rather a soft easy-going man.

"Suliman," he said, in a low but remarkably firm tone of voice, "you know more about Marizano than you choose to tell me. Now," he continued, gazing into the Arab's cold grey eyes, while he pulled a revolver from his coat-pocket and cocked it, "I intend to make you tell me all you know about him, or to blow your brains out."

He moved the pistol gently as he spoke, and placed his forefinger on the trigger.

"I not know," began Suliman, who evidently did not believe him to be quite in earnest; but before the words had well left his lips the drum of his left ear was almost split by the report of the pistol, and a part of his turban was blown away.

"You don't know? very well," said Lindsay, recocking the pistol, and placing the cold muzzle of it against the Arab's yellow nose.

This was too much for Suliman. He grew pale, and suddenly fell on his knees.

"Oh! stop! no -- no! not fire! me tell you 'bout 'im."

"Good, get up and do so," said the Lieutenant, uncocking the revolver, and returning it to his pocket; "and be sure that you tell me all, else your life won't be worth the value of the damaged turban on your head."

With a good deal of trepidation the alarmed interpreter thereupon gave Lindsay all the information he possessed in regard to the slaver, which amounted to this, that he had gone to Kilwa, where he had collected a band of slaves sufficient to fill a large dhow, with which he intended, in two days more, to sail, in company with a fleet of slavers, for the north.

"Does he intend to touch at Zanzibar?" inquired Lindsay.

"Me tink no," replied the interpreter; "got many pritty garls -- go straight for Persia."

On hearing this the Lieutenant put the cutter about, and sailed out to sea in search of the 'Firefly,' which he knew could not at that time be at any great distance from the shore.

He found her sooner than he had expected; and, to his immense astonishment as well as joy, one of the first persons he beheld on stepping over the side of his ship was Azinte.

"You have captured Marizano, sir, I see," he said to Captain Romer.

"Not the scoundrel himself, but one of his dhows," replied the Captain. "He had started for the northern ports with two heavily-laden vessels. We discovered him five days ago, and, fortunately, just beyond the protected water, so that he was a fair and lawful prize. The first of his dhows, being farthest out from shore, we captured, but the other, commanded by himself, succeeded in running ashore, and he escaped; with nearly all his slaves -- only a few of the women and children being drowned in the surf. And now, as our cargo of poor wretches is pretty large, I shall run for the Seychelles. After landing them I shall return as fast as possible, to intercept a few more of these pirates."

"To the Seychelles!" muttered the Lieutenant to himself as he went below, with an expression on his countenance something between surprise and despair.

Poor Lindsay! His mind was so taken up with, and confused by, the constant and obtrusive presence of the Senhorina Maraquita that the particular turn which affairs had taken had not occurred to him, although that turn was quite natural, and by no means improbable. Marizano, with Azinte on board of one of his piratical dhows, was proceeding to the north. Captain Romer, with his war-steamer, was on the look-out for piratical dhows. What more natural than that the Captain should fall in with the pirate? But Lieutenant Lindsay's mind had been so filled with Maraquita that it seemed to be, for the time, incapable of holding more than one other idea -- that idea was the fulfilment of Maraquita's commands to obtain information as to her lost Azinte. To this he had of late devoted all his powers, happy in the thought that it fell in with and formed part of his duty, to his Queen and country, as well as to the "Queen of his soul." To rescue Azinte from Marizano seemed to the bold Lieutenant an easy enough matter; but to rescue her from his own Captain, and send her back into slavery! "Ass! that I am," he exclaimed, "not to have thought of this before. Of course she can never be returned to Maraquita, and small comfort it will be to the Senhorina to be told that her favourite is free in the Seychelles Islands, and utterly beyond her reach, unless she chooses to go there and stay with her."

Overwhelmed with disgust at his own stupidity, and at the utter impossibility of doing anything to mend matters, the unfortunate Lieutenant sat down to think, and the result of his thinking was that he resolved at all events to look well after Azinte, and see that she should be cared for on her arrival at the Seychelles.

Among the poor creatures who had been rescued from Marizano's dhow were nearly a hundred children, in such a deplorable condition that small hopes were entertained of their reaching the island alive. Their young lives, however, proved to be tenacious. Experienced though their hardy rescuers were in rough and tumble work, they had no conception what these poor creatures had already gone through, and, therefore, formed a mistaken estimate of their powers of endurance. Eighty-three of them reached the Seychelles alive. They were placed under the care of a warm-hearted missionary, who spared no pains for their restoration to health; but despite his utmost efforts, forty of these eventually died --  their little frames had been whipped, and starved, and tried to such an extent, that recovery was impossible.

To the care of this missionary Lieutenant Lindsay committed Azinte, telling him as much of her sad story as he was acquainted with. The missionary willingly took charge of her, and placed her as a nurse in the temporary hospital which he had instituted for the little ones above referred to. Here Azinte proved herself to be a most tender, affectionate, and intelligent nurse to the poor children, for whom she appeared to entertain particular regard, and here, on the departure of the 'Firefly' shortly afterwards, Lindsay left her in a state of comfort, usefulness, and comparative felicity.



Chapter Eighteen.

Describes Some Of The Doings Of Yoosoof And His Men In Procuring Black Ivory From The Interior Of Africa.

A dirty shop, in a filthy street in the unhealthy town of Zanzibar, is the point to which we now beg leave to conduct our reader -- whom we also request to leap, in a free and easy way, over a few months of time!

It is not for the sake of the shop that we make this leap, but for the purpose of introducing the two men who, at the time we write of, sat over their grog in a small back-room connected with that shop. Still the shop itself is not altogether unworthy of notice. It is what the Americans call a store -- a place where you can purchase almost every article that the wants of man have called into being. The prevailing smells are of oil, sugar, tea, molasses, paint, and tar, a compound which confuses the discriminating powers of the nose, and, on the principle that extremes meet, removes the feeling of surprise that ought to be aroused by discovering that these odours are in close connexion with haberdashery and hardware. There are enormous casks, puncheons, and kegs on the floor; bales on the shelves; indescribable confusion in the corners; preserved meat tins piled to the ceiling; with dust and dirt encrusting everything. The walls, beams, and rafters, appear to be held together by means of innumerable cobwebs. Hosts of flies fatten on, without diminishing, the stock, and squadrons of cockroaches career over the earthen floor.

In the little back-room of this shop sat the slave-dealer Yoosoof, in company with the captain of an English ship which lay in the harbour.

Smoke from the captain's pipe filled the little den to such an extent that Yoosoof and his friend were not so clearly distinguishable as might have been desired.

"You're all a set of false-hearted, wrong-headed, low-minded, scoundrels," said the plain-spoken captain, accompanying each asseveration with a puff so violent as to suggest the idea that his remarks were round-shot and his mouth a cannon.

The Briton was evidently not in a complimentary mood. It was equally evident that Yoosoof was not in a touchy vein, for he smiled the slightest possible smile and shrugged his shoulders. He had business to transact with the captain which was likely to result very much to his advantage, and Yoosoof was not the man to let feelings stand in the way of business.

"Moreover," pursued the captain, in a gruff voice, "the trade in slaves is illegally conducted in one sense, namely, that it is largely carried on by British subjects."

"How you make that out?" asked Yoosoof.

"How? why, easy enough. Aren't the richest men in Zanzibar the Banyans, and don't these Banyans, who number about 17,000 of your population, supply you Arabs with money to carry on the accursed slave-trade? And ain't these Banyans Indian merchants -- subjects of Great Britain?"

Yoosoof shrugged his shoulders again and smiled.

"And don't these opulent rascals," continued the Briton, "love their ease as well as their money, and when they want to increase the latter without destroying the former, don't they make advances to the like of you and get 100 per cent out of you for every dollar advanced?"

Yoosoof nodded his head decidedly at this, and smiled again.

"Well, then, ain't the whole lot of you a set of mean scoundrels?" said the captain fiercely.

Yoosoof did not smile at this; he even looked for a moment as if he were going to resent it, but it was only for a moment. Self-interest came opportunely to his aid, and made him submissive.

"What can we do?" he asked after a short silence. "You knows what the Sultan say, other day, to one British officer, 'If you stop slave-trade you will ruin Zanzibar.' We mus' not do that. Zanzibar mus' not be ruin."

"Why not?" demanded the captain, with a look of supreme contempt, "what if Zanzibar was ruined? Look here, now, Yoosoof, your dirty little island -- the whole island observe -- is not quite the size of my own Scotch county of Lanark. Its population is short of 250,000 all told -- scarce equal to the half of the population of Lanark -- composed of semi-barbarians and savages. That's one side of the question. Here's the other side: Africa is one of the four quarters of the earth, with millions of vigorous niggers and millions of acres of splendid land, and no end of undeveloped resources, and you have the impudence to tell me that an enormous lump of this land must be converted into a desert, and something like 150,000 of its best natives be drawn off annually -- for what? -- for what?" repeated the sailor, bringing his fist down on the table before him with such force that the glasses danced on it and the dust flew up; "for what? I say; for a paltry, pitiful island, ruled by a sham sultan, without army or navy, and with little money, save what he gets by slave-dealing; an island which has no influence for good on the world, morally, religiously, or socially, and with little commercially, though it has much influence for evil; an island which has helped the Portuguese to lock up the east coast of Africa for centuries; an island which would not be missed -- save as a removed curse -- if it were sunk this night to the bottom of the sea, and all its selfish, sensual, slave-dealing population swept entirely off the face of the earth."

The captain had risen and dashed his pipe to atoms on the floor in his indignation as he made these observations. He now made an effort to control himself, and then, sitting down, he continued -- "Just think, Yoosoof; you're a sharp man of business, as I know to my cost. You can understand a thing in a commercial point of view. Just try to look at it thus: On the one side of the world's account you have Zanzibar sunk with all its Banyan and Arab population; we won't sink the niggers, poor wretches. We'll suppose them saved, along with the consuls, missionaries, and such-like. Well, that's a loss of somewhere about 83,000 scoundrels, -- a gain we might call it, but for the sake of argument we'll call it a loss. On the other side of the account you have 30,000 niggers -- fair average specimens of humanity -- saved from slavery, besides something like 150,000 more saved from death by war and starvation, the results of the slave-trade; 83,000 from 150,000 leaves 67,000! The loss, you see, would be more than wiped off, and a handsome balance left at the world's credit the very first year! To say nothing of the opening up of legitimate commerce to one of the richest countries on earth, and the consequent introduction of Christianity."

The captain paused to take breath. Yoosoof shrugged his shoulders, and a brief silence ensued, which was happily broken, not by a recurrence to the question of slavery, but by the entrance of a slave. He came in search of Yoosoof for the purpose of telling him that his master wished to speak with him. As the slave's master was one of the wealthy Banyans just referred to, Yoosoof rose at once, and, apologising to the captain for quitting him so hurriedly, left that worthy son of Neptune to cool his indignation in solitude.

Passing through several dirty streets the slave led the slaver to a better sort of house in a more salubrious or, rather, less pestilential, part of the town. He was ushered into the presence of an elderly man of quiet, unobtrusive aspect.

"Yoosoof," said the Banyan in Arabic, "I have been considering the matter about which we had some conversation yesterday, and I find that it will be convenient for me to make a small venture. I can let you have three thousand dollars."

"On the old terms?" asked Yoosoof.

"On the old terms," replied the merchant. "Will you be ready to start soon?"

Yoosoof said that he would, that he had already completed the greater part of his preparations, and that he hoped to start for the interior in a week or two.

"That is well; I hope you may succeed in doing a good deal of business," said the merchant with an amiable nod and smile, which might have led an ignorant onlooker to imagine that Yoosoof's business in the interior was work of a purely philanthropic nature!

"There is another affair, which, it has struck me, may lie in your way," continued the merchant. "The British consul is, I am told, anxious to find some one who will undertake to make inquiries in the interior about some Englishmen, who are said to have been captured by the black fellows and made slaves of."

"Does the consul know what tribe has captured them?" asked Yoosoof.

"I think not; but as he offers five hundred dollars for every lost white man who shall be recovered and brought to the coast alive, I thought that you might wish to aid him!"

"True," said Yoosoof, musing, "true, I will go and see him."

Accordingly, the slave-dealer had an interview with the consul, during which he learned that there was no absolute certainty of any Englishmen having been captured. It was only a vague rumour; nevertheless it was sufficiently probable to warrant the offer of five hundred dollars to any one who should effect a rescue; therefore Yoosoof, having occasion to travel into the interior at any rate, undertook to make inquiries.

He was also told that two Englishmen had, not long before, purchased an outfit, and started off with the intention of proceeding to the interior by way of the Zambesi river, and they, the consul said, might possibly be heard of by him near the regions to which he was bound; but these, he suggested, could not be the men who were reported as missing.

Of course Yoosoof had not the most remote idea that these were the very Englishmen whom he himself had captured on the coast, for, after parting from them abruptly, as described in a former chapter, he had ceased to care or think about them, and besides, was ignorant of the fact that they had been to Zanzibar.

Yoosoof's own particular business required a rather imposing outfit. First of all, he purchased and packed about 600 pounds worth of beads of many colours, cloth of different kinds, thick brass wire, and a variety of cheap trinkets, such as black men and women are fond of, for Yoosoof was an "honest" trader, and paid his way when he found it suitable to do so. He likewise hired a hundred men, whom he armed with guns, powder, and ball, for Yoosoof was also a dishonest trader, and fought his way when that course seemed most desirable.

With this imposing caravan he embarked in a large dhow, sailed for the coast landed at Kilwa, and proceeded into the interior of Africa.

It was a long and toilsome journey over several hundred miles of exceedingly fertile and beautiful country, eminently suited for the happy abode of natives. But Yoosoof and his class who traded in black ivory had depopulated it to such an extent that scarce a human being was to be seen all the way. There were plenty of villages, but they were in ruins, and acres of cultivated ground with the weeds growing rank where the grain had once flourished. Further on in the journey, near the end of it, there was a change; the weeds and grain grew together and did battle, but in most places the weeds gained the victory. It was quite evident that the whole land had once been a rich garden teeming with human life -- savage life, no doubt still, not so savage but that it could manage to exist in comparative enjoyment and multiply. Yoosoof -- passed through a hundred and fifty miles of this land; it was a huge grave, which, appropriately enough, was profusely garnished with human bones.

At last the slave-trader reached lands which were not utterly forsaken.

Entering a village one afternoon he sent a present of cloth and beads to the chief, and, after a few preliminary ceremonies, announced that he wished to purchase slaves.

The chief, who was a fine-looking young warrior, said that he had no men, women or children to sell, except a few criminals to whom he was welcome at a very low price, -- about two or three yards of calico each. There were also one or two orphan children whose parents had died suddenly, and to whom no one in the village could lay claim. It was true that these poor orphans had been adopted by various families who might not wish to part with them; but no matter, the chief's command was law. Yoosoof might have the orphans also for a very small sum, -- a yard of calico perhaps. But nothing would induce the chief to compel any of his people to part with their children, and none of the people seemed desirous of doing so.

The slave-trader therefore adopted another plan. He soon managed to ascertain that the chief had an old grudge against a neighbouring chief. In the course of conversation he artfully stirred up the slumbering ill-will, and carefully fanned it into a flame without appearing to have any such end in view. When the iron was sufficiently hot he struck it --  supplied the chief with guns and ammunition, and even, as a great favour, offered to lend him a few of his own men in order that he might make a vigorous attack on his old enemy.

The device succeeded to perfection. War was begun without any previous declaration; prisoners were soon brought in -- not only men, but women and children. The first were coupled together with heavy slave-sticks, which were riveted to their necks; the latter were attached to each other with ropes; and thus Yoosoof, in a few days, was enabled to proceed on his journey with a goodly drove of "black cattle" behind him.

This occurred not far from Lake Nyassa, which he intended should be his headquarters for a time, while his men, under a new leader whom he expected to meet there, should push their victorious arms farther into the interior.

On reaching the shores of the noble lake, he found several birds of the same feather with himself -- Arabs engaged in the same trade. He also found his old friend and trusty ally, Marizano. This gratified him much, for he was at once enabled to hand over the charge of the expedition to his lieutenant, and send him forth on his mission.

That same evening -- a lovely and comparatively cool one -- Yoosoof and the half-caste sauntered on the margin of the lake, listening to the sweet melody of the free and happy birds, and watching the debarkation, from a large boat, of a band of miserable slaves who had been captured or purchased on the other side.

"Now, Marizano," said Yoosoof, addressing the half-caste in his native tongue, "I do not intend to cumber you with cloth or beads on this expedition. I have already spent a good deal in the purchase of slaves, who are now in my barracoon, and I think it will be both cheaper and easier to make up the rest of the gang by means of powder and lead."

"It is lighter to carry, and more effectual," remarked Marizano, with a nod of approval.

"True," returned Yoosoof, "and quicker. Will a hundred men and guns suffice?"

"Eighty are enough to conquer any of the bow and spear tribes of this region," replied the half-caste carelessly.

"Good!" continued Yoosoof. "Then you shall start to-morrow. The tribes beyond this lake are not yet afraid of us -- thanks to the mad Englishman, Livingstone, who has opened up the country and spread the information that white men are the friends of the black, and hate slavery." [Livingstone tells us that he found, on ascending the Shire river, that the Portuguese slave-traders had followed closely in the footsteps of his previous discoveries, and passed themselves off as his friends, by which means they were successful in gaining the confidence of the natives whom they afterwards treacherously murdered or enslaved.]

"You may try to pass yourself off as a white man, though your face is not so white as might be desired; however, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that it is whiter than your heart!"

The Arab smiled and glanced at his lieutenant. Marizano smiled, bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, and replied that he believed himself to be second to no one except his employer in that respect.

"Well, then," continued Yoosoof, "you must follow up the discoveries of this Englishman; give out that you are his friend, and have come there for the same purposes; and, when you have put them quite at their ease, commence a brisk trade with them -- for which purpose you may take with you just enough of cloth and beads to enable you to carry out the deception. For the rest I need not instruct; you know what to do as well as I."

Marizano approved heartily of this plan, and assured his chief that his views should be carried out to his entire satisfaction.

"But there is still another point," said Yoosoof, "on which I have to talk. It appears that there are some white men who have been taken prisoners by one of the interior tribes -- I know not which -- for the finding of whom the British consul at Zanzibar has offered me five hundred dollars. If you can obtain information about these men it will be well. If you can find and rescue them it will be still better, and you shall have a liberal share of the reward."

While the Arab was speaking, the half-caste's visage betrayed a slight degree of surprise.

"White men!" he said, pulling up his sleeve and showing a gun-shot wound in his arm which appeared to be not very old. "A white man inflicted that not long ago, and not very far from the spot on which we stand. I had vowed to take the life of that white man if we should ever chance to meet, but if it is worth five hundred dollars I may be tempted to spare it!"

He laughed lightly as he spoke, and then added, with a thoughtful look, -- "But I don't see how these men -- there were two of them, if not more -- can be prisoners, because, when I came across them, they were well-armed, well supplied, and well attended, else, you may be sure, they had not given me this wound and freed my slaves. But the scoundrels who were with me at the time were cowards."

"You are right," said Yoosoof. "The white men you met I heard of at Zanzibar. They cannot be the prisoners we are asked to search for. They have not yet been long enough away, I should think, to have come by any mischance, and the white men who are said to be lost have been talked about in Zanzibar for a long time. However, make diligent inquiries, because the promise is, that the five hundred dollars shall be ours if we rescue any white man, no matter who he may chance to be. And now I shall show you the cattle I have obtained on the way up."

The barracoon, to which the Arab led his lieutenant, was a space enclosed by a strong and high stockade, in which slaves were kept under guard until a sufficient number should be secured to form a gang, wherewith to start for the coast. At the entrance stood a savage-looking Portuguese half-caste armed with a gun. Inside there was an assortment of Yoosoof's Black Ivory. It was in comparatively good condition at that time, not having travelled far, and, as it was necessary to keep it up to a point of strength sufficient to enable it to reach the coast, it was pretty well fed except in the case of a few rebellious articles. There were, however, specimens of damaged goods even there. Several of the orphans, who had become Yoosoof's property, although sprightly enough when first purchased, had not stood even the short journey to the lake so well as might have been expected. They had fallen off in flesh to such an extent that Yoosoof was induced to remark to Marizano, as they stood surveying them, that he feared they would never reach the coast alive.

"That one, now," he said, pointing to a little boy who was tightly wedged in the midst of the group of slaves, and sat on the ground with his face resting on his knees, "is the most troublesome piece of goods I have had to do with since I began business; and it seems to me that I am going to lose him after all."

"What's the matter with him?" asked the half-caste.

"Nothing particular, only he is a delicate boy. At first I refused him, but he is so well-made, though delicate, and such a good-looking child, and so spirited, that I decided to take him; but he turns out to be too spirited. Nothing that I can do will tame him, -- oh, that won't do it," said Yoosoof, observing that Marizano raised the switch he carried in his hand with a significant action; "I have beaten him till there is scarcely a sound inch of skin on his whole body, but it's of no use. Ho! stand up," called Yoosoof, letting the lash of his whip fall lightly on the boy's shoulders.

There was, however, no response; the Arab therefore repeated the order, and laid the lash across the child's bare back with a degree of force that would have caused the stoutest man to wince; still the boy did not move. Somewhat surprised, Yoosoof pushed his way towards him, seized him by the hair and threw back his head.

The Arab left him immediately and remarked in a quiet tone that he should have no more trouble with him -- he was dead!

"What's the matter with that fellow?" asked Marizano, pointing to a man who was employed in constantly rolling up a bit of wet clay and applying it to his left eye.

"Ah, he's another of these unmanageable fellows," replied Yoosoof. "I have been trying to tame him by starvation. The other morning he fell on his knees before the man who guards the barracoon and entreated him to give him food. The guard is a rough fellow, and had been put out of temper lately by a good many of the slaves. Instead of giving him food he gave him a blow in the eye which burst the ball of it, and of course has rendered him worthless; but he won't trouble us long."

In another place a woman crouched on the ground, having something wrapped in leaves which she pressed to her dried breast. It was the body of a child to which she had recently given birth in that place of woe.

Leaving his cringing and terrified goods to the guardian of the barracoon, the Arab returned to his tent beside the beautiful lake, and there, while enjoying the aroma of flowers and the cool breeze, and the genial sunshine, and the pleasant influences which God has scattered with bountiful hand over that luxuriant portion of the earth, calmly concerted with Marizano the best method by which he could bring inconceivable misery on thousands of its wretched inhabitants.



Chapter Nineteen.

Tells Of Misfortunes That Befell Our Wanderers; Of Familiar Toys Under New Aspects, Etcetera.

When Harold Seadrift and Disco Lillihammer were stopped in their journey, as related in a former chapter, by the sudden illness of the bold seaman, an event was impending over them which effectually overturned their plans. This was the sudden descent of a band of armed natives who had been recently driven from their homes by a slaving party. The slavers had taken them by surprise during the night, set their huts on fire, captured their women and children, and slaughtered all the men, excepting those who sought and found safety in flight. It was those who had thus escaped that chanced to come upon the camp of our travellers one evening about sunset.

Disco was recovering from his attack of fever at the time, though still weak. Harold was sitting by his couch of leaves in the hut which had been erected for him on the first day of the illness. Jumbo was cutting up a piece of flesh for supper, and Antonio was putting the kettle on the fire. The rest of the party were away in the woods hunting.

No guard was kept; consequently the savages came down on them like a thunderbolt, and found them quite unprepared to resist even if resistance had been of any use.

At first their captors, bitterly infuriated by their recent losses, proposed to kill their prisoners, without delay, by means of the most excruciating tortures that they could invent, but from some unknown cause, changed their minds; coupled Harold and Disco together by means of two slave-sticks; tied Antonio and Jumbo with ropes, and drove them away.

So suddenly was the thing done, and so effectually, that Disco was far from the camp before he could realise that what had occurred was a fact, and not one of the wild feverish dreams that had beset him during his illness.

The natives would not listen to the earnest explanation of Antonio that Harold and Disco were Englishmen, and haters of slavery. They scowled as they replied that the same had been said by the slavers who had attacked their village; from which remark it would seem that Yoosoof was not quite the originator of that device to throw the natives off their guard. The Portuguese of Tette on the Zambesi had also thought of and acted on it!

Fortunately it was, as we have said, near sunset when the capture was made, and before it became quite dark the band encamped, else must poor Disco have succumbed to weakness and fatigue. The very desperation of his circumstances, however, seemed to revive his strength, for next morning he resumed his journey with some hope of being able to hold out. The continued protestations and assurances of Antonio, also, had the effect of inducing their captors to remove the heavy slave-sticks from the necks of Harold and Disco, though they did not unbind their wrists. Thus were they led further into the country, they knew not whither, for several days and nights, and at last reached a large village where they were all thrust into a hut, and left to their meditations, while their captors went to palaver with the chief man of the place.

This chief proved to be a further-sighted man than the men of the tribe who had captured the Englishmen. His name was Yambo. He had heard of Dr Livingstone, and had met with men of other tribes who had seen and conversed with the great traveller. Thus, being of a thoughtful and inquiring disposition, he had come to understand enough of the good white man's sentiments to guard him from being imposed on by pretended Christians.

Yambo's name signified "how are you?" and was probably bestowed on him because of a strongly benevolent tendency to greet friend and stranger alike with a hearty "how d'ee do?" sort of expression of face and tone of voice.

He was a tall grave man, with a commanding firm look, and, withal, a dash of child-like humour and simplicity. On hearing his visitors' remarks about their captives, he at once paid them a visit and a few leading questions put to Harold through Antonio convinced him that the prisoners were true men. He therefore returned to his black visitors, told them that he had perfect confidence in the good faith of the white men, and said that he meant to take charge of them. He then entertained his black brothers hospitably, gave them a few presents, and sent them on their way. This done he returned to his guests and told them that they were free, that their captors were gone, and that they might go where they pleased, but that it would gratify him much if they would consent to spend some time hunting with him in the neighbourhood of his village.

"Now," said Disco, after Yambo left them, "this is wot I call the most uncommon fix that ever wos got into by man since Adam an' Eve began housekeepin' in the garden of Eden."

"I'm not quite sure," replied Harold, with a rueful look, "that it is absolutely the worst fix, but it is bad enough. The worst of it is that this Yambo has let these rascals off with all our fire-arms and camp-equipage, so that we are absolutely helpless -- might as well be prisoners, for we can't quit this village in such circumstances."

"Wot's wuss than that to my mind, sir, is, that here we are at sea, in the heart of Afriky, without chart, quadrant, compass, or rudder, an' no more idea of our whereabouts than one o' them spider monkeys that grins among the trees. Hows'ever, we're in luck to fall into the hands of a friendly chief, so, like these same monkeys, we must grin an' bear it; only I can't help feelin' a bit cast down at the loss of our messmates. I fear there's no chance of their findin' us."

"Not the least chance in the world, I should say," returned Harold. "They could not guess in which direction we had gone, and unless they had hit on the right road at first, every step they took afterwards would only widen the distance between us."

"It's lucky I was beginnin' to mend before we was catched," said Disco, feeling the muscles of his legs; "true, I ain't much to boast of yet but I'm improvin'."

"That is more than I can say for myself," returned Harold, with a sigh, as he passed his hand across his forehead; "I feel as if this last push through the woods in the hot sun, and the weight of that terrible slave-stick had been almost too much for me."

Disco looked earnestly and anxiously into the face of his friend.

"Wot," asked he, "does you feel?"

"I can scarcely tell," replied Harold, with a faint smile. "Oh, I suppose I'm a little knocked up, that's all. A night's rest will put me all right."

"So I thought myself, but I wos wrong," said Disco. "Let's hear wot your feelin's is, sir; I'm as good as any doctor now, I am, in regard to symptoms."

"Well, I feel a sort of all-overishness, a kind of lassitude and sleepiness, with a slight headache, and a dull pain which appears to be creeping up my spine."

"You're in for it sir," said Disco. "It's lucky you have always carried the physic in your pockets, 'cause you'll need it, an' it's lucky, too, that I am here and well enough to return tit for tat and nurse you, 'cause you'll have that 'ere pain in your spine creep up your back and round your ribs till it lays hold of yer shoulders, where it'll stick as if it had made up its mind to stay there for ever an' a day. Arter that you'll get cold an' shivering like ice -- oh! doesn't I know it well -- an' then hot as fire, with heavy head, an' swimming eyes, an' twisted sight, an' confusion of -- "

"Hold! hold!" cried Harold, laughing, "if you go on in that way I shall have more than my fair share of it! Pray stop, and leave me a little to find out for myself."

"Well, sir, take a purge, and turn in at once, that's my advice. I'll dose you with quinine to-morrow mornin', first thing," said Disco, rising and proceeding forthwith to arrange a couch in a corner of the hut, which Yambo had assigned them.

Harold knew well enough that his follower was right. He took his advice without delay, and next morning found himself little better than a child, both physically and mentally, for the disease not only prostrated his great strength -- as it had that of his equally robust companion -- but, at a certain stage, induced delirium, during which he talked the most ineffable nonsense that his tongue could pronounce, or his brain conceive.

Poor Disco, who, of course, had been unable to appreciate the extent of his own delirious condition, began to fear that his leader's mind was gone for ever, and Jumbo was so depressed by the unutterably solemn expression of the mariner's once jovial countenance, that he did not once show his teeth for a whole week, save when engaged with meals.

As for Antonio, his nature not being very sympathetic, and his health being good, he rather enjoyed the quiet life and good living which characterised the native village, and secretly hoped that Harold might remain on the sick-list for a considerable time to come.

How long this state of affairs lasted we cannot tell, for both Harold and Disco lost the correct record of time during their respective illnesses.

Up to that period they had remembered the days of the week, in consequence of their habit of refraining from going out to hunt on Sundays, except when a dearth of meat in the larder rendered hunting a necessity. Upon these Sundays Harold's conscience sometimes reproached him for having set out on his journey into Africa without a Bible. He whispered, to himself at first, and afterwards suggested to Disco, the excuse that his Bible had been lost in the wreck of his father's vessel, and that, perhaps, there were no Bibles to be purchased in Zanzibar, but his conscience was a troublesome one, and refused to tolerate such bad reasoning, reminding him, reproachfully, that he had made no effort whatever to obtain a Bible at Zanzibar.

As time had passed, and some of the horrors of the slave-trade had been brought under his notice, many of the words of Scripture leaped to his remembrance, and the regret that he had not carried a copy with him increased. That touch of thoughtlessness, so natural to the young and healthy -- to whom life has so far been only a garden of roses -- was utterly routed by the stern and dreadful realities which had been recently enacted around him, and just in proportion as he was impressed with the lies, tyranny, cruelty, and falsehood of man, so did his thoughtful regard for the truth and the love of God increase, especially those truths that were most directly opposed to the traffic in human flesh, such as -- "love your enemies," "seek peace with all men," "be kindly affectioned one to another," "whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them." An absolute infidel, he thought, could not fail to perceive that a most blessed change would come over the face of Africa if such principles prevailed among its inhabitants, even in an extremely moderate degree.

But to return, the unfortunate travellers were now "at sea" altogether in regard to the Sabbath as well as the day of the month. Indeed their minds were not very clear as to the month itself!

"Hows'ever," said Disco, when this subject afterwards came to be discussed, "it don't matter much. Wot is it that the Scriptur' says, -- 'Six days shalt thou labour an' do all that thou hast to do, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God. In it thou shalt do no work.' I wos used always to stick at that pint w'en my poor mother was a-teachin' of me. Never got past it. But it's enough for present use anyhow, for the orders is, work six days an' don't work the seventh. Werry good, we'll begin to-day an' call it Monday; we'll work for six days, an' w'en the seventh day comes we'll call it Sunday. If it ain't the right day, we can't help it; moreover, wot's the odds? It's the seventh day, so that to us it'll be the Sabbath."

But we anticipate. Harold was still -- at the beginning of this digression -- in the delirium of fever, though there were symptoms of improvement about him.

One afternoon one of these symptoms was strongly manifested in a long, profound slumber. While he slept Disco sat on a low stool beside him, busily engaged with a clasp-knife on some species of manufacture, the nature of which was not apparent at a glance.

His admirer, Jumbo, was seated on a stool opposite, gazing at him open-mouthed, with a countenance that reflected every passing feeling of his dusky bosom.

Both men were so deeply absorbed in their occupation -- Disco in his manufacture, and Jumbo in staring at Disco -- that they failed for a considerable time to observe that Harold had wakened suddenly, though quietly, and was gazing at them with a look of lazy, easy-going surprise.

The mariner kept up a running commentary on his work, addressed to Jumbo indeed, but in a quiet interjectional manner that seemed to imply that he was merely soliloquising, and did not want or expect a reply.

"It's the most 'stror'nary notion, Jumbo, between you and me and the post, that I ever did see. Now, then, this here bullet-head wants a pair o' eyes an' a nose on it; the mouth'll do, but it's the mouth as is most troublesome, for you niggers have got such wappin' muzzles -- it's quite a caution, as the Yankees say," -- (a pause) -- "on the whole, however, the nose is very difficult to manage on a flat surface, 'cause w'y? -- if I leaves it quite flat, it don't look like a nose, an' if I carves it out ever so little, it's too prominent for a nigger nose. There, ain't that a good head, Jumbo?"

Thus directly appealed to, Jumbo nodded his own head violently, and showed his magnificent teeth from ear to ear, gums included.

Disco laid down the flat piece of board which he had carved into the form of a human head, and took up another piece, which was rudely blocked out into the form of a human leg -- both leg and head being as large as life.

"Now this limb, Jumbo," continued Disco, slowly, as he whittled away with the clasp-knife vigorously, "is much more troublesome than I would have expected; for you niggers have got such abominably ill-shaped legs below the knee. There's such an unnat'ral bend for'ard o' the shin-bone, an' such a rediklous sticking out o' the heel astarn, d'ee see, that a feller with white man notions has to make a study of it, if he sets up for a artist; in course, if he don't set up for a artist any sort o' shape'll do, for it don't affect the jumpin'. Ha! there they go," he exclaimed, with a humorous smile at a hearty shout of laughter which was heard just outside the hut, "enjoyin' the old 'un; but it's nothin' to wot the noo 'un'll be w'en it's finished."

At this exhibition of amusement on the countenance of his friend, Jumbo threw back his head and again showed not only his teeth and gums but the entire inside of his mouth, and chuckled softly from the region of his breast-bone.

"I'm dreaming, of course," thought Harold, and shut his eyes.

Poor fellow! he was very weak, and the mere act of shutting his eyes induced a half-slumber. He awoke again in a few minutes, and re-opening his eyes, beheld the two men still sitting, and occupied as before.

"It is a wonderfully pertinacious dream," thought Harold. "I'll try to dissipate it."

Thinking thus, he called out aloud, -- "I say, Disco!"

"Hallo! that's uncommon like the old tones," exclaimed the seaman, dropping his knife and the leg of wood as he looked anxiously at his friend.

"What old tones?" asked Harold.

"The tones of your voice," said Disco.

"Have they changed so much of late?" inquired Harold in surprise.

"Have they? I should think they have, just. W'y, you haven't spoke like that, sir, for -- but, surely -- are you better, or is this on'y another dodge o' yer madness?" asked Disco with a troubled look.

"Ah! I suppose I've been delirious, have I?" said Harold with a faint smile.

To this Disco replied that he had not only been delirious, but stark staring mad, and expressed a very earnest hope that, now he had got his senses hauled taut again, he'd belay them an' make all fast for, if he didn't, it was his, Disco's opinion, that another breeze o' the same kind would blow 'em all to ribbons.

"Moreover," continued Disco, firmly, "you're not to talk. I once nursed a messmate through a fever, an' I remember that the doctor wos werry partikler w'en he began to come round, in orderin' him to hold his tongue an' keep quiet."

"You are right Disco. I will keep quiet, but you must first tell me what you are about, for it has roused my curiosity, and I can't rest till I know."

"Well, sir, I'll tell you, but don't go for to make no obsarvations on it. Just keep your mouth shut an' yer ears open, an' I'll do all the jawin'. Well, you must know, soon after you wos took bad, I felt as if I'd like some sort o' okipation w'en sittin' here watchin' of you -- Jumbo an' me's bin takin' the watch time about, for Antony isn't able to hold a boy, much less you w'en you gits obstropolous -- Well, sir, I had took a sort o' fancy for Yambo's youngest boy, for he's a fine, brave little shaver, he is, an' I thought I'd make him some sort o' toy, an' it struck me that the thing as 'ud please him most 'ud be a jumpin'-jack, so I set to an' made him one about a futt high.

"You never see such a face o' joy as that youngster put on, sir, w'en I took it to him an' pulled the string. He give a little squeak of delight he did, tuk it in his hands, an' ran home to show it to his mother. Well, sir, wot d'ee think, the poor boy come back soon after, blubberin' an' sobbin', as nat'ral as if he'd bin an English boy, an' says he to Tony, says he, 'Father's bin an' took it away from me!' I wos surprised at this, an' went right off to see about it, an' w'en I come to Yambo's hut wot does I see but the chief pullin' the string o' the jumpin'-jack, an' grinnin' an' sniggerin' like a blue-faced baboon in a passion -- his wife likewise standin' by holdin' her sides wi' laughin'. Well, sir, the moment I goes in, up gits the chief an' shouts for Tony, an' tells him to tell me that I must make him a jumpin'-jack! In course I says I'd do it with all the pleasure in life; and he says that I must make it full size, as big as hisself! I opened my eyes at this, but he said he must have a thing that was fit for a man -- a chief --  so there was nothin' for it but to set to work. An' it worn't difficult to manage neither, for they supplied me with slabs o' timber an inch thick an' I soon blocked out the body an' limbs with a hatchet an' polished 'em off with my knife, and then put 'em together. W'en the big jack wos all right Yambo took it away, for he'd watched me all the time I wos at it, an' fixed it up to the branch of a tree an' set to work.

"I never, no I never, did," continued Disco, slapping his right thigh, while Jumbo grinned in sympathy, "see sitch a big baby as Yambo became w'en he got that monstrous jumpin'-jack into action -- with his courtiers all round him, their faces blazin' with surprise, or conwulsed wi' laughter. The chief hisself was too hard at work to laugh much. He could only glare an' grin, for, big an' strong though he is, the jack wos so awful heavy that it took all his weight an' muscle haulin' on the rope which okipied the place o' the string that we're used to.

"'Haul away, my hearty,' thought I, w'en I seed him heavin', blowin', an' swettin' at the jack's halyards, 'you'll not break that rope in a hurry.'

"But I was wrong, sir, for, although the halyards held on all right, I had not calkilated on such wiolent action at the joints. All of a sudden off comes a leg at the knee. It was goin' the up'ard kick at the time, an' went up like a rocket, slap through a troop o' monkeys that was lookin' on aloft, which it scattered like foam in a gale. Yambo didn't seem to care a pinch o' snuff. His blood was up. The sweat was runnin' off him like rain. 'Hi!' cries he, givin' another most awful tug. But it wasn't high that time, for the other leg came off at the hip-jint on the down kick, an' went straight into the buzzum of a black warrior an' floored him wuss than he ever wos floored since he took to fightin'. Yambo didn't care for that either. He gave another haul with all his might, which proved too much for jack without his legs, for it threw his arms out with such force that they jammed hard an' fast, as if the poor critter was howlin' for mercy!

"Yambo looked awful blank at this. Then he turned sharp round and looked at me for all the world as if he meant to say 'wot d'ee mean by that? eh!'

"'He shouldn't ought to lick into him like that,' says I to Tony, 'the figure ain't made to be druv by a six-horse power steam-engine! But tell him I'll fix it up with jints that'll stand pullin' by an elephant, and I'll make him another jack to the full as big as that one an' twice as strong.'

"This," added Disco in conclusion, taking up the head on which he had been engaged, "is the noo jack. The old un's outside working away at this moment like a win'-mill. Listen; don't 'ee hear 'em?"

Harold listened and found no difficulty in hearing them, for peals of laughter and shrieks of delight burst forth every few minutes, apparently from a vast crowd outside the hut.

"I do believe," said Disco, rising and going towards the door of the hut "that you can see 'em from where you lay."

He drew aside the skin doorway as he spoke, and there, sure enough, was the gigantic jumping-jack hanging from the limb of a tree, clearly defined against the sky, and galvanically kicking about its vast limbs, with Yambo pulling fiercely at the tail, and the entire tribe looking on steeped in ecstasy and admiration.

It may easily be believed that the sight of this, coupled with Disco's narrative, was almost too much for Harold's nerves, and for some time he exhibited, to Disco's horror, a tendency to repeat some antics which would have been much more appropriate to the jumping-jack, but, after a warm drink administered by his faithful though rough nurse, he became composed, and finally dropped into a pleasant sleep, which was not broken till late the following morning.

Refreshed in body, happy in mind, and thankful in spirit he rose to feel that the illness against which he had fought for many days was conquered, and that, although still very weak, he had fairly turned the corner, and had begun to regain some of his wonted health and vigour.



Chapter Twenty.

Harold Appears In A New Character, And Two Old Characters Reappear To Harold.

The mind of Yambo was a strange compound -- a curious mixture of gravity and rollicking joviality; at one time displaying a phase of intense solemnity; at another exhibiting quiet pleasantry and humour, but earnestness was the prevailing trait of his character. Whether indulging his passionate fondness for the jumping-jack, or engaged in guiding the deliberations of his counsellors, the earnest chief was equally devoted to the work in hand. Being a savage -- and, consequently, led entirely by feeling, which is perhaps the chief characteristic of savage, as distinguished from civilised, man, -- he hated his enemies with exceeding bitterness, and loved his friends with all his heart.

Yambo was very tender to Harold during his illness, and the latter felt corresponding gratitude, so that there sprang up between the two a closer friendship than one could have supposed to be possible, considering that they were so different from each other, mentally, physically, and socially, and that their only mode of exchanging ideas was through the medium of a very incompetent interpreter.

Among other things Harold discovered that his friend the chief was extremely fond of anecdotes and stories. He, therefore, while in a convalescent state and unable for much physical exercise, amused himself, and spent much of his time, in narrating to him the adventures of Robinson Crusoe. Yambo's appetite for mental food increased, and when Crusoe's tale was finished he eagerly demanded more. Some of his warriors also came to hear, and at last the hut was unable to contain the audiences that wished to enter. Harold, therefore, removed to an open space under a banyan-tree, and there daily, for several hours, related all the tales and narratives with which he was acquainted, to the hundreds of open-eyed and open-mouthed negroes who squatted around him.

At first he selected such tales as he thought would be likely to amuse, but these being soon exhausted, he told them about anything that chanced to recur to his memory. Then, finding that their power to swallow the marvellous was somewhat crocodilish, he gave them Jack the Giant-killer, and Jack of Beanstalk notoriety, and Tom Thumb, Cinderella, etcetera, until his entire nursery stock was exhausted, after which he fell back on his inventive powers; but the labour of this last effort proving very considerable, and the results not being adequately great, he took to history, and told them stories about William Tell, and Wallace, and Bruce, and the Puritans of England, and the Scottish Covenanters, and the discoveries of Columbus, until the eyes and mouths of his black auditors were held so constantly and widely on the stretch, that Disco began to fear they would become gradually incapable of being shut, and he entertained a fear that poor Antonio's tongue would, ere long, be dried up at the roots.

At last a thought occurred to our hero, which he promulgated to Disco one morning as they were seated at breakfast on the floor of their hut.

"It seems to me, Disco," he said, after a prolonged silence, during which they had been busily engaged with their knives and wooden spoons, "that illness must be sent sometimes, to teach men that they give too little of their thoughts to the future world."

"Werry true, sir," replied Disco, in that quiet matter-of-course tone with which men generally receive axiomatic verities; "we is raither given to be swallered up with this world, which ain't surprisin' neither, seein' that we've bin putt into it, and are surrounded by it, mixed up with it, steeped in it, so to speak, an' can't werry well help ourselves."

"That last is just the point I'm not quite so sure about," rejoined Harold. "Since I've been lying ill here, I have thought a good deal about forgetting to bring a Bible with me, and about the meaning of the term Christian, which name I bear; and yet I can't, when I look honestly at it, see that I do much to deserve the name."

"Well, I don't quite see that, sir," said Disco, with an argumentative curl of his right eyebrow; "you doesn't swear, or drink, or steal, or commit murder, an' a many other things o' that sort. Ain't that the result o' your being a Christian."

"It may be so, Disco, but that is only what may be styled the don't side of the question. What troubles me is, that I don't see much on the do side of it."

"You says your prayers, sir, don't you?" asked Disco, with the air of a man who had put a telling question.

"Well, yes," replied Harold; "but what troubles me is that, while in my creed I profess to think the salvation of souls is of such vital importance, in my practice I seem to say that it is of no importance at all, for here have I been, for many weeks, amongst these black fellows, and have never so much as mentioned the name of our Saviour to them, although I have been telling them no end of stories of all kinds, both true and fanciful."

"There's something in that sir," admitted Disco. Harold also thought there was so much in it that he gave the subject a great deal of earnest consideration, and finally resolved to begin to tell the negroes Bible stories. He was thus gradually led to tell them that "old, old story" of God the Saviour's life and death, and love for man, which he found interested, affected, and influenced the savages far more powerfully than any of the tales, whether true or fanciful, with which he had previously entertained them. While doing this a new spirit seemed to actuate himself, and to influence his whole being.

While Harold was thus led, almost unconsciously, to become a sower of the blessed seed of God's Word, Marizano was working his way through the country, setting forth, in the most extreme manner, the ultimate results of man's sinful nature, and the devil's lies.

One of his first deeds was to visit a village which was beautifully situated on the banks of a small but deep river. In order to avoid alarming the inhabitants, he approached it with only about thirty of his men, twenty of whom were armed. Arrived at the outskirts, he halted his armed men, and advanced with the other ten, calling out cheerfully, "We have things for sale! have you anything to sell?" The chief and his warriors, armed with their bows and arrows and shields, met him, and forbade him to pass within the hedge that encircled the village, but told him to sit down under a tree outside. A mat of split reeds was placed for Marizano to sit on; and when he had explained to the chief that the object of his visit was to trade with him for ivory -- in proof of which he pointed to the bales which his men carried, -- he was well received, and a great clapping of hands ensued. Presents were then exchanged, and more clapping of hands took place, for this was considered the appropriate ceremony. The chief and his warriors, on sitting down before Marizano and his men, clapped their hands together, and continued slapping on their thighs while handing their presents, or when receiving those of their visitors. It was the African "thank you." To have omitted it would have been considered very bad manners.

Soon a brisk trade was commenced, in which the entire community became ere long deeply and eagerly absorbed.

Meanwhile Marizano's armed men were allowed to come forward. The women prepared food for the strangers; and after they had eaten and drunk of the native beer heartily, Marizano asked the chief if he had ever seen fire-arms used.

"Yes," replied the chief, "but only once at a great distance off. It is told to me that your guns kill very far off -- much further than our bows. Is that so?"

"It is true," replied Marizano, who was very merry by this time under the influence of the beer, as, indeed, were also his men and their entertainers. "Would you like to see what our guns can do?" asked the half-caste. "If you will permit me, I shall let you hear and see them in use."

The unsuspecting chief at once gave his consent. His visitors rose; Marizano gave the word; a volley was poured forth which instantly killed the chief and twenty of his men. The survivors fled in horror. The young women and children were seized; the village was sacked -- which means that the old and useless members of the community were murdered in cold blood, and the place was set on fire -- and Marizano marched away with his band of captives considerably augmented, leaving a scene of death and horrible desolation behind him.

Thus did that villain walk through the land with fire and sword procuring slaves for the supply of the "domestic institution" of the Sultan of Zanzibar.

By degrees the murderer's drove of black "cattle" increased to such an extent that when he approached the neighbourhood of the village in which Harold and Disco sojourned, he began to think that he had obtained about as many as he could conveniently manage, and meditated turning his face eastward, little dreaming how near he was to a thousand dollars' worth of property, in the shape of ransom for two white men!

He was on the point of turning back and missing this when he chanced to fall in with a villager who was out hunting, and who, after a hot chase, was captured. This man was made much of, and presented with some yards of cloth as well as a few beads, at the same time being assured that he had nothing to fear; that the party was merely a slave-trading one; that the number of slaves required had been made up, but that a few more would be purchased if the chief of his village had any to dispose of.

On learning from the man that his village was a large one, fully two days' march from the spot where he stood, and filled with armed men, Marizano came to the conclusion that it would not be worth his while to proceed thither, and was about to order his informant to be added to his gang with a slave-stick round his neck, when he suddenly bethought him of inquiring as to whether any white men had been seen in these parts. As he had often made the same inquiry before without obtaining any satisfactory answer, it was with great surprise that he now heard from his captive of two white men being in the very village about which he had been conversing.

At once he changed his plan, resumed his march, and, a couple of days afterwards, presented himself before the astonished eyes of Harold Seadrift and Disco Lillihammer, while they were taking a walk about a mile from the village.

Disco recognised the slave-trader at once, and, from the troubled as well as surprised look of Marizano, it was pretty evident that he remembered the countenance of Disco.

When the recollection of Marizano's cruelty at the time of their first meeting flashed upon him, Disco felt an almost irresistible desire to rush upon and strangle the Portuguese, but the calm deportment of that wily man, and the peaceful manner in which he had approached, partly disarmed his wrath. He could not however, quite restrain his tongue.

"Ha!" said he, "you are the blackguard that we met and pretty nigh shot when we first came to these parts, eh? Pity we missed you, you black-hearted villain!"

As Marizano did not understand English, these complimentary remarks were lost on him. He seemed, however, to comprehend the drift of them, for he returned Disco's frown with a stare of defiance.

"Whatever he was, or whatever he is," interposed Harold, "we must restrain ourselves just now, Disco, because we cannot punish him as he deserves, however much we may wish to, and he seems to have armed men enough to put us and our entertainers completely in his power. Keep quiet while I speak to him."

Jumbo and Antonio, armed with bows and arrows, -- for they were in search of small game wherewith to supply the pot -- came up, looking very much surprised, and the latter a good deal frightened.

"Ask him, Antonio," said Harold, "what is his object in visiting this part of the country."

"To procure slaves," said Marizano, curtly.

"I thought so," returned Harold; "but he will find that the men of this tribe are not easily overcome."

"I do not wish to overcome them," said the half-caste. "I have procured enough of slaves, as you see," (pointing to the gang which was halted some hundred yards or so in rear of his armed men), "but I heard that you were prisoners here, and I have come to prove to you that even a slave-trader can return good for evil. You did this," he said, looking at Disco, and pointing to his old wound in the arm; "I now come to deliver you from slavery."

Having suppressed part of the truth, and supplemented the rest of it with this magnificent lie, Marizano endeavoured to look magnanimous.

"I don't believe a word of it," said Disco, decidedly.

"I incline to doubt it too," said Harold; "but he may have some good reason of his own for his friendly professions towards us. In any case we have no resource left but to assume that he speaks the truth."

Turning to Marizano, he said: -- 

"We are not prisoners here. We are guests of the chief of this village."

"In that case," replied the half-caste, "I can return to the coast without you."

As he said this a large band of the villagers, having discovered that strangers had arrived, drew near. Marizano at once advanced, making peaceful demonstrations, and, after the requisite amount of clapping of hands on both sides, stated the object for which he had come. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a slave-trader, but said that, having purchased enough of slaves, he had visited their village because of certain rumours to the effect that some white men had been lost in these regions, and could not find their way back to the coast. He was anxious, he said, to help these white men to do so, but, finding that the white men then at the village were not the men he was in search of, and did not want to go to the coast, he would just stay long enough with the chief to exchange compliments, and then depart.

All this was translated to the white men in question by their faithful ally Antonio, and when they retired to consult as to what should be done, they looked at each other with half amused and half perplexed expressions of countenance.

"Werry odd," said Disco, "how contrairy things turns up at times!"

"Very odd indeed," assented Harold, laughing. "It is quite true that we are, in one sense, lost and utterly unable to undertake a journey through this country without men, means, or arms; and nothing could be more fortunate than that we should have the chance, thus suddenly thrown in our way, of travelling under the escort of a band of armed men; nevertheless, I cannot bear the idea of travelling with or being indebted to a slave-trader and a scoundrel like Marizano."

"That's w'ere it is, sir," said Disco with emphasis, "I could stand anything a'most but that."

"And yet," pursued Harold, "it is our only chance. I see quite well that we may remain for years here without again having such an opportunity or such an escort thrown in our way."

"There's no help for it, I fear," said Disco. "We must take it like a dose o' nasty physic -- hold our nobs, shut our daylights, an' down with it. The only thing I ain't sure of is your ability to travel. You ain't strong yet."

"Oh, I'm strong enough now, or very nearly so, and getting stronger every day. Well, then, I suppose it's settled that we go?"

"Humph! I'm agreeable, an' the whole business werry disagreeable," said Disco, making a wry face.

Marizano was much pleased when the decision of the white men was made known to him, and the native chief was naturally much distressed, for, not only was he about to lose two men of whom he had become very fond, but he was on the point of being bereft of his story-teller, the opener up of his mind, the man who, above all others, had taught him to think about his Maker and a future state.

He had sense enough, however, to perceive that his guests could not choose but avail themselves of so good an opportunity, and, after the first feeling of regret was over, made up his mind to the separation.

Next day Harold and Disco, with feelings of strong revulsion, almost of shame, fell into the ranks of the slave-gang, and for many days thereafter marched through the land in company with Marizano and his band of lawless villains.

Marizano usually walked some distance ahead of the main body with a few trusty comrades. Our adventurers, with their two followers, came next in order of march, the gang of slaves in single file followed, and the armed men brought up the rear. It was necessarily a very long line, and at a distance resembled some hideous reptile crawling slowly and tortuously through the fair fields and plains of Africa.

At first there were no stragglers, for the slaves were as yet, with few exceptions, strong and vigorous. These exceptions, and the lazy, were easily kept in the line by means of rope and chain, as well as the rod and lash.

Harold and Disco studiously avoided their leader during the march. Marizano fell in with their humour and left them to themselves. At nights they made their own fire and cooked their own supper, as far removed from the slave camp as was consistent with safety, for they could not bear to witness the sufferings of the slaves, or to look upon their captors. Even the food that they were constrained to eat appeared to have a tendency to choke them, and altogether their situation became so terrible that they several times almost formed the desperate resolution of leaving the party and trying to reach the coast by themselves as they best might, but the utter madness and hopelessness of such a project soon forced itself on their minds, and insured its being finally abandoned.

One morning Marizano threw off his usual reserve, and, approaching the white men, told them that in two hours they would reach the lake where his employer was encamped.

"And who is your master?" asked Harold.

"A black-faced or yellow-faced blackguard like himself, I doubt not," growled Disco.

Antonio put Harold's question without Disco's comment, and Marizano replied that his master was an Arab trader, and added that he would push on in advance of the party and inform him of their approach.

Soon afterwards the lake was reached. A large dhow was in readiness, the gang was embarked and ferried across to a place where several rude buildings and barracoons, with a few tents, indicated that it was one of the inland headquarters of the trade in Black Ivory.

The moment our travellers landed Marizano led them to one of the nearest buildings, and introduced them to his master.

"Yoosoof!" exclaimed Disco in a shout of astonishment.

It would have been a difficult question to have decided which of the three faces displayed the most extreme surprise. Perhaps Disco's would have been awarded the palm, but Yoosoof was undoubtedly the first to regain his self-possession.

"You be surprised," he said, in his very broken English, while his pale-yellow visage resumed its placid gravity of expression.

"Undoubtedly we are," said Harold.

"Bu'stin'!" exclaimed Disco.

"You would be not so mush surprised, -- did you know dat I comes to here every year, an' dat Engleesh consul ask me for 'quire about you."

"If that be so, how comes it that you were surprised to see us?" asked Harold.

"'Cause why, I only knows dat some white mans be loss theirselfs -- not knows what mans -- not knows it was you."

"Well now," cried Disco, unable to restrain himself as he turned to Harold, "did ever two unfortnits meet wi' sitch luck? Here have we bin' obliged for days to keep company with the greatest Portugee villian in the country, an' now we're needcessitated to be under a obligation to the greatest Arab scoundrel in Afriky."

The scoundrel in question smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Yoosoof," cried Disco, clenching his fist and looking full in the trader's eyes, "when I last saw yer ugly face, I vowed that if ever I seed it again I'd leave my mark on it pretty deep, I did; and now I does see it again, but I haven't the moral courage to touch sitch a poor, pitiful, shrivelled-up package o' bones an' half-tanned leather. Moreover, I'm goin' to be indebted to 'ee! Ha! ha!" (he laughed bitterly, and with a dash of wild humour in the tone), "to travel under yer care, an' eat yer accursed bread, and -- and -- oh! there ain't no sitch thing as shame left in my corpus. I'm a low mean-spirited boastful idiot, that's wot I am, an' I don't care the fag-end of a hunk o' gingerbread who knows it."

After this explosion the sorely tried mariner brought his right hand down on his thigh with a tremendous crack, turned about and walked away to cool himself.



Chapter Twenty One.

Progress Of The Slave-Run -- The Deadly Swamp, And The Unexpected Rescue.

We will now leap over a short period of time -- about two or three weeks --  during which the sable procession had been winding its weary way over hill and dale, plain and swamp.

During that comparatively brief period, Harold and Disco had seen so much cruelty and suffering that they both felt a strange tendency to believe that the whole must be the wild imaginings of a horrible dream. Perhaps weakness, resulting from illness, might have had something to do with this peculiar feeling of unbelief, for both had been subject to a second, though slight, attack of fever. Nevertheless, coupled with their scepticism was a contradictory and dreadful certainty that they were not dreaming, but that what they witnessed was absolute verity.

It is probable that if they had been in their ordinary health and vigour they would have made a violent attempt to rescue the slaves, even at the cost of their own lives. But severe and prolonged illness often unhinges the mind as well as the body, and renders the spirit all but impotent.

One sultry evening the sad procession came to a long stretch of swamp, and prepared to cross it. Although already thinned by death, the slave-gang was large. It numbered several hundreds, and was led by Marizano; Yoosoof having started some days in advance in charge of a similar gang.

Harold and Disco were by that time in the habit of walking together in front of the gang, chiefly for the purpose of avoiding the sight of cruelties and woes which they were powerless to prevent or assuage. On reaching the edge of the swamp, however, they felt so utterly wearied and dis-spirited that they sat down on a bank to rest, intending to let the slave-gang go into the swamp before them and then follow in rear. Antonio and Jumbo also remained with them.

"You should go on in front," said Marizano significantly, on observing their intention.

"Tell him we'll remain where we are," said Disco sternly to Antonio.

Marizano shrugged his shoulders and left them.

The leading men of the slave-gang were ordered to advance, as soon as the armed guard had commenced the toilsome march over ground into which they sank knee-deep at every step.

The first man of the gang hesitated and heaved a deep sigh as though his heart failed him at the prospect -- and well it might, for, although young, he was not robust, and over-driving, coupled with the weight and the chafing of the goree, had worn him to a skeleton.

It was not the policy of the slave-traders to take much care of their Black Ivory. They procured it so cheaply that it was easier and more profitable to lose or cast away some of it, than to put off time in resting and recruiting the weak.

The moment it was observed, therefore, that the leading man hesitated, one of the drivers gave him a slash across his naked back with a heavy whip which at once drew blood. Poor wretch; he could ill bear further loss of the precious stream of life, for it had already been deeply drained from him by the slave-stick. The chafing of that instrument of torture had not only worn the skin off his shoulders, but had cut into the quivering flesh, so that blood constantly dropped in small quantities from it.

No cry burst from the man's lips on receiving the cruel blow, but he turned his eyes on his captors with a look that seemed to implore for mercy. As well might he have looked for mercy at the hands of Satan. The lash again fell on him with stinging force. He made a feeble effort to advance, staggered, and fell to the ground, dragging down the man to whom he was coupled with such violence as almost to break his neck. The lash was again about to be applied to make him rise, but Disco and Harold rose simultaneously and rushed at the driver, with what intent they scarcely knew; but four armed half-castes stepped between them and the slave.

"You had better not interfere," said Marizano, who stood close by.

"Out of the way!" cried Harold fiercely, in the strength of his passion hurling aside the man who opposed him.

"You shan't give him another cut," said Disco between his teeth, as he seized the driver by the throat.

"We don't intend to do so," said Marizano coolly, while the driver released himself from poor Disco's weakened grasp, "he won't need any more."

The Englishmen required no explanation of these words. A glance told them that the man was dying.

"Cut him out," said Marizano.

One of his men immediately brought a saw and cut the fork of the stick which still held the living to the dying man, and which, being riveted on them, could not otherwise be removed.

Harold and Disco lifted him up as soon as he was free, and carrying him a short distance aside to a soft part of the bank, laid him gently down.

The dying slave looked as if he were surprised at such unwonted tenderness. There was even a slight smile on his lips for a few moments, but it quickly passed away with the fast ebbing tide of life.

"Go fetch some water," said Harold. "His lips are dry."

Disco rose and ran to fill a small cocoa-nut-shell which he carried at his girdle as a drinking-cup. Returning with it he moistened the man's lips and poured a little of the cool water on the raw sores on each side of his neck.

They were so much engrossed with their occupation that neither of them observed that the slave-gang had commenced to pass through the swamp, until the sharp cry of a child drew their attention to it for a moment; but, knowing that they could do no good, they endeavoured to shut their eyes and ears to everything save the duty they had in hand.

By degrees the greater part of the long line had got into the swamp and were slowly toiling through it under the stimulus of the lash. Some, like the poor fellow who first fell, had sunk under their accumulated trials, and after a fruitless effort on the part of the slavers to drive them forward, had been kicked aside into the jungle, there to die, or to be torn in pieces by that ever-watchful scavenger of the wilderness, the hyena. These were chiefly women, who having become mothers not long before were unable to carry their infants and keep up with the gang. Others, under the intense dread of flagellation, made the attempt, and staggered on a short distance, only to fall and be left behind in the pestilential swamp, where rank reeds and grass closed over them and formed a ready grave.

The difficulties of the swamp were, however, felt most severely by the children, who, from little creatures of not much more than five years of age to well-grown boys and girls, were mingled with and chained to the adults along the line. Their comparatively short legs were not well adapted for such ground, and not a few of them perished there; but although the losses here were terribly numerous in one sense, they after all bore but a small proportion to those whose native vigour carried them through in safety.

Among the men there were some whose strength of frame and fierce expression indicated untameable spirits -- men who might have been, probably were, heroes among their fellows. It was for men of this stamp that the goree, or slave-stick, had been invented, and most effectually did that instrument serve its purpose. Samson himself would have been a mere child in it.

There were men in the gang quite as bold, if not as strong, as Samson. One of these, a very tall and powerful negro, on drawing near to the place where Marizano stood superintending the passage, turned suddenly aside, and, although coupled by the neck to a fellow-slave, and securely bound at the wrists with a cord, which was evidently cutting into his swelled flesh, made a desperate kick at the half-caste leader.

Although the slave failed to reach him, Marizano was so enraged that he drew a hatchet from his belt and instantly dashed out the man's brains. He fell dead without even a groan. Terrified by this, the rest passed on more rapidly, and there was no further check till a woman in the line, with an infant on her back, stumbled, and, falling down, appeared unable to rise.

"Get up!" shouted Marizano, whose rage had rather been increased than abated by the murder he had just committed.

The woman rose and attempted to advance, but seemed ready to fall again. Seeing this, Marizano plucked the infant from her back, dashed it against a tree, and flung its quivering body into the jungle, while a terrible application of the lash sent the mother shrieking into the swamp.

Harold and Disco did not witness this, though they heard the shriek of despair, for at the moment the negro they were tending was breathing his last. When his eyes had closed and the spirit had been set free, they rose, and, purposely refraining from looking back, hurried away from the dreadful scene, intending to plunge into the swamp at some distance from the place, and push on until they should regain the head of the column.

"Better if we'd never fallen behind, sir," said Disco, in a deep, tremulous voice.

"True," replied Harold. "We should have been spared these sights, and the pain of knowing that we cannot prevent this appalling misery and cruelty."

"But surely it is to be prevented somehow," cried Disco, almost fiercely. "Many a war that has cost mints o' money has been carried on for causes that ain't worth mentionin' in the same breath with this!"

As Harold knew not what to say, and was toiling knee-deep in the swamp at the moment he made no reply.

After marching about half an hour he stopped abruptly and said, with a heavy sigh, -- "I hope we haven't missed our way?"

"Hope not sir, but it looks like as if we had."

"I've bin so took up thinkin' o' that accursed traffic in human bein's that I've lost my reckonin'. Howsever, we can't be far out, an', with the sun to guide us, we'll -- "

He was stopped by a loud halloo in the woods, on the belt of the swamp.

It was repeated in a few seconds, and Antonio, who, with Jumbo, had followed his master, cried in an excited tone -- 

"Me knows dat sound!"

"Wot may it be, Tony?" asked Disco.

There was neither time nor need for an answer, for at that moment a ringing cry, something like a bad imitation of a British cheer, was heard, and a band of men sprang out of the woods and ran at full speed towards our Englishmen.

"Why, Zombo!" exclaimed Disco, wildly.

"Oliveira!" cried Harold.

"Masiko! Songolo!" shouted Antonio and Jumbo.

"An' Jose, Nakoda, Chimbolo, Mabruki! -- the whole bun' of 'em," cried Disco, as one after another these worthies emerged from the wood and rushed in a state of frantic excitement towards their friends -- "Hooray!"

"Hooroo-hay!" replied the runners.

In another minute our adventurous party of travellers was re-united, and for some time nothing but wild excitement, congratulations, queries that got no replies, and replies that ran tilt at irrelevant queries, with confusion worse confounded by explosions of unbounded and irrepressible laughter not unmingled with tears, was the order of the hour.

"But wat! yoos ill?" cried Zombo suddenly, looking into Disco's face with an anxious expression.

"Well, I ain't 'xac'ly ill, nor I ain't 'xac'ly well neither, but I'm hearty all the same, and werry glad to see your black face, Zombo."

"Ho! hooroo-hay! so's me for see you," cried the excitable Zombo; "but come, not good for talkee in de knees to watter. Fall in boy, ho! sholler 'ums -- queek mash!"

That Zombo had assumed command of his party was made evident by the pat way in which he trolled off the words of command formerly taught to him by Harold, as well as by the prompt obedience that was accorded to his orders. He led the party out of the swamp, and, on reaching a dry spot, halted, in order to make further inquiries and answer questions.

"How did you find us, Zombo?" asked Harold, throwing himself wearily on the ground.

"Yoos ill," said Zombo, holding up a finger by way of rebuke.

"So I am, though not so ill as I look. But come, answer me. How came you to discover us? You could not have found us by mere chance in this wilderness?"

"Chanz; wat am chanz?" asked the Makololo.

There was some difficulty in getting Antonio to explain the word, from the circumstance of himself being ignorant of it, therefore Harold put the question in a more direct form.

"Oh! ve comes here look for yoo, 'cause peepils d'reck 'ums -- show de way. Ve's been veeks, monts, oh! days look for yoo. Travil far --  g'rong road -- turin bak -- try agin -- fin' yoo now -- hooroo-hay!"

"You may say that, indeed. I'd have it in my heart," said Disco, "to give three good rousin' British cheers if it warn't for the thoughts o' that black-hearted villain, Marizano, an' his poor, miserable slaves."

"Marizano!" shouted Chimbolo, glaring at Harold.

"Marizano!" echoed Zombo, glaring at Disco.

Harold now explained to his friends that the slave-hunter was close at hand -- a piece of news which visibly excited them, -- and described the cruelties of which he had recently been a witness. Zombo showed his teeth like a savage mastiff, and grasped his musket as though he longed to use it, but he uttered no word until the narrative reached that point in which the death of the poor captive was described. Then he suddenly started forward and said something to his followers in the native tongue, which caused each to fling down the small bundle that was strapped to his shoulders.

"Yoo stop here," he cried, earnestly, as he turned to Harold and Disco. "Ve's com bak soon. Ho! boys, sholler 'ums! queek mash!"

No trained band of Britons ever obeyed with more ready alacrity. No attention was paid to Harold's questions. The "queek mash" carried them out of sight in a few minutes, and when the Englishmen, who had run after them a few paces, halted, under the conviction that in their weak condition they might as well endeavour to keep up with race-horses as with their old friends, they found that Antonio alone remained to keep them company.

"Where's Jumbo?" inquired Harold.

"Gon' 'way wid oders," replied the interpreter.

Examining the bundles of their friends, they found that their contents were powder, ball, and food. It was therefore resolved that a fire should be kindled, and food prepared, to be ready for their friends on their return.

"I'm not so sure about their return," said Harold gravely. "They will have to fight against fearful odds if they find the slavers. Foolish fellows; I wish they had not rushed away so madly without consulting us."

The day passed; night came and passed also, and another day dawned, but there was no appearance of Zombo and his men, until the sun had been up for some hours. Then they came back, wending their way slowly -- very slowly -- through the woods, with the whole of the slave-gang, men, women, and children, at their heels!

"Where is Marizano?" inquired Harold, almost breathless with surprise.

"Dead!" said Zombo.

"Dead?"

"Ay, dead, couldn't be deader."

"And his armed followers?"

"Dead, too -- some ob ums. Ve got at um in de night. Shotted Marizano all to hatoms. Shotted mos' ob um follerers too. De res' all scatter like leaves in de wind. Me giv' up now," added Zombo, handing his musket to Harold. "Boys! orrer ums! mees Capitin not no more. Now, Capitin Harol', yoos once more look afer us, an' take care ob all ums peepil."

Having thus demitted his charge, the faithful Zombo stepped back and left our hero in the unenviable position of a half broken-down man with the responsibility of conducting an expedition, and disposing of a large gang of slaves in some unknown part of equatorial Africa!

Leaving him there, we will proceed at once to the coast and follow, for a time, the fortunes of that archvillain, Yoosoof.



Chapter Twenty Two.

Describes "Black Ivory" At Sea.

Having started for the coast with a large gang of slaves a short time before Marizano, as we have already said, and having left the Englishmen to the care of the half-caste, chiefly because he did not desire their company, although he had no objection to the ransom, Yoosoof proceeded over the same track which we have already described in part, leaving a bloody trail behind him.

It is a fearful track, of about 500 miles in length, that which lies between the head of Lake Nyassa and the sea-coast at Kilwa. We have no intention of dragging the reader over it to witness the cruelties and murders that were perpetrated by the slavers, or the agonies endured by the slaves. Livingstone speaks of it as a land of death, of desolation, and dead men's bones. And no wonder, for it is one of the main arteries through which the blood of Africa flows, like the water of natural rivers, to the sea. The slave-gangs are perpetually passing eastward through it -- perpetually dropping four-fifths of their numbers on it as they go. Dr Livingstone estimates that, in some cases, not more than one-tenth of the slaves captured reach the sea-coast alive. It is therefore rather under than over-stating the case to say that out of every hundred starting from the interior, eighty perish on the road.

Yoosoof left with several thousands of strong and healthy men, women, and children -- most of them being children -- he arrived at Kilwa with only eight hundred. The rest had sunk by the way, either from exhaustion or cruel treatment, or both. The loss was great; but as regards the trader it could not be called severe, because the whole gang of slaves cost him little -- some of them even nothing! -- and the remaining eight hundred would fetch a good price. They were miserably thin, indeed, and exhibited on their poor, worn, and travel-stained bodies the evidence of many a cruel castigation; but Yoosoof knew that a little rest and good feeding at Kilwa would restore them to some degree of marketable value, and at Zanzibar he was pretty sure of obtaining, in round numbers, about 10 pounds a head for them, while in the Arabian and Persian ports he could obtain much more, if he chose to pass beyond the treaty-protected water at Lamoo, and run the risk of being captured by British cruisers. It is "piracy" to carry slaves north of Lamoo. South of that point for hundreds of miles, robbery, rapine, murder, cruelty, such as devils could not excel if they were to try, is a "domestic institution" with which Britons are pledged not to interfere!

Since the above was written Sir Bartle Frere has returned from his mission, and we are told that a treaty has been signed by the Sultan of Zanzibar putting an end to this domestic slavery. We have not yet seen the terms of this treaty, and must go to press before it appears. We have reason to rejoice and be thankful, however, that such an advantage has been gained. But let not the reader imagine that this settles the question of East African slavery. Portugal still holds to the "domestic institution" in her colonies, and has decreed that it shall not expire till the year 1878. Decreed, in fact, that the horrors which we have attempted to depict shall continue for five years longer! And let it be noted, that the export slave-trade cannot be stopped as long as domestic slavery is permitted. Besides this, there is a continual drain of human beings from Africa through Egypt. Sir Samuel Baker's mission is a blow aimed at that; but nothing, that we know of, is being done in regard to Portuguese wickedness. If the people of this country could only realise the frightful state of things that exists in the African Portuguese territory, and knew how many thousand bodies shall be racked with torture, and souls be launched into eternity during these five years, they would indignantly insist that Portugal should be compelled to stop it at once. If it is righteous to constrain the Sultan of Zanzibar, is it not equally so to compel the King of Portugal?

The arch robber and murderer, Yoosoof -- smooth and oily of face, tongue, and manner though he was -- possessed a bold spirit and a grasping heart. The domestic institution did not suit him. Rather than sneak along his villainous course under its protecting "pass," he resolved to bid defiance to laws, treaties, and men-of-war to boot -- as many hundreds of his compeers have done and do -- and make a bold dash to the north with his eight hundred specimens of Black Ivory.

Accordingly, full of his purpose, one afternoon he sauntered up to the barracoons in which his "cattle" were being rested and fed-up.

Moosa, his chief driver, was busy among them with the lash, for, like other cattle, they had a tendency to rebel, at least a few of them had; the most of them were by that time reduced to the callous condition which had struck Harold and Disco so much on the occasion of their visits to the slave-market of Zanzibar.

Moosa was engaged, when Yoosoof entered, in whipping most unmercifully a small boy whose piercing shrieks had no influence whatever on his tormentor. Close beside them a large strong-boned man lay stretched on the ground. He had just been felled with a heavy stick by Moosa for interfering. He had raised himself on one elbow, while with his right hand he wiped away the blood that oozed from the wound in his head, and appeared to struggle to recover himself from the stunning blow.

"What has he been doing?" asked Yoosoof carelessly, in Portuguese.

"Oh, the old story, rebelling," said Moosa, savagely hurling the boy into the midst of a group of cowering children, amongst whom he instantly shrank as much as possible out of sight. "That brute," pointing to the prostrate man, "was a chief, it appears, in his own country, and has not yet got all the spirit lashed out of him. But it can't last much longer; either the spirit or the life must go. He has carried that little whelp the last part of the way on his back, and now objects to part with him, -- got fond of him, I fancy. If you had taken my advice you would have cast them both to the hyenas long ago."

"You are a bad judge of human flesh, Moosa," said Yoosoof, quietly; "more than once you have allowed your passion to rob me of a valuable piece of goods. This man will fetch a good price in Persia, and so will his son. I know that the child is his son, though the fool thinks no one knows that but himself, and rather prides himself on the clever way in which he has continued to keep his whelp beside him on the journey down. Bah! what can one expect from such cattle? Don't separate them, Moosa. They will thrive better together. If we only get them to market in good condition, then we can sell them in separate lots without risking loss of value from pining."

In a somewhat sulky tone, for he was not pleased to be found fault with by his chief, the slave-driver ordered out the boy, who was little more than five years old, though the careworn expression of his thin face seemed to indicate a much more advanced age.

Trembling with alarm, for he expected a repetition of the punishment, yet not daring to disobey, the child came slowly out from the midst of his hapless companions, and advanced. The man who had partly recovered rose to a sitting position, and regarded Moosa and the Arab with a look of hatred so intense that it is quite certain he would have sprung at them, if the heavy slave-stick had not rendered such an act impossible.

"Go, you little whelp," said Moosa, pointing to the fallen chief, and at the same time giving the child a cut with the whip.

With a cry of mingled pain and delight poor Obo, for it was he, rushed into his father's open arms, and laid his sobbing head on his breast. He could not nestle into his neck as, in the days of old, he had been wont to do, -- the rough goree effectually prevented that.

Kambira bent his head over the child and remained perfectly still. He did not dare to move, lest any action, however inoffensive, might induce Moosa to change his mind and separate them again.

Poor Kambira! How different from the hearty, bold, kindly chief to whom we introduced the reader in his own wilderness home! His colossal frame was now gaunt in the extreme, and so thin that every rib stood out as though it would burst the skin, and every joint seemed hideously large, while from head to foot his skin was crossed and recrossed with terrible weals, and scarred with open sores, telling of the horrible cruelties to which he had been subjected in the vain attempt to tame his untameable spirit. There can be no question that, if he had been left to the tender mercies of such Portuguese half-caste scoundrels as Moosa or Marizano, he would have been brained with an axe or whipped to death long ago. But Yoosoof was more cool and calculating in his cruelty; he had more respect for his pocket than for the gratification of his angry feelings. Therefore Kambira had reached the coast alive.

Little had the simple chief imagined what awaited him on that coast, and on his way to it, when, in the fulness of his heart, he had stated to Harold Seadrift his determination to proceed thither in search of Azinte. Experience had now crushed hope, and taught him to despair. There was but one gleam of light in his otherwise black sky, and that was the presence of his boy. Life had still one charm in it as long as he could lay hold of Obo's little hand and hoist him, not quite so easily as of yore, on his broad shoulders. Yoosoof was sufficiently a judge of human character to be aware that if he separated these two, Kambira would become more dangerous to approach than the fiercest monster in the African wilderness.

"We must sail to-night and take our chance," said Yoosoof, turning away from his captives; "the time allowed for our trade is past and I shall run straight north without delay."

The Arab here referred to the fact that the period of the year allowed by treaty for the "lawful slave-trade" of the Zanzibar dominions had come to an end. That period extended over several months, and during its course passes from the Sultan secured "domestic slavers" against the British cruisers. After its expiration no export of slaves was permitted anywhere; nevertheless a very large export was carried on, despite non-permission and cruisers. Yoosoof meant to run the blockade and take his chance.

"How many dhows have you got?" asked Yoosoof.

"Three," replied Moosa.

"That will do," returned the Arab after a few minutes' thought; "it will be a tight fit at first, perhaps, but a few days at sea will rectify that. Even in the most healthy season and favourable conditions we must unfortunately count on a good many losses. We shall sail to-morrow."

The morrow came, and three dhows left the harbour of Kilwa, hoisted their lateen sails, and steered northwards.

They were densely crowded with slaves. Even to the eye of a superficial observer this would have been patent, for the upper deck of each was so closely packed with black men, women, and children, that a square inch of it could not anywhere be seen.

They were packed very systematically, in order to secure economical stowage. Each human being sat on his haunches with his thighs against his breast, and his knees touching his chin. They were all ranged thus in rows, shoulder to shoulder, and back to shin, so that the deck was covered with a solid phalanx of human flesh. Change of posture was not provided for: it was not possible. There was no awning over the upper deck. The tropical sun poured its rays on the heads of the slaves all day. The dews fell on them all night. The voyage might last for days or weeks, but there was no relief to the wretched multitude. For no purpose whatever could they move from their terrible position, save for the one purpose of being thrown overboard when dead.

But we have only spoken of the upper deck of these dhows. Beneath this there was a temporary bamboo deck, with just space sufficient to admit of men being seated in the position above referred to. This was also crowded, but it was not the "Black Hole" of the vessel. That was lower still. Seated on the stone ballast beneath the bamboo deck there was yet another layer of humanity, whose condition can neither be described nor conceived. Without air, without light, without room to move, without hope; with insufferable stench, with hunger and thirst, with heat unbearable, with agony of body and soul, with dread anticipations of the future, and despairing memories of the past, they sat for days and nights together -- fed with just enough of uncooked rice and water to keep soul and body together.

Not enough in all cases, however, for many succumbed, especially among the women and children.

Down in the lowest, filthiest, and darkest corner of this foul hold sat Kambira, with little Obo crushed against his shins. It may be supposed that there was a touch of mercy in this arrangement. Let not the reader suppose so. Yoosoof knew that if Kambira was to be got to market alive, Obo must go along with him. Moosa also knew that if the strong-minded chief was to be subdued at all, it would only be by the most terrible means. Hence his position in the dhow.

There was a man seated alongside of Kambira who for some time had appeared to be ill. He could not be seen, for the place was quite dark, save when a man came down with a lantern daily to serve out rice and water; but Kambira knew that he was very ill from his groans and the quiverings of his body. One night these groans ceased, and the man leaned heavily on the chief -- not very heavily, however, he was too closely wedged in all round to admit of that. Soon afterwards he became very cold, and Kambira knew that he was dead. All that night and the greater part of next day the dead man sat propped up by his living comrades. When the daily visitor came down, attention was drawn to the body and it was removed.

Moosa, who was in charge of this dhow (Yoosoof having command of another), gave orders to have the slaves in the hold examined, and it was discovered that three others were dead and two dying. The dead were thrown overboard; the dying were left till they died, and then followed their released comrades.

But now a worse evil befell that dhow. Smallpox broke out among the slaves.

It was a terrible emergency, but Moosa was quite equal to it. Ordering the infected, and suspected, slaves to be brought on deck, he examined them. In this operation he was assisted and accompanied by two powerful armed men. There were passengers on board the dhow, chiefly Arabs, and a crew, as well as slaves. The passengers and crew together numbered about thirty-four, all of whom were armed to the teeth. To these this inspection was of great importance, for it was their interest to get rid of the deadly disease as fast as possible.

The first slave inspected, a youth of about fifteen, was in an advanced stage of the disease, in fact, dying. A glance was sufficient and at a nod from Moosa, the two powerful men seized him and hurled him into the sea. The poor creature was too far gone even to struggle for life. He sank like a stone. Several children followed. They were unquestionably smitten with the disease, and were at once thrown overboard. Whether the passengers felt pity or no we cannot say. They expressed none, but looked on in silence.

So far the work was easy, but when men and women were brought up on whom the disease had not certainly taken effect, Moosa was divided between the desire to check the progress of the evil, and the desire to save valuable property.

The property itself also caused some trouble in a few instances, for when it became obvious to one or two of the stronger slave-girls and men what was going to be done with them, they made a hard struggle for their lives, and the two strong men were under the necessity of using a knife, now and then, to facilitate the accomplishment of their purpose. But such cases were rare. Most of the victims were callously submissive; it might not be beyond the truth, in some cases, to say willingly submissive.

Each day this scene was enacted, for Moosa was a very determined man, and full forty human beings were thus murdered, but the disease was not stayed. The effort to check it was therefore given up, and the slaves were left to recover or die where they sat. See account of capture of dhow by Captain Robert B. Cay, of H.M.S. "Vulture," in the Times of India, 1872.

While this was going on in the vessel commanded by Moosa, the other two dhows under Yoosoof and a man named Suliman had been lost sight of. But this was a matter of little moment, as they were all bound for the same Persian port, and were pretty sure, British cruisers permitting, to meet there at last. Meanwhile the dhow ran short of water, and Moosa did not like to venture at that time to make the land, lest he should be caught by one of the hated cruisers or their boats. He preferred to let the wretched slaves take their chance of dying of thirst -- hoping, however, to lose only a few of the weakest, as water could be procured a little farther north with greater security.

Thus the horrible work of disease, death, and murder went on, until an event occurred which entirely changed the aspect of affairs on board the dhow.

Early one morning, Moosa directed the head of his vessel towards the land with the intention of procuring the much needed water. At the same hour and place two cutters belonging to H.M.S. 'Firefly,' armed with gun and rocket, twenty men, and an interpreter, crept out under sail with the fishing boats from a neighbouring village. They were under the command of Lieutenants Small and Lindsay respectively. For some days they had been there keeping vigilant watch, but had seen no dhows, and that morning were proceeding out rather depressed by the influence of "hope deferred," when a sail was observed in the offing -- or, rather, a mast, for the sail of the dhow had been lowered -- the owners intending to wait until the tide should enable them to cross the bar.

"Out oars and give way, lads," was the immediate order; for it was necessary to get up all speed on the boats if the dhow was to be reached before she had time to hoist her huge sail.

"I hope the haze will last," earnestly muttered Lieutenant Small in the first cutter.

"Oh that they may keep on sleeping for five minutes more," excitedly whispered Lieutenant Lindsay in the second cutter.

These hopes were coupled with orders to have the gun and rocket in readiness.

But the haze would not last to oblige Mr Small, neither would the Arabs keep on sleeping to please Mr Lindsay. On the contrary, the haze dissipated, and the Arabs observed and recognised their enemies when within about half a mile. With wonderful celerity they hoisted sail and stood out to sea in the full-swing of the monsoon.

There was no little probability that the boats would fail to overhaul a vessel with so large a sail, therefore other means were instantly resorted to.

"Fire!" said Mr Small.

"Fire!" cried Mr Lindsay.

Bang went the gun, whiz went the rocket, almost at the same moment. A rapid rifle-fire was also opened on the slaver -- shot, rocket, and ball bespattered the sea and scattered foam in the air, but did no harm to the dhow, a heavy sea and a strong wind preventing accuracy of aim.

"Give it them as fast as you can," was now the order; and well was the order obeyed, for blue-jackets are notoriously smart men in action, and the gun, the rocket, and the rifles kept up a smart iron storm for upwards of two hours, during which time the exciting chase lasted.

At last Jackson, the linguist who was in the stern of Lindsay's boat, mortally wounded the steersman of the dhow with a rifle-ball at a distance of about six hundred yards. Not long afterwards the rocket-cutter, being less heavily weighted than her consort, crept ahead, and when within about a hundred and fifty yards of the slaver, let fly a well-directed rocket. It carried away the parrell which secured the yard of the dhow to the mast and brought the sail down instantly on the deck.

"Hurra!" burst irresistibly from the blue-jackets.

The Arabs were doubly overwhelmed, for besides getting the sail down on their heads, they were astonished and stunned by the shriek, smoke, and flame of the war-rocket. The gun-cutter coming up at the moment the two boats ranged alongside of the slaver, and boarded together.

As we have said, the crew and passengers, numbering thirty-four, were armed to the teeth, and they had stood by the halyards during the chase with drawn creases, swearing to kill any one who should attempt to shorten sail. These now appeared for a moment as though they meditated resistance, but the irresistible dash of the sailors seemed to change their minds, for they submitted without striking a blow, though many of them were very reluctant to give up their swords and knives.

Fortunately the 'Firefly' arrived in search of her boats that evening, and the slaves were transferred to her deck. But who shall describe the harrowing scene! The dhow seemed a very nest of black ants, it was so crowded, and the sailors, who had to perform the duty of removing the slaves, were nearly suffocated by the horrible stench. Few of the slaves could straighten themselves after their long confinement. Indeed some of them were unable to stand for days afterwards, and many died on board the 'Firefly' before they reached a harbour of refuge and freedom. Those taken from the hold were in the worst condition, especially the children, many of whom were in the most loathsome stages of smallpox, and scrofula of every description. They were so emaciated and weak that many had to be carried on board, and lifted for every movement.

Kambira, although able to stand, was doubled up like an old man, and poor little Obo trembled and staggered when he attempted to follow his father, to whom he still clung as to his last and only refuge.

To convey these poor wretches to a place where they could be cared for was now Captain Romer's chief anxiety. First however, he landed the crew and passengers, with the exception of Moosa and three of his men. The filthy dhow was then scuttled and sunk, after which the 'Firefly' steamed away for Aden, that being the nearest port where the rescued slaves could be landed and set free.



Chapter Twenty Three.

The Remedy.

Reader, we will turn aside at this point to preach you a lay sermon, if you will lend an attentive ear. It shall be brief, and straight to the point. Our text is, -- Prevention and Cure.

There are at least three great channels by which the life-blood of Africa is drained. One trends to the east through the Zanzibar dominions, another to the south-east through the Portuguese dependencies, and a third to the north through Egypt. If the slave-trade is to be effectually checked, the flow through these three channels must be stopped. It is vain to rest content with the stoppage of one leak in our ship if two other leaks are left open.

Happily, in regard to the first of these channels, Sir Bartle Frere has been successful in making a grand stride in the way of prevention. If the Sultan of Zanzibar holds to his treaty engagements, "domestic slavery" in his dominions is at an end. Nevertheless, our fleet will be required just as much as ever to prevent the unauthorised, piratical, slave-trade, and this, after all, is but one-third of the preventive work we have to do. Domestic slavery remains untouched in the Portuguese dependencies, and Portugal has decreed that it shall remain untouched until the year 1878! It is well that we should be thoroughly impressed with the fact that so long as slavery in any form is tolerated, the internal -- we may say infernal -- miseries and horrors which we have attempted to depict will continue to blight the land and brutalise its people. Besides this, justice demands that the same constraint which we lay on the Sultan of Zanzibar should be applied to the King of Portugal. We ought to insist that his "domestic slavery" shall cease at once. Still further, as Sir Bartle Frere himself has recommended, we should urge upon our Government the appointment of efficient consular establishments in the Portuguese dependencies, as well as vigilance in securing the observance of the treaties signed by the Sultans of Zanzibar and Muscat.

A recent telegram from Sir Samuel Baker assures us that a great step has been made in the way of checking the tide of slavery in the third -- the Egyptian -- channel, and Sir Bartle Frere bears testimony to the desire of the Khedive that slavery should be put down in his dominions. For this we have reason to be thankful; and the appearance of affairs in that quarter is hopeful, but our hope is mingled with anxiety, because mankind is terribly prone to go to sleep on hopeful appearances. Our nature is such, that our only chance of success lies, under God, in resolving ceaselessly to energise until our ends be accomplished. We must see to it that the Khedive of Egypt acts in accordance with his professions, and for this end efficient consular agency is as needful in the north-east as in the south-east.

So much for prevention, but prevention is not cure. In order to accomplish this two things are necessary. There must be points or centres of refuge for the oppressed on the mainland of Africa, and there must be the introduction of the Bible. The first is essential to the second. Where anarchy, murder, injustice, and tyranny are rampant and triumphant, the advance of the missionary is either terribly slow or altogether impossible. The life-giving, soul-softening Word of God, is the only remedy for the woes of mankind, and, therefore, the only cure for Africa. To introduce it effectually, and along with it civilisation and all the blessings that flow therefrom, it is indispensable that Great Britain should obtain, by treaty or by purchase, one or more small pieces of land, there to establish free Christian negro settlements, and there, with force sufficient to defend them from the savages, and worse than savages, -- the Arab and Portuguese half-caste barbarians and lawless men who infest the land -- hold out the hand of friendship to all natives who choose to claim her protection from the man-stealer, and offer to teach them the blessed truths of Christianity and the arts of civilisation. Many of the men who are best fitted to give an opinion on the point agree in holding that some such centre, or centres, on the mainland are essential to the permanent cure of slavery, although they differ a little as to the best localities for them. Take, for instance, Darra Salaam on the coast, the Manganja highlands near the river Shire, and Kartoum on the Nile. Three such centres would, if established, begin at once to dry up the slave-trade at its three fountain-heads, while our cruisers would check it on the coast. In these centres of light and freedom the negroes might see exemplified the blessings of Christianity and civilisation, and, thence, trained native missionaries might radiate into all parts of the vast continent armed only with the Word of God, the shield of Faith, and the sword of the Spirit in order to preach the glad tidings of salvation through Jesus Christ our Lord.

In brief, the great points on which we ought as a nation, to insist, are the immediate abolition of the slave-trade in Portuguese dependencies; the scrupulous fulfilment of treaty obligations by the Sultans of Zanzibar and Muscat, the Shah of Persia, and the Khedive of Egypt; the establishment by our Government of efficient consular agencies where such are required; the acquisition of territory on the mainland for the purposes already mentioned, and the united action of all Christians in our land to raise funds and send men to preach the Gospel to the negro. So doing we shall, with God's blessing, put an end to the Eastern slave-trade, save equatorial Africa, and materially increase the commerce, the riches, and the happiness of the world.



Chapter Twenty Four.

Tells Of Sad Sights, And Sudden Events, And Unexpected Meetings.

In the course of time, our hero, Harold Seadrift, and his faithful ally, Disco Lillihammer, after innumerable adventures which we are unwillingly obliged to pass over in silence, returned to the coast and, in the course of their wanderings in search of a vessel which should convey them to Zanzibar, found themselves at last in the town of Governor Letotti. Being English travellers, they were received as guests by the Governor, and Harold was introduced to Senhorina Maraquita.

Passing through the market-place one day, they observed a crowd round the flag-staff in the centre of the square, and, following the irresistible tendency of human nature in such circumstances, ran to see what was going on.

They found that a slave was about to be publicly whipped by soldiers. The unhappy man was suspended by the wrists from the flag-staff, and a single cord of coir round his waist afforded him additional support.

"Come away, we can do no good here," said Harold, in a low, sorrowful tone, which was drowned in the shriek of the victim, as the first lash fell on his naked shoulders.

"Pra'ps he's a criminal," suggested Disco, as he hurried away, endeavouring to comfort himself with the thought that the man probably deserved punishment. "It's not the whippin' I think so much of," he added; "that is the only thing as will do for some characters, but it's the awful cruelties that goes along with it."

Returning through the same square about an hour later, having almost forgotten about the slave by that time, they were horrified to observe that the wretched man was still hanging there.

Hastening towards him, they found that he was gasping for breath. His veins were bursting, and his flesh was deeply lacerated by the cords with which he was suspended. He turned his head as the Englishmen approached, and spoke a few words which they did not understand; but the appealing look of his bloodshot eyes spoke a language that required no interpreter.

At an earlier period in their career in Africa, both Harold and Disco would have acted on their first impulse, and cut the man down; but experience had taught them that this style of interference, while it put their own lives in jeopardy, had sometimes the effect of increasing the punishment and sufferings of those whom they sought to befriend.

Acting on a wiser plan, they resolved to appeal to Governor Letotti in his behalf. They therefore ran to his residence, where Maraquita, who conversed with Harold in French, informed them that her father was in the "Geresa," or public palaver house. To that building they hastened, and found that it was in the very square they had left. But Senhor Letotti was not there. He had observed the Englishmen coming, and, having a shrewd guess what their errand was, had disappeared and hid himself. His chief-officer informed them that he had left the town early in the morning, and would not return till the afternoon.

Harold felt quite sure that this was a falsehood, but of course was obliged to accept it as truth.

"Is there no one to act for the Governor in his absence?" he asked, anxiously.

No, there was no one; but after a few minutes the chief-officer appeared to be overcome by Harold's earnest entreaties, and said that he could take upon himself to act, that he would suspend the punishment till the Governor's return, when Harold might prefer his petition to him in person.

Accordingly, the slave was taken down. In the afternoon Harold saw the Governor, and explained that he did not wish to interfere with his province as a magistrate, but that what he had witnessed was so shocking that he availed himself of his privilege as a guest to pray that the man's punishment might be mitigated.

Governor Letotti's health had failed him of late, and he had suffered some severe disappointments in money matters, so that his wonted amiability had been considerably reduced. He objected, at first, to interfere with the course of justice; but finally gave a reluctant consent, and the man was pardoned. Afterwards, however, when our travellers were absent from the town for a day, the wretched slave was again tied up, and the full amount of his punishment inflicted; in other words, he was flogged to death. [For the incident on which this is founded we are indebted to the Reverend Doctor Ryan, late Bishop of the Mauritius.]

This incident had such an effect on the mind of Harold, that he resolved no longer to accept the hospitality of Governor Letotti. He had some difficulty, however, in persuading himself to carry his resolve into effect, for the Governor, although harsh in his dealing with the slave, had been exceedingly kind and amiable to himself; but an unexpected event occurred which put an end to his difficulties. This was the illness and sudden death of his host.

Poor, disconsolate Maraquita, in the first passion of her grief, fled to the residence of the only female friend she had in the town, and refused firmly to return home. Thus it came to pass that Harold's intercourse with the Senhorina was cut short at its commencement, and thus he missed the opportunity of learning something of the fortunes of Azinte; for it is certain that, if they had conversed much together, as would probably have been the case had her father lived, some mention of the slave-girl's name could not fail to have been made, and their mutual knowledge of her to have been elicited and interchanged.

In those days there was no regular communication between one point and another of the east coast of Africa and the neighbouring islands. Travellers had frequently to wait long for a chance; and when they got one were often glad to take advantage of it without being fastidious as to its character. Soon after the events above narrated, a small trading schooner touched at the port. It was bound for the Seychelles, intending to return by Zanzibar and Madagascar, and proceed to the Cape. Harold would rather have gone direct to Zanzibar, but, having plenty of time on his hands, as well as means, he was content to avail himself of the opportunity, and took passage in the schooner for himself, Disco, and Jumbo. That sable and faithful friend was the only one of his companions who was willing to follow him anywhere on the face of the earth. The others received their pay and their discharge with smiling faces, and scattered to their several homes -- Antonio departing to complete his interrupted honeymoon.

Just before leaving, Harold sought and obtained permission to visit Maraquita, to bid her good-bye. The poor child was terribly overwhelmed by the death of her father, and could not speak of him without giving way to passionate grief. She told Harold that she meant to leave the coast by the first opportunity that should offer, and proceed to the Cape of Good Hope, where, in some part of the interior, lived an old aunt, the only relative she now had on earth, who, she knew, would be glad to receive her. Our hero did his best to comfort the poor girl, and expressed deep sympathy with her, but felt that his power to console was very small indeed. After a brief interview he bade her farewell.

The voyage which our travellers now commenced was likely to be of considerable duration, for the Seychelles Islands lie a long way to the eastward of Africa, but as we have said, time was of no importance to Harold, and he was not sorry to have an opportunity of visiting a group of islands which are of some celebrity in connexion with the East African slave-trade. Thus, all unknown to himself or Disco, as well as to Maraquita, who would have been intensely interested had she known the fact, he was led towards the new abode of our sable heroine Azinte.

But alas! for Kambira and Obo, -- they were being conveyed, also, of course, unknown to themselves or to any one else, further and further away from one whom they would have given their heart's blood to meet with and embrace, and it seemed as if there were not a chance of any gleam of light bridging over the ever widening gulf that lay between them, for although Lieutenant Lindsay knew that Azinte had been left at the Seychelles, he had not the remotest idea that Kambira was Azinte's husband, and among several hundreds of freed slaves the second lieutenant of the 'Firefly' was not likely to single out, and hold converse with a chief whose language he did not understand, and who, as far as appearances went, was almost as miserable, sickly, and degraded as were the rest of the unhappy beings by whom he was surrounded.

Providence, however, turned the tide of affairs in favour of Kambira and his son. On reaching Zanzibar Captain Romer had learned from the commander of another cruiser that Aden was at that time somewhat overwhelmed with freed slaves, a considerable number of captures having been recently made about the neighbourhood of that great rendezvous of slavers, the island of Socotra.

The captain therefore changed his mind, and once more very unwillingly directed his course towards the distant Seychelles.

On the way thither many of the poor negroes died, but many began to recover strength under the influence of kind treatment and generous diet. Among these latter was Kambira. His erect gait and manly look soon began to return, and his ribs, so to speak, to disappear. It was otherwise with poor Obo. The severity of the treatment to which he had been exposed was almost too much for so young a frame. He lost appetite and slowly declined, notwithstanding the doctor's utmost care.

This state of things continuing until the 'Firefly' arrived at the Seychelles, Obo was at once conveyed to the hospital which we have referred to as having been established there.

Azinte chanced to be absent in the neighbouring town on some errand connected with her duties as nurse, when her boy was laid on his bed beside a number of similar sufferers. It was a sad sight to behold these little ones. Out of the original eighty-three children who had been placed there forty-seven had died in three weeks, and the remnant were still in a pitiable condition. While on their beds of pain, tossing about in their delirium, the minds of these little ones frequently ran back to their forest homes, and while some, in spirit, laughed and romped once more around their huts, thousands of miles away on the banks of some African river, others called aloud in their sufferings for the dearest of all earthly beings to them -- their mothers. Some of them also whispered the name of Jesus, for the missionary had been careful to tell them the story of our loving Lord, while tending their poor bodies.

Obo had fevered slightly, and in the restless half-slumber into which he fell on being put to bed, he, too, called earnestly for his mother. In his case, poor child, the call was not in vain.

Lieutenant Lindsay and the doctor of the ship, with Kambira, had accompanied Obo to the hospital.

"Now, Lindsay," said the doctor, when the child had been made as comfortable as circumstances would admit of, "this man must not be left here, for he will be useless, and it is of the utmost consequence that the child should have some days of absolute repose. What shall we do with him?"

"Take him on board again," said Lindsay. "I daresay we shall find him employment for a short time."

"If you will allow me to take charge of him," interposed the missionary, who was standing by them at the time, "I can easily find him employment in the neighbourhood, so that he can come occasionally to see his child when we think it safe to allow him."

"That will be the better plan," said the doctor, "for as long as -- "

A short sharp cry near the door of the room cut the sentence short.

All eyes were turned in that direction and they beheld Azinte gazing wildly at them, and standing as if transformed to stone.

The instant Kambira saw his wife he leaped up as if he had received an electric shock, bounded forward like a panther, uttered a shout that did full credit to the chief of a warlike African tribe, and seized Azinte in his arms.

No wonder that thirty-six little black heads leaped from thirty-six little white pillows, and displayed all the whites of seventy-two eyes that were anything but little, when this astonishing scene took place!

But Kambira quickly recovered himself, and, grasping Azinte by the arm, led her gently towards the bed which had just been occupied, and pointed to the little one that slumbered uneasily there. Strangely enough, just at the moment little Obo again whispered the word "mother."

Poor Azinte's eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets. She stretched out her arms and tried to rush towards her child, but Kambira held her back.

"Obo is very sick," he said, "you must touch him tenderly."

The chief looked into his wife's eyes, saw that she understood him, and let her go.

Azinte crept softly to the bed, knelt down beside it and put her arms so softly round Obo that she scarcely moved him, yet she gradually drew him towards her until his head rested on her swelling bosom, and she pressed her lips tenderly upon his brow. It was an old familiar attitude which seemed to pierce the slumbers of the child with a pleasant reminiscence, and dissipate his malady, for he heaved a deep sigh of contentment and sank into profound repose.

"Good!" said the doctor, in a low tone, with a significant nod to Lindsay, when an interpreter had explained what had been already guessed by all present, that Kambira and Azinte were man and wife; "Obo has a better chance now of recovery than I had anticipated; for joy goes a long way towards effecting a cure. Come, we will leave them together."

Kambira was naturally anxious to remain, but like all commanding spirits, he had long ago learned that cardinal virtue, "obedience to whom obedience is due." When it was explained to him that it would be for Obo's advantage to be left alone with his mother for a time, he arose, bowed his head, and meekly followed his friends out of the room.

Exactly one week from that date little Obo had recovered so much of his former health that he was permitted to go out into the air, and, a few days later, Lieutenant Lindsay resolved to take him, and his father and mother, on board the 'Firefly,' by way of a little ploy. In pursuance of this plan he set off from the hospital in company with Kambira, followed at a short distance by Azinte and Obo.

Poor Lindsay! his heart was heavy, while he did his best to convey in dumb show his congratulations to Kambira, for he saw in this unexpected re-union an insurmountable difficulty in the way of taking Azinte back to her former mistress -- not that he had ever seen the remotest chance of his being able to achieve that desirable end before this difficulty arose, but love is at times insanely hopeful, just as at other times --  and with equally little reason -- it is madly despairing.

He had just made some complicated signs with hands, mouth, and eyebrows, and had succeeded in rendering himself altogether incomprehensible to his sable companion, when, on rounding a turn of the path that led to the harbour, he found himself suddenly face to face with Harold Seadrift, Disco Lillihammer, and their follower, Jumbo, all of whom had landed from a schooner, which, about an hour before, had cast anchor in the bay.

"Mr Lindsay!" "Mr Seadrift!" exclaimed each to the other simultaneously, for the reader will remember that they had met once before when our heroes were rescued from Yoosoof by the "Firefly."

"Kambira!" shouted Disco.

"Azinte!" cried Harold, as our sable heroine came into view.

"Obo!" roared the stricken mariner.

Jumbo could only vent his feelings in an appalling yell and an impromptu war-dance round the party, in which he was joined by Disco, who performed a hornpipe with Obo in his arms, to the intense delight of that convalescent youngster.

Thus laughing, questioning, shouting, and dancing, they all effervesced towards the shore like a band of lunatics just escaped from Bedlam!



Chapter Twenty Five.

The Last.

"How comes it," said Lieutenant Lindsay to Harold, on the first favourable opportunity that occurred after the meeting described in the last chapter; "how comes it that you and Kambira know each other so well?"

"I might reply by asking," said Harold, with a smile, "how comes it that you are so well acquainted with Azinte? but, before putting that question, I will give a satisfactory answer to your own."

Hereupon he gave a brief outline of those events, already narrated in full to the reader, which bore on his first meeting with the slave-girl, and his subsequent sojourn with her husband.

"After leaving the interior," continued our hero, "and returning to the coast, I visited various towns in order to observe the state of the slaves in the Portuguese settlements, and, truly, what I saw was most deplorable -- demoralisation and cruelty, and the obstruction of lawful trade, prevailed everywhere. The settlements are to my mind a very pandemonium on earth. Every one seemed to me more or less affected by the accursed atmosphere that prevails. Of course there must be some exceptions. I met with one, at the last town I visited, in the person of Governor Letotti."

"Letotti!" exclaimed Lindsay, stopping abruptly.

"Yes!" said Harold, in some surprise at the lieutenant's manner, "and a most amiable man he was -- "

"Was! -- was! What do you mean? Is -- is he dead?" exclaimed Lindsay, turning pale.

"He died suddenly just before I left," said Harold.

"And Maraquita -- I mean his daughter -- what of her?" asked the lieutenant, turning as red as he had previously turned pale.

Harold noted the change, and a gleam of light seemed to break upon him as he replied: -- 

"Poor girl, she was overwhelmed at first by the heavy blow. I had to quit the place almost immediately after the event."

"Did you know her well?" asked Lindsay, with an uneasy glance at his companion's handsome face.

"No; I had just been introduced to her shortly before her father's death, and have scarcely exchanged a dozen sentences with her. It is said that her father died in debt, but of course in regard to that I know nothing certainly. At parting, she told me that she meant to leave the coast and go to stay with a relative at the Cape."

The poor lieutenant's look on hearing this was so peculiar, not to say alarming, that Harold could not help referring to it, and Lindsay was so much overwhelmed by such unexpected news, and, withal, so strongly attracted by Harold's sympathetic manner, that he straightway made a confidant of him, told him of his love for Maraquita, of Maraquita's love for Azinte, of the utter impossibility of his being able to take Azinte back to her old mistress, now that she had found her husband and child, even if it had been admissible for a lieutenant in the British navy to return freed negroes again into slavery, and wound up with bitter lamentations as to his unhappy fate, and expressions of poignant regret that fighting and other desperate means, congenial and easy to his disposition, were not available in the circumstances. After which explosion he subsided, felt ashamed of having thus committed himself, and looked rather foolish.

But Harold quickly put him at his ease. He entered on the subject with earnest gravity.

"It strikes me, Lindsay," he said thoughtfully, after the lieutenant had finished, "that I can aid you in this affair; but you must not ask me how at present. Give me a few hours to think over it, and then I shall have matured my plans."

Of course the lieutenant hailed with heartfelt gratitude the gleam of hope held out to him, and thus the friends parted for a time.

That same afternoon Harold sat under a palm-tree in company with Disco, Jumbo, Kambira, Azinte, and Obo.

"How would you like to go with me to the Cape of Good Hope, Kambira?" asked Harold abruptly.

"Whar dat?" asked the chief through Jumbo.

"Far away to the south of Africa," answered Harold. "You know that you can never go back to your own land now, unless you want to be again enslaved."

"Him say him no' want to go back," interpreted Jumbo; "got all him care for now -- Azinte and Obo."

"Then do you agree to go with me?" said Harold.

To this Kambira replied heartily that he did.

"W'y, wot do 'ee mean for to do with 'em?" asked Disco, in some surprise.

"I will get them comfortably settled there," replied Harold. "My father has a business friend in Cape Town who will easily manage to put me in the way of doing it. Besides, I have a particular reason for wishing to take Azinte there. -- Ask her, Jumbo, if she remembers a young lady named Senhorina Maraquita Letotti."

To this Azinte replied that she did, and the way in which her eyes sparkled proved that she remembered her with intense pleasure.

"Well, tell her," rejoined Harold, "that Maraquita has grieved very much at losing her, and is very anxious to get her back again -- not as a slave, but as a friend, for no slavery is allowed in English settlements anywhere, and I am sure that Maraquita hates slavery as much as I do, though she is not English, so I intend to take her and Kambira and Obo to the Cape, where Maraquita is living -- or will be living soon."

"Ye don't stick at trifles, sir," said Disco, whose eyes, on hearing this, assumed a thoughtful, almost a troubled look.

"My plan does not seem to please you," said Harold.

"Please me, sir, w'y shouldn't it please me? In course you knows best; I was only a little puzzled, that's all."

Disco said no more, but he thought a good deal, for he had noted the beauty and sprightliness of Maraquita, and the admiration with which Harold had first beheld her; and it seemed to him that this rather powerful method of attempting to gratify the Portuguese girl was proof positive that Harold had lost his heart to her.

Harold guessed what was running in Disco's mind, but did not care to undeceive him, as, in so doing, he might run some risk of betraying the trust reposed in him by Lindsay.

The captain of the schooner, being bound for the Cape after visiting Zanzibar, was willing to take these additional passengers, and the anxious lieutenant was induced to postpone total and irrevocable despair, although, Maraquita being poor, and he being poor, and promotion in the service being very slow, he had little reason to believe his prospects much brighter than they were before, -- poor fellow!

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

Time passed on rapid wing -- as time is notoriously prone to do -- and the fortunes of our dramatis personae varied somewhat.

Captain Romer continued to roam the Eastern seas, along with brother captains, and spent his labour and strength in rescuing a few hundreds of captives from among the hundreds of thousands that were continually flowing out of unhappy Africa. Yoosoof and Moosa continued to throw a boat-load or two of damaged "cattle" in the way of the British cruisers, as a decoy, and succeeded on the whole pretty well in running full cargoes of valuable Black Ivory to the northern markets. The Sultan of Zanzibar continued to assure the British Consul that he heartily sympathised with England in her desire to abolish slavery, and to allow his officials, for a "consideration," to prosecute the slave-trade to any extent they pleased! Portugal continued to assure England of her sympathy and co-operation in the good work of repression, and her subjects on the east coast of Africa continued to export thousands of slaves under the protection of the Portuguese and French flags, styling them free engages. British-Indian subjects -- the Banyans of Zanzibar, -- continued to furnish the sinews of war which kept the gigantic trade in human flesh going on merrily. Murders, etcetera, continued to be perpetrated, tribes to be plundered, and hearts to be broken -- of course "legally" and "domestically," as well as piratically --  during this rapid flight of time.

But nearly everything in this life has its bright lights and half-tints, as well as its deep shadows. During the same flight of time, humane individuals have continued to urge on the good cause of the total abolition of slavery, and Christian missionaries have continued, despite the difficulties of slave-trade, climate, and human apathy, to sow here and there on the coasts the precious seed of Gospel truth, which we trust shall yet be sown broad-cast by native hands, throughout the length and breadth of that mighty land.

To come more closely to the subjects of our tale:

Chimbolo, with his recovered wife and child, sought safety from the slavers in the far interior, and continued to think with pleasure and gratitude of the two Englishmen who hated slavery, and who had gone to Africa just in the nick of time to rescue that unhappy slave who had been almost flogged to death, and was on the point of being drowned in the Zambesi in a sack. Mokompa, also, continued to poetise, as in days gone by, having made a safe retreat with Chimbolo, and, among other things, enshrined all the deeds of the two white men in native verse. Yambo continued to extol play, admire, and propagate the life-sized jumping-jack to such an extent that, unless his career has been cut short by the slavers, we fully expect to find that creature a "domestic institution" when the slave-trade has been crushed, and Africa opened up -- as in the end it is certain to be.

During the progress and continuance of all these things, you may be sure our hero was not idle. He sailed, as proposed, with Kambira, Azinte, Obo, Disco, and Jumbo for Zanzibar, touched at the town over which poor Senhor Francisco Alfonso Toledo Bignoso Letotti had ruled, found that the Senhorina had taken her departure; followed, as Disco said, in her wake; reached the Cape, hunted her up, found her out and presented to her, with Lieutenant Lindsay's compliments, the African chief Kambira, his wife Azinte, and his son Obo!

Poor Maraquita, being of a passionately affectionate and romantic disposition, went nearly mad with joy, and bestowed so many grateful glances and smiles on Harold that Disco's suspicions were confirmed, and that bold mariner wished her, Maraquita, "at the bottom of the sea!" for Disco disliked foreigners, and could not bear the thought of his friend being caught by one of them.

Maraquita introduced Harold to her aunt, a middle-aged, leather-skinned, excessively dark-eyed daughter of Portugal. She also introduced him to a bosom friend, at that time on a visit to her aunt. The bosom friend was an auburn-haired, fair-skinned, cheerful-spirited English girl. Before her, Harold Seadrift at once, without an instant's warning, fell flat down, figuratively speaking of course, and remained so -- stricken through the heart!

The exigencies of our tale require, at this point, that we should draw our outline with a bold and rapid pencil.

Disco Lillihammer was stunned, and so was Jumbo, when Harold, some weeks after their arrival at the Cape, informed them that he was engaged to be married to Alice Gray, only daughter of the late Sir Eustace Gray, who had been M.P. for some county in England, which he had forgotten the name of, Alice not having been able to recall it, as her father had died when she was four years old, leaving her a fortune of next-to-nothing a year, and a sweet temper.

Being incapable of further stunning, Disco was rather revived than otherwise, and his dark shadow was resuscitated, when Harold added that Kambira had become Maraquita's head-gardener, Azinte cook to the establishment, and Obo page-in-waiting -- more probably page-in-mischief --  to the young Senhorina. But both Disco and Jumbo had a relapse from which they were long of recovering, when Harold went on to say that he meant to sail for England by the next mail, take Jumbo with him as valet, make proposals to his father to establish a branch of their house at the Cape, come back to manage the branch, marry Alice, and reside in the neighbourhood of the Senhorina Maraquita Letotti's dwelling.

"You means wot you say, I s'pose?" asked Disco.

"Of course I do," said Harold.

"An' yer goin' to take Jumbo as yer walley?"

"Yes."

"H'm; I'll go too as yer keeper."

"My what?"

"Yer keeper -- yer strait-veskit buckler, for if you ain't a loonatic ye ought to be."

But Disco did not go to England in that capacity. He remained at the Cape to assist Kambira, at the express command of Maraquita; and continued there until Harold returned, bringing Lieutenant Lindsay with him as a partner in the business; until Harold was married and required a gardener for his own domain; until the Senhorina became Mrs Lindsay; until a large and thriving band of little Cape colonists found it necessary to have a general story-teller and adventure-recounter with a nautical turn of mind; until, in short, he found it convenient to go to England himself for the gal of his heart who had been photographed there years before, and could be rubbed off neither by sickness, sunstroke, nor adversity.

When Disco had returned to the colony with the original of the said photograph, and had fairly settled down on his own farm, then it was that he was wont at eventide to assemble the little colonists round him, light his pipe, and, through its hazy influence, recount his experiences, and deliver his opinions on the slave-trade of East Africa. Sometimes he was pathetic, sometimes humorous, but, however jocular he might be on other subjects, he invariably became very grave and very earnest when he touched on the latter theme.

"There's only one way to cure it," he was wont to say, "and that is, to bring the Portuguese and Arabs to their marrow-bones; put the fleet on the east coast in better workin' order; have consuls everywhere, with orders to keep their weather-eyes open to the slave-dealers; start two or three British settlements -- ports o' refuge -- on the mainland; hoist the Union Jack, and, last but not least, send 'em the Bible."

We earnestly commend the substance of Disco's opinions to the reader, for there is urgent need for action. There is death where life should be; ashes instead of beauty; desolation in place of fertility, and, even while we write, terrible activity in the horrible traffic in -- "Black Ivory."

<eob>

Lightfoot The Deer

By

Thornton W. Burgess



CHAPTER I: Peter Rabbit Meets Lightfoot


Peter Rabbit was on his way back from the pond of Paddy the Beaver deep in the Green Forest. He had just seen Mr. and Mrs. Quack start toward the Big River for a brief visit before leaving on their long, difficult journey to the far-away Southland. Farewells are always rather sad, and this particular farewell had left Peter with a lump in his throat, -- a queer, choky feeling.

"If I were sure that they would return next spring, it wouldn't be so bad," he muttered. "It's those terrible guns. I know what it is to have to watch out for them. Farmer Brown's boy used to hunt me with one of them, but he doesn't any more. But even when he did hunt me it wasn't anything like what the Ducks have to go through. If I kept my eyes and ears open, I could tell when a hunter was coming and could hide in a hole if I wanted to. I never had to worry about my meals. But with the Ducks it is a thousand times worse. They've got to eat while making that long journey, and they can eat only where there is the right kind of food. Hunters with terrible guns know where those places are and hide there until the Ducks come, and the Ducks have no way of knowing whether the hunters are waiting for them or not. That isn't hunting. It's -- it's -- "

"Well, what is it? What are you talking to yourself about, Peter Rabbit?"

Peter looked up with a start to find the soft, beautiful eyes of Lightfoot the Deer gazing down at him over the top of a little hemlock tree.

"It's awful," declared Peter. "It's worse than unfair. It doesn't give them any chance at all."

"I suppose it must be so if you say so," replied Lightfoot, "but you might tell me what all this awfulness is about."

Peter grinned. Then he began at the beginning and told Lightfoot all about Mr. and Mrs. Quack and the many dangers they must face on their long journey to the far-away Southland and back again in the spring, all because of the heartless hunters with terrible guns. Lightfoot listened and his great soft eyes were filled with pity for the Quack family.

"I hope they will get through all right," said he, "and I hope they will get back in the spring. It is bad enough to be hunted by men at one time of the year, as no one knows better than I do, but to be hunted in the spring as well as in the fall is more than twice as bad. Men are strange creatures. I do not understand them at all. None of the people of the Green Forest would think of doing such terrible things. I suppose it is quite right to hunt others in order to get enough to eat, though I am thankful to say that I never have had to do that, but to hunt others just for the fun of hunting is something I cannot understand at all. And yet that is what men seem to do it for. I guess the trouble is they never have been hunted themselves and don't know how it feels. Sometimes I think I'll hunt one some day just to teach him a lesson. What are you laughing at, Peter?"

"At the idea of you hunting a man," replied Peter. "Your heart is all right, Lightfoot, but you are too timid and gentle to frighten any one. Big as you are I wouldn't fear you."

With a single swift bound Lightfoot sprang out in front of Peter. He stamped his sharp hoofs, lowered his handsome head until the sharp points of his antlers, which people call horns, pointed straight at Peter, lifted the hair along the back of his neck, and made a motion as if to plunge at him. His eyes, which Peter had always thought so soft and gentle, seemed to flash fire.

"Oh!" cried Peter in a faint, frightened-sounding voice and leaped to one side before it entered his foolish little head that Lightfoot was just pretending.

Lightfoot chuckled. "Did you say I couldn't frighten any one?" he demanded.

"I -- I didn't know you could look so terribly fierce," stammered Peter. "Those antlers look really dangerous when you point them that way. Why -- why -- what is that hanging to them? It looks like bits of old fur. Have you been tearing somebody's coat, Lightfoot?" Peter's eyes were wide with wonder and suspicion.



CHAPTER II: Lightfoot's New Antlers


Peter Rabbit was puzzled. He stared at Lightfoot the Deer a wee bit suspiciously. "Have you been tearing somebody's coat?" he asked again. He didn't like to think it of Lightfoot, whom he always had believed quite as gentle, harmless, and timid as himself. But what else could he think?

Lightfoot slowly shook his head. "No," said he, "I haven't torn anybody's coat."

"Then what are those rags hanging on your antlers?" demanded Peter.

Lightfoot chuckled. "They are what is left of the coverings of my new antlers," he explained.

"What's that? What do you mean by new antlers?" Peter was sitting up very straight, with his eyes fixed on Lightfoot's antlers as though he never had seen them before.

"Just what I said," retorted Lightfoot. "What do you think of them? I think they are the finest antlers I've ever had. When I get the rest of those rags off, they will be as handsome a set as ever was grown in the Green Forest."

Lightfoot rubbed his antlers against the trunk of a tree till some of the rags hanging to them dropped off.

Peter blinked very hard. He was trying to understand and he couldn't. Finally he said so.

"What kind of a story are you trying to fill me up with?" he demanded indignantly. "Do you mean to tell me that those are not the antlers that you have had as long as I've known you? How can anything hard like those antlers grow? And if those are new ones, where are the old ones? Show me the old ones, and perhaps I'll believe that these are new ones. The idea of trying to make me believe that antlers grow just like plants! I've seen Bossy the Cow all summer and I know she has got the same horns she had last summer. New antlers indeed!"

"You are quite right, Peter, quite right about Bossy the Cow. She never has new horns, but that isn't any reason why I shouldn't have new antlers, is it?" replied Lightfoot patiently. "Her horns are quite different from my antlers. I have a new pair every year. You haven't seen me all summer, have you, Peter?"

"No, I don't remember that I have," replied Peter, trying very hard to remember when he had last seen Lightfoot.

"I KNOW you haven't," retorted Lightfoot. "I know it because I have been hiding in a place you never visit."

"What have you been hiding for?" demanded Peter.

"For my new antlers to grow," replied Lightfoot. "When my new antlers are growing, I want to be away by myself. I don't like to be seen without them or with halfgrown ones. Besides, I am very uncomfortable while the new antlers are growing and I want to be alone." Lightfoot spoke as if he really meant every word he said, but still Peter couldn't, he just COULDN'T believe that those wonderful great antlers had grown out of Lightfoot's head in a single summer. "Where did you leave your old ones and when did they come off?" he asked, and there was doubt in the very tone of his voice.

"They dropped off last spring, but I don't remember just where," replied Lightfoot. "I was too glad to be rid of them to notice where they dropped. You see they were loose and uncomfortable, and I hadn't any more use for them because I knew that my new ones would be bigger and better. I've got one more point on each than I had last year." Lightfoot began once more to rub his antlers against the tree to get off the queer rags hanging to them and to polish the points. Peter watched in silence for a few minutes. Then, all his suspicions returning, he said:

"But you haven't told me anything about those rags hanging to your antlers."

"And you haven't believed what I have already told you," retorted Lightfoot. "I don't like telling things to people who won't believe me."



CHAPTER III: Lightfoot Tells How His Antlers Grew


It is hard to believe what seems impossible. And yet what seems impossible to you may be a very commonplace matter to some one else. So it does not do to say that a thing cannot be possible just because you cannot understand how it can be. Peter Rabbit wanted to believe what Lightfoot the Deer had just told him, but somehow he couldn't. If he had seen those antlers growing, it would have been another matter. But he hadn't seen Lightfoot since the very last of winter, and then Lightfoot had worn just such handsome antlers as he now had. So Peter really couldn't be blamed for not being able to believe that those old ones had been lost and in their place new ones had grown in just the few months of spring and summer.

But Peter didn't blame Lightfoot in the least, because he had told Peter that he didn't like to tell things to people who wouldn't believe what he told them when Peter had asked him about the rags hanging to his antlers. "I'm trying to believe it," he said, quite humbly.

"It's all true," broke in another voice.

Peter jumped and turned to find his big cousin, Jumper the Hare. Unseen and unheard, he had stolen up and had overheard what Peter and Lightfoot had said.

"How do you know it is true?" snapped Peter a little crossly, for Jumper had startled him.

"Because I saw Lightfoot's old antlers after they had fallen off, and I often saw Lightfoot while his new ones were growing," retorted Jumper.

"All right! I'll believe anything that Lightfoot tells me if you say it is true," declared Peter, who greatly admires his cousin, Jumper. "Now tell me about those rags, Lightfoot. Please do."

Lightfoot couldn't resist that "please." "Those rags are what is left of a kind of covering which protected the antlers while they were growing, as I told you before," said he. "Very soon after my old ones dropped off the new ones began to grow. They were not hard, not at all like they are now. They were soft and very tender, and the blood ran through them just as it does through our bodies. They were covered with a sort of skin with hairs on it like thin fur. The ends were not sharply pointed they now are, but were big and rounded, like knobs. They were not like antlers at all, and they made my head hot and were very uncomfortable. That is why I hid away. They grew very fast, so fast that every day I could see by looking at my reflection in water that they were a little longer. It seemed to me sometimes as if all my strength went into those new antlers. And I had to be very careful not to hit them against anything. In the first place it would have hurt, and in the second place it might have spoiled the shape of them.

"When they had grown to the length you now see, they began to shrink and grow hard. The knobs on the ends shrank until they became pointed. As soon as they stopped growing the blood stopped flowing up in them, and as they became hard they were no longer tender. The skin which had covered them grew dry and split, and I rubbed it off on trees and bushes. The little rags you see are what is left, but I will soon be rid of those. Then I shall be ready to fight if need be and will fear no one save man, and will fear him only when he has a terrible gun with him."

Lightfoot tossed his head proudly and rattled his wonderful antlers against the nearest tree. "Isn't he handsome," whispered Peter to Jumper the Hare; "and did you ever hear of anything so wonderful as the growing of those new antlers in such a short time? It is hard to believe, but I suppose it must be true."

"It is," replied Jumper, "and I tell you, Peter, I would hate to have Lightfoot try those antlers on me, even though I were big as a man. You've always thought of Lightfoot as timid and afraid, but you should see him when he is angry. Few people care to face him then."



CHAPTER IV: The Spirit Of Fear

When the days grow cold and the nights are clear, There stalks abroad the spirit of fear.  -- Lightfoot the Deer.


It is sad but true. Autumn is often called the sad time of the year, and it is the sad time. But it shouldn't be. Old Mother Nature never intended that it should be. She meant it to be the GLAD time. It is the time when all the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows have got over the cares and worries of bringing up families and teaching their children how to look out for themselves. It is the season when food is plentiful, and every one is fat and is, or ought to be, care free. It is the season when Old Mother Nature intended all her little people to be happy, to have nothing to worry them for the little time before the coming of cold weather and the hard times which cold weather always brings.

But instead of this, a grim, dark figure goes stalking over the Green Meadows and through the Green Forest, and it is called the Spirit of Fear. It peers into every hiding-place and wherever it finds one of the little people it sends little cold chills over him, little chills which jolly, round, bright Mr. Sun cannot chase away, though he shine his brightest. All night as well as all day the Spirit of Fear searches out the little people of the Green Meadows and the Green Forest. It will not let them sleep. It will not let them eat in peace. It drives them to seek new hiding-places and then drives them out of those. It keeps them ever ready to fly or run at the slightest sound.

Peter Rabbit was thinking of this as he sat at the edge of the dear Old Briar-patch, looking over to the Green Forest. The Green Forest was no longer just green; it was of many colors, for Old Mother Nature had set Jack Frost to painting the leaves of the maple-trees and the beech-trees, and the birch-trees and the poplar-trees and the chestnut-trees, and he had done his work well. Very, very lovely were the reds and yellows and browns against the dark green of the pines and the spruces and the hemlocks. The Purple Hills were more softly purple than at any other season of the year. It was all very, very beautiful.

But Peter had no thought for the beauty of it all, for the Spirit of Fear had visited even the dear Old Briar-patch, and Peter was afraid. It wasn't fear of Reddy Fox, or Redtail the Hawk, or Hooty the Owl, or Old Man Coyote. They were forever trying to catch him, but they did not strike terror to his heart because he felt quite smart enough to keep out of their clutches. To be sure, they gave him sudden frights sometimes, when they happened to surprise him, but these frights lasted only until he reached the nearest bramble-tangle or hollow log where they could not get at him. But the fear that chilled his heart now never left him even for a moment.

And Peter knew that this same fear was clutching at the hearts of Bob White, hiding in the brown stubble; of Mrs. Grouse, squatting in the thickest bramble-tangle in the Green Forest; of Uncle Billy Possum and Bobby Coon in their hollow trees; of Jerry Muskrat in the Smiling Pool; of Happy Jack Squirrel, hiding in the tree tops; of Lightfoot the Deer, lying in the closest thicket he could find. It was even clutching at the hearts of Granny and Reddy Fox and of great, big Buster Bear. It seemed to Peter that no one was so big or so small that this terrible Spirit of Fear had not searched him out.

Far in the distance sounded a sudden bang. Peter jumped and shivered. He knew that every one else who had heard that bang had jumped and shivered just as he had. It was the season of hunters with terrible guns. It was man who had sent this terrible Spirit of Fear to chill the hearts of the little meadow and forest people at this very time when Old Mother Nature had made all things so beautiful and had intended that they should be happiest and most free from care and worry. It was man who had made the autumn a sad time instead of a glad time, the very saddest time of all the year, when Old Mother Nature had done her best to make it the most beautiful.

"I don't understand these men creatures," said Peter to little Mrs. Peter, as they stared fearfully out from the dear Old Briar-patch. "They seem to find pleasure, actually find pleasure, in trying to kill us. I don't understand them at all. They haven't any hearts. That must be the reason; they haven't any hearts."



CHAPTER V: Sammy Jay Brings Lightfoot Word


Sammy Jay is one of those who believe in the wisdom of the old saying, "Early to bed and early to rise." Sammy needs no alarm clock to get up early in the morning. He is awake as soon as it is light enough to see and wastes no time wishing he could sleep a little longer. His stomach wouldn't let him if he wanted to. Sammy always wakes up hungry. In this he is no different from all his feathered neighbors.

So the minute Sammy gets his eyes open he makes his toilet, for Sammy is very neat, and starts out to hunt for his breakfast. Long ago Sammy discovered that there is no safer time of day to visit the dooryards of those two-legged creatures called men than very early in the morning. On this particular morning he had planned to fly over to Farmer Brown's dooryard, but at the last minute he changed his mind. Instead, he flew over to the dooryard of another farm. It was so very early in the morning that Sammy didn't expect to find anybody stirring, so you can guess how surprised he was when, just as he came in sight of that dooryard, he saw the door of the house open and a man step out.

Sammy stopped on the top of the nearest tree. "Now what is that man doing up as early as this?" muttered Sammy. Then he caught sight of something under the man's arm. He didn't have to look twice to know what it was. It was a gun! Yes, sir, it was a gun, a terrible gun.

"Ha!" exclaimed Sammy, and quite forgot that his stomach was empty. "Now who can that fellow be after so early in the morning? I wonder if he is going to the dear Old Briar-patch to look for Peter Rabbit, or if he is going to the Old Pasture in search of Reddy Fox, or if it is Mr. and Mrs. Grouse he hopes to kill. I think I'll sit right here and watch."

So Sammy sat in the top of the tree and watched the hunter with the terrible gun. He saw him head straight for the Green Forest. "It's Mr. and Mrs. Grouse after all, I guess," thought Sammy. "If I knew just where they were I'd go over and warn them." But Sammy didn't know just where they were and he knew that it might take him a long time to find them, so he once more began to think of breakfast and then, right then, another thought popped into his head. He thought of Lightfoot the Deer.

Sammy watched the hunter enter the Green Forest, then he silently followed him. From the way the hunter moved, Sammy decided that he wasn't thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Grouse. "It's Lightfoot the Deer, sure as I live," muttered Sammy. "He ought to be warned. He certainly ought to be warned. I know right where he is. I believe I'll warn him myself."

Sammy found Lightfoot right where he had expected to. "He's coming!" cried Sammy. "A hunter with a terrible gun is coming!"



CHAPTER VI: A Game Of Hide And Seek


There was a game of hide and seek that Danny Meadow Mouse once played with Buster Bear. It was a very dreadful game for Danny. But hard as it was for Danny, it didn't begin to be as hard as the game Lightfoot the Deer was playing with the hunter in the Green Forest.

In the case of Buster Bear and Danny, the latter had simply to keep out of reach of Buster. As long as Buster didn't get his great paws on Danny, the latter was safe. Then, too, Danny is a very small person. He is so small that he can hide under two or three leaves. Wherever he is, he is pretty sure to find a hiding-place of some sort. His small size gives him advantages in a game of hide and seek. It certainly does. But Lightfoot the Deer is big. He is one of the largest of the people who live in the Green Forest. Being so big, it is not easy to hide.

Moreover, a hunter with a terrible gun does not have to get close in order to kill. Lightfoot knew all this as he waited for the coming of the hunter of whom Sammy Jay had warned him. He had learned many lessons in the hunting season of the year before and he remembered every one of them. He knew that to forget even one of them might cost him his life. So, standing motionless behind a tangle of fallen trees, Lightfoot listened and watched.

Presently over in the distance he heard Sammy Jay screaming, "Thief, thief, thief!" A little sigh of relief escaped Lightfoot. He knew that that screaming of Sammy Jay's was a warning to tell him where the hunter was. Knowing just where the hunter was made it easier for Lightfoot to know what to do.

A Merry Little Breeze came stealing through the Green Forest. It came from behind Lightfoot and danced on towards the hunter with the terrible gun. Instantly Lightfoot began to steal softly away through the Green Forest. He took the greatest care to make no sound. He went in a half-circle, stopping every few steps to listen and test the air with his wonderful nose. Can you guess what Lightfoot was trying to do? He was trying to get behind the hunter so that the Merry Little Breezes would bring to him the dreaded man-scent. So long as Lightfoot could get that scent, he would know where the hunter was, though he could neither see nor hear him. If he had remained where Sammy Jay had found him, the hunter might have come within shooting distance before Lightfoot could have located him.

So the hunter with the terrible gun walked noiselessly through the Green Forest, stepping with the greatest care to avoid snapping a stick underfoot, searching with keen eye every thicket and likely hiding-place for a glimpse of Lightfoot, and studying the ground for traces to show that Lightfoot had been there.



CHAPTER VII: The Merry Little Breezes Help Lightfoot


Could you have seen the hunter with the terrible gun and Lightfoot the Deer that morning on which the hunting season opened you might have thought that Lightfoot was hunting the hunter instead of the hunter hunting Lightfoot. You see, Lightfoot was behind the hunter instead of in front of him. He was following the hunter, so as to keep track of him. As long as he knew just where the hunter was, he felt reasonably safe.

The Merry Little Breezes are Lightfoot's best friends. They always bring to him all the different scents they find as they wander through the Green Forest. And Lightfoot's delicate nose is so wonderful that he can take these scents, even though they be very faint, and tell just who or what has made them. So, though he makes the best possible use of his big ears and his beautiful eyes, he trusts more to his nose to warn him of danger. For this reason, during the hunting season when he moves about, he moves in the direction from which the Merry Little Breezes may be blowing. He knows that they will bring to him warning of any danger which may lie in that direction.

Now the hunter with the terrible gun who was looking for Lightfoot knew all this, for he was wise in the ways of Lightfoot and of the other little people of the Green Forest. When he had entered the Green Forest that morning he had first of all made sure of the direction from which the Merry Little Breezes were coming. Then he had begun to hunt in that direction, knowing that thus his scent would be carried behind him. It is more than likely that he would have reached the hiding-place of Lightfoot the Deer before the latter would have known that he was in the Green Forest, had it not been for Sammy Jay's warning.

When he reached the tangle of fallen trees behind which Lightfoot had been hiding, he worked around it slowly and with the greatest care, holding his terrible gun ready to use instantly should Lightfoot leap out. Presently he found Lightfoot's footprints in the soft ground and studying them he knew that Lightfoot had known of his coming.

"It was that confounded Jay," muttered the hunter. "Lightfoot heard him and knew what it meant. I know what he has done; he has circled round so as to get behind me and get my scent. It is a clever trick, a very clever trick, but two can play at that game. I'll just try that little trick myself."

So the hunter in his turn made a wide circle back, and presently there was none of the dreaded man-smell among the scents which the Merry Little Breezes brought to Lightfoot. Lightfoot had lost track of the hunter.



CHAPTER VIII: Wit Against Wit


It was a dreadful game the hunter with the terrible gun and Lightfoot the Deer were playing in the Green Forest. It was a matching of wit against wit, the hunter seeking to take Lightfoot's life, and Lightfoot seeking to save it. The experience of other years had taught Lightfoot much of the ways of hunters and not one of the things he had learned about them was forgotten. But the hunter in his turn knew much of the ways of Deer. So it was that each was trying his best to outguess the other.

When the hunter found the hiding-place Lightfoot had left at the warning of Sammy Jay he followed Lightfoot's tracks for a short distance. It was slow work, and only one whose eyes had been trained to notice little things could have done it. You see, there was no snow, and only now and then, when he had stepped on a bit of soft ground, had Lightfoot left a footprint. But there were other signs which the hunter knew how to read, -- a freshly upturned leaf here, and here, a bit of moss lightly crushed. These things told the hunter which way Lightfoot had gone.

Slowly, patiently, watchfully, the hunter followed. After a while he stopped with a satisfied grin. "I thought as much," he muttered. "He heard that pesky Jay and circled around so as to get my scent. I'll just cut across to my old trail and unless I am greatly mistaken, I'll find his tracks there."

So, swiftly but silently, the hunter cut across to his old trail, and in a few moments he found just what he expected, -- one of Lightfoot's footprints. Once more he grinned.

"Well, old fellow, I've outguessed you this time," said he to himself. "I am behind you and the wind is from you to me, so that you cannot get my scent. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you're back right where you started from, behind that old windfall." He at once began to move forward silently and cautiously, with eyes and ears alert and his terrible gun ready for instant use.

Now when Lightfoot, following behind the hunter, had lost the scent of the latter, he guessed right away that the latter had found his tracks and had started to follow them. Lightfoot stood still and listened with all his might for some little sound to tell him where the hunter was. But there was no sound and after a little Lightfoot began to move on. He didn't dare remain still, lest the hunter should creep up within shooting distance. There was only one direction in which it was safe for Lightfoot to move, and that was the direction from which the Merry Little Breezes were blowing. So long as they brought him none of the dreaded man-smell, he knew that he was safe. The hunter might be behind him -- probably he was -- but ahead of him, so long as the Merry Little Breezes were blowing in his face and brought no man-smell, was safety.



CHAPTER IX: Lightfoot Becomes Uncertain


Lightfoot the Deer traveled on through the Green Forest, straight ahead in the direction from which the Merry Little Breezes were blowing. Every few steps he would raise his delicate nose and test all the scents that the Merry Little Breezes were bringing. So long as he kept the Merry Little Breezes blowing in his face, he could be sure whether or not there was danger ahead of him.

Lightfoot uses his nose very much as you and I use our eyes. It tells him the things he wants to know. He knew that Reddy Fox had been along ahead of him, although he didn't get so much as a glimpse of Reddy's red coat. Once he caught just the faintest of scents which caused him to stop abruptly and test the air more carefully than ever. It was the scent of Buster Bear. But it was so very faint that Lightfoot knew Buster was not near, so he went ahead again, but even more carefully than before. After a little he couldn't smell Buster at all, so he knew then that Buster had merely passed that way when he was going to some other part of the Green Forest.

Lightfoot knew that he had nothing to fear in that direction so long as the Merry Little Breezes brought him none of the dreaded man-scent, and he knew that he could trust the Merry Little Breezes to bring him that scent if there should be a man anywhere in front of him. You know the Merry Little Breezes are Lightfoot's best friends. But Lightfoot didn't want to keep going in that direction all day.

It would take him far away from that part of the Green Forest with which he was familiar and which he called home. It might in time take him out of the Green Forest and that wouldn't do at all. So after a while Lightfoot became uncertain. He didn't know just what to do. You see, he couldn't tell whether or not that hunter with the terrible gun was still following him.

Every once in a while he would stop in a thicket of young trees or behind a tangle of fallen trees uprooted by the wind. There he would stand, facing the direction from which he had come, and watch and listen for some sign that the hunter was still following. But after a few minutes of this he would grow uneasy and then bound away in the direction from which the Merry Little Breezes were blowing, so as to be sure of not running into danger.

"If only I could know if that hunter is still following, I would know better what to do," thought Lightfoot. "I've got to find out."



CHAPTER X: Lightfoot's Clever Trick


Lightfoot the Deer is smart. Yes, Sir, Lightfoot the Deer is smart. He has to be, especially in the hunting season, to save his life. If he were not smart he would have been killed long ago. He never makes the foolish mistake of thinking that other people are not smart. He knew that the hunter who had started out to follow him early that morning was not one to be easily discouraged or to be fooled by simple tricks. He had a very great respect for the smartness of that hunter. He knew that he couldn't afford to be careless for one little minute.

The certainty of danger is sometimes easier to bear than the uncertainty of not knowing whether or not there really is any danger. Lightfoot felt that if he could know just where the hunter was, he himself would know better what to do. The hunter might have become discouraged and given up following him. In that case he could rest and stop worrying. It would be better to know that he was being followed than not to know. But how was he to find out? Lightfoot kept turning this over and over in his mind as he traveled through the Green Forest. Then an idea came to him.

"I know what I'll do. I know just what I'll do," said Lightfoot to himself. "I'll find out whether or not that hunter is still following me and I'll get a little rest. Goodness knows, I need a rest."

Lightfoot bounded away swiftly and ran for some distance, then he turned and quickly, but very, very quietly, returned in the direction from which he had just come but a little to one side of his old trail. After a while he saw what he was looking for, a pile of branches which woodchoppers had left when they had trimmed the trees they had cut down. This was near the top of a little hill. Lightfoot went up the hill and stopped behind the pile of brush. For a few moments he stood there perfectly still, looking and listening. Then, with a little sigh of relief, he lay down, where, without being in any danger of being seen himself, he could watch his old trail through the hollow at the bottom of the hill. If the hunter were still following him, he would pass through that hollow in plain sight.

For a long tune Lightfoot rested comfortably behind the pile of brush. There was not a suspicious movement or a suspicious sound to show that danger was abroad in the Green Forest. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Grouse fly down across the hollow and disappear among the trees on the other side. He saw Unc' Billy Possum looking over a hollow tree and guessed that Unc' Billy was getting ready to go into winter quarters. He saw Jumper the Hare squat down under a low-hanging branch of a hemlock-tree and prepare to take a nap. He heard Drummer the Woodpecker at work drilling after worms in a tree not far away. Little by little Lightfoot grew easy in his mind. It must be that that hunter had become discouraged and was no longer following him.



CHAPTER XI: The Hunted Watches The Hunter


It was so quiet and peaceful and altogether lovely there in the Green Forest, where Lightfoot the Deer lay resting behind a pile of brush near the top of a little hill, that it didn't seem possible such a thing as sudden death could be anywhere near. It didn't seem possible that there could be any need for watchfulness. But Lightfoot long ago had learned that often danger is nearest when it seems least to be expected. So, though he would have liked very much to have taken a nap, Lightfoot was too wise to do anything so foolish. He kept his beautiful, great, soft eyes fixed in the direction from which the hunter with the terrible gun would come if he were still following that trail. He kept his great ears gently moving to catch every little sound.

Lightfoot had about decided that the hunter had given up hunting for that day, but he didn't let this keep him from being any the less watchful. It was better to be overwatchful than the least bit careless. By and by, Lightfoot's keen ears caught the sound of the snapping of a little stick in the distance. It was so faint a sound that you or I would have missed it altogether. But Lightfoot heard it and instantly he was doubly alert, watching in the direction from which that faint sound had come. After what seemed a long, long time he saw something moving, and a moment later a man came into view. It was the hunter and across one arm he carried the terrible gun.

Lightfoot knew now that this hunter had patience and perseverance and had not yet given up hope of getting near enough to shoot Lightfoot. He moved forward slowly, setting each foot down with the greatest care, so as not to snap a stick or rustle the leaves. He was watching sharply ahead, ready to shoot should he catch a glimpse of Lightfoot within range.

Right along through the hollow at the foot of the little hill below Lightfoot the hunter passed. He was no longer studying the ground for Lightfoot's tracks, because the ground was so hard and dry down there that Lightfoot had left no tracks. He was simply hunting in the direction from which the Merry Little Breezes were blowing because he knew that Lightfoot had gone in that direction, and he also knew that if Lightfoot were still ahead of him, his scent could not be carried to Lightfoot. He was doing what is called "hunting up-wind."

Lightfoot kept perfectly still and watched the hunter disappear among the trees. Then he silently got to his feet, shook himself lightly, and noiselessly stole away over the hilltop towards another part of the Green Forest. He felt sure that that hunter would not find him again that day.



CHAPTER XII: Lightfoot Visits Paddy The Beaver


Deep in the Green Forest is the pond where lives Paddy the Beaver. It is Paddy's own pond, for he made it himself. He made it by building a dam across the Laughing Brook. When Lightfoot bounded away through the Green Forest, after watching the hunter pass through the hollow below him, he remembered Paddy's pond. "That's where I'll go," thought Lightfoot. "It is such a lonesome part of the Green Forest that I do not believe that hunter will come there. I'll just run over and make Paddy a friendly call."

So Lightfoot bounded along deeper and deeper into the Green Forest. Presently through the trees he caught the gleam of water. It was Paddy's pond. Lightfoot approached it cautiously. He felt sure he was rid of the hunter who had followed him so far that day, but he knew that there might be other hunters in the Green Forest. He knew that he couldn't afford to be careless for even one little minute. Lightfoot had lived long enough to know that most of the sad things and dreadful things that happen in the Green Forest and on the Green Meadows are due to carelessness. No one who is hunted, be he big or little, can afford ever to be careless.

Now Lightfoot had known of hunters hiding near water, hoping to shoot him when he came to drink. That always seemed to Lightfoot a dreadful thing, an unfair thing. But hunters had done it before and they might do it again. So Lightfoot was careful to approach Paddy's pond upwind. That is, he approached the side of the pond from which the Merry Little Breezes were blowing toward him, and all the time he kept his nose working. He knew that if any hunters were hidden there, the Merry Little Breezes would bring him their scent and thus warn him.

He had almost reached the edge of Paddy's pond when from the farther shore there came a sudden crash. It startled Lightfoot terribly for just an instant. Then he guessed what it meant. That crash was the falling of a tree. There wasn't enough wind to blow over even the most shaky dead tree. There had been no sound of axes, so he knew it could not have been chopped down by men. It must be that Paddy the Beaver had cut it, and if Paddy had been working in daylight, it was certain that no one had been around that pond for a long time.

So Lightfoot hurried forward eagerly, cautiously. When he reached the bank he looked across towards where the sound of that falling tree had come from; a branch of a tree was moving along in the water and half hidden by it was a brown head. It was Paddy the Beaver taking the branch to his food pile.



CHAPTER XIII: Lightfoot And Paddy Become Partners


The instant Lightfoot saw Paddy the Beaver he knew that for the time being, at least, there was no danger. He knew that Paddy is one of the shyest of all the little people of the Green Forest and that when he is found working in the daytime it means that he has been undisturbed for a long time; otherwise he would work only at night.

Paddy saw Lightfoot almost as soon as he stepped out on the bank. He kept right on swimming with the branch of a poplar-tree until he reached his food pile, which, you know, is in the water. There he forced the branch down until it was held by other branches already sunken in the pond. This done, he swam over to where Lightfoot was watching. "Hello, Lightfoot!" he exclaimed. "You are looking handsomer than ever. How are you feeling these fine autumn days?"

"Anxious," replied Lightfoot. "I am feeling terribly anxious. Do you know what day this is?"

"No," replied Paddy, "I don't know what day it is, and I don't particularly care. It is enough for me that it is one of the finest days we've had for a long time."

"I wish I could feel that way," said Lightfoot wistfully. "I wish I could feel that way, Paddy, but I can't. No, Sir, I can't. You see, this is the first of the most dreadful days in all the year for me. The hunters started looking for me before Mr. Sun was really out of bed. At least one hunter did, and I don't doubt there are others. I fooled that one, but from now to the end of the hunting season there will not be a single moment of daylight when I will feel absolutely safe."

Paddy crept out on the bank and chewed a little twig of poplar thoughtfully. Paddy says he can always think better if he is chewing something. "That's bad news, Lightfoot. I'm sorry to hear it. I certainly am sorry to hear it," said Paddy. "Why anybody wants to hunt such a handsome fellow as you are, I cannot understand. My, but that's a beautiful set of antlers you have!"

"They are the best I've ever had; but do you know, Paddy, I suspect that they may be one of the reasons I am hunted so," replied Lightfoot a little sadly. "Good looks are not always to be desired. Have you seen any hunters around here lately?"

Paddy shook his Lead. "Not a single hunter," he replied. "I tell you what it is, Lightfoot, let's be partners for a while. You stay right around my pond. If I see or hear or smell anything suspicious, I'll warn you. You do the same for me. Two sets of eyes, ears and noses are better than one. What do you say, Lightfoot?"

"I'll do it," replied Lightfoot.



CHAPTER XIV: How Paddy Warned Lightfoot


It was a queer partnership, that partnership between Lightfoot and Paddy, but it was a good partnership. They had been the best of friends for a long time. Paddy had always been glad to have Lightfoot visit his pond. To tell the truth, he was rather fond of handsome Lightfoot. You know Paddy is himself not at all handsome. On land he is a rather clumsy-looking fellow and really homely. So he admired Lightfoot greatly. That is one reason why he proposed that they be partners.

Lightfoot himself thought the idea a splendid one. He spent that night browsing not far from Paddy's pond. With the coming of daylight he lay down in a thicket of young hemlock-trees near the upper end of the pond. It was a quiet, peaceful day. It was so quiet and peaceful and beautiful it was hard to believe that hunters with terrible guns were searching the Green Forest for beautiful Lightfoot. But they were, and Lightfoot knew that sooner or later one of them would be sure to visit Paddy's pond. So, though he rested and took short naps all through that beautiful day, he was anxious. He couldn't help but be.

The next morning found Lightfoot back in the same place. But this morning he took no naps. He rested, but all the time he was watchful and alert. A feeling of uneasiness possessed him. He felt in his bones that danger in the shape of a hunter with a terrible gun was not far distant.

But the hours slipped away, and little by little he grew less uneasy. He began to hope that that day would prove as peaceful as the previous day had been. Then suddenly there was a sharp report from the farther end of Paddy's pond. It was almost like a pistol shot. However, it wasn't a pistol shot. It wasn't a shot at all. It was the slap of Paddy's broad tail on the surface of the water. Instantly Lightfoot was on his feet. He knew just what that meant. He knew that Paddy had seen or heard or smelled a hunter.

It was even so. Paddy had heard a dry stick snap. It was a very tiny snap, but it was enough to warn Paddy. With only his head above water he had watched in the direction from which that sound had come. Presently, stealing quietly along towards the pond, a hunter had come in view. Instantly Paddy had brought his broad tail down on the water with all his force. He knew that Lightfoot would know that that meant danger. Then Paddy had dived, and swimming under water, had sought the safety of his house. He had done his part, and there was nothing more he could do.



CHAPTER XV: The Three Watchers


When Paddy the Beaver slapped the water with his broad tail, making a noise like a pistol shot, Lightfoot understood that this was meant as a warning of danger. He was on his feet instantly, with eyes, ears and nose seeking the cause of Paddy's warning. After a moment or two he stole softly up to the top of a little ridge some distance back from Paddy's pond, but from the top of which he could see the whole of the pond. There he hid among some close-growing young hemlock-trees. It wasn't long before he saw a hunter with a terrible gun come down to the shore of the pond.

Now the hunter had heard Paddy slap the water with his broad tail. Of course. There would have been something very wrong with his ears had he failed to hear it.

"Confound that Beaver!" muttered the hunter crossly. "If there was a Deer anywhere around this pond, he probably is on his way now. I'll have a look around and see if there are any signs."

So the hunter went on to the edge of Paddy's pond and then began to walk around it, studying the ground as he walked. Presently he found the footprints of Lightfoot in the mud where Lightfoot had gone down to the pond to drink.

"I thought as much," muttered the hunter. "Those tracks were made last night. That Deer probably was lying down somewhere near here, and I might have had a shot but for that pesky Beaver. I'll just look the land over, and then I think I'll wait here awhile. If that Deer isn't too badly scared, he may come back."

So the hunter went quite around the pond, looking into all likely hiding-places. He found where Lightfoot had been lying, and he knew that in all probability Lightfoot had been there when Paddy gave the danger signal.

"It's of no use for me to try to follow him," thought the hunter. "It is too dry for me to track him. He may not be so badly scared, after all. I'll just find a good place and wait."

So the hunter found an old log behind some small trees and there sat down. He could see all around Paddy's pond. He sat perfectly still. He was a clever hunter and he knew that so long as he did not move he was not likely to be noticed by any sharp eyes that might come that way. What he didn't know was that Lightfoot had been watching him all the time and was even then standing where he could see him. And another thing he didn't know was that Paddy the Beaver had come out of his house and, swimming under water, had reached a hiding-place on the opposite shore from which he too had seen the hunter sit down on the log. So the hunter watched for Lightfoot, and Lightfoot and Paddy watched the hunter.



CHAPTER XVI: Visitors To Paddy's Pond


That hunter was a man of patience. Also he was a man who understood the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows. He knew that if he would not be seen he must not move. So he didn't move. He kept as motionless as if he were a part of the very log on which he was sitting.

For some time there was no sign of any living thing. Then, from over the tree tops in the direction of the Big River, came the whistle of swift wings, and Mr. and Mrs. Quack alighted with a splash in the pond. For a few moments they sat on the water, a picture of watchful suspicion. They were looking and listening to make sure that no danger was near. Satisfied at last, they began to clean their feathers. It was plain that they felt safe. Paddy the Beaver was tempted to warn them that they were not as safe as they thought, but as long as the hunter did not move Paddy decided to wait.

Now the hunter was sorely tempted to shoot these Ducks, but he knew that if he did he would have no chance that day to get Lightfoot the Deer, and it was Lightfoot he wanted. So Mr. and Mrs. Quack swam about within easy range of that terrible gun without once suspecting that danger was anywhere near.

By and by the hunter's keen eyes caught a movement at one end of Paddy's dam. An instant later Bobby Coon appeared. It was clear that Bobby was quite unsuspicious. He carried something, but just what the hunter could not make out. He took it down to the edge of the water and there carefully washed it. Then he climbed up on Paddy's dam and began to eat. You know Bobby Coon is very particular about his food. Whenever there is water near, Bobby washes his food before eating. Once more the hunter was tempted, but did not yield to the temptation, which was a very good thing for Bobby Coon.

All this Lightfoot saw as he stood among the little hemlock-trees at the top of the ridge behind the hunter. He saw and he understood. "It is because he wants to kill me that he doesn't shoot at Mr. and Mrs. Quack or Bobby Coon," thought Lightfoot a little bitterly. "What have I ever done that he should be so anxious to kill me?"

Still the hunter sat without moving. Mr. and Mrs. Quack contentedly hunted for food in the mud at the bottom of Paddy's pond. Bobby Coon finished his meal, crossed the dam and disappeared in the Green Forest. He had gone off to take a nap somewhere. Time slipped away. The hunter continued to watch patiently for Lightfoot, and Lightfoot and Paddy the Beaver watched the hunter. Finally, another visitor appeared at the upper end of the pond -- a visitor in a wonderful coat of red. It was Reddy Fox.



CHAPTER XVII: Sammy Jay Arrives


When Reddy Fox arrived at the pond of Paddy the Beaver, the hunter who was hiding there saw him instantly. So did Lightfoot. But no one else did. He approached in that cautious, careful way that he always uses when he is hunting. The instant he reached a place where he could see all over Paddy's pond, he stopped as suddenly as if he had been turned to stone. He stopped with one foot lifted in the act of taking a step. He had seen Mr. and Mrs. Quack.

Now you know there is nothing Reddy Fox likes better for a dinner than a Duck. The instant he saw Mr. and Mrs. Quack, a gleam of longing crept into his eyes and his mouth began to water. He stood motionless until both Mr. and Mrs. Quack had their heads under water as they searched for food in the mud in the bottom of the pond. Then like a red flash he bounded out of sight behind the dam of Paddy the Beaver.

Presently the hunter saw Reddy's black nose at the end of the dam as Reddy peeped around it to watch Mr. and Mrs. Quack. The latter were slowly moving along in that direction as they fed. Reddy was quick to see this. If he remained right where he was, and Mr. And Mrs. Quack kept on feeding in that direction, the chances were that he would have a dinner of fat Duck. All he need do was to be patient and wait. So, with his eyes fixed fast on Mr. and Mrs. Quack, Reddy Fox crouched behind Paddy's dam and waited.

Watching Reddy and the Ducks, the hunter almost forgot Lightfoot the Deer. Mr. and Mrs. Quack were getting very near to where Reddy was waiting for them. The hunter was tempted to get up and frighten those Ducks. He didn't want Reddy Fox to have them, because he hoped some day to get them himself.

"I suppose," thought he, "I was foolish not to shoot them when I had the chance. They are too far away now, and it looks very much as if that red rascal will get one of them. I believe I'll spoil that red scamp's plans by frightening them away. I don't believe that Deer will be back here to-day anyway, so I may as well save those Ducks."

But the hunter did nothing of the kind. You see, just as he was getting ready to step out from his hiding-place, Sammy Jay arrived. He perched in a tree close to the end of Paddy's dam and at once he spied Reddy Fox. It didn't take him a second to discover what Reddy was hiding there for. "Thief, thief, thief!" screamed Sammy, and then looked down at Reddy with a mischievous look in his sharp eyes. There is nothing Sammy Jay delights in more than in upsetting the plans of Reddy Fox. At the sound of Sammy's voice, Mr. and Mrs. Quack swam hurriedly towards the middle of the pond. They knew exactly what that warning meant. Reddy Fox looked up at Sammy Jay and snarled angrily. Then, knowing it was useless to hide longer, he bounded away through the Green Forest to hunt elsewhere.



CHAPTER XVIII: The Hunter Loses His Temper


The hunter, hidden near the pond of Paddy the Beaver, chuckled silently. That is to say, he laughed without making any sound. The hunter thought the warning of Mr. and Mrs. Quack by Sammy Jay was a great joke on Reddy. To tell the truth, he was very much pleased. As you know, he wanted those Ducks himself. He suspected that they would stay in that little pond for some days, and he planned to return there and shoot them after he had got Lightfoot the Deer. He wanted to get Lightfoot first, and he knew that to shoot at anything else might spoil his chance of getting a shot at Lightfoot.

"Sammy Jay did me a good turn," thought the hunter, "although he doesn't know it. Reddy Fox certainly would have caught one of those Ducks had Sammy not come along just when he did. It would have been a shame to have had one of them caught by that Fox. I mean to get one, and I hope both of them, myself."

Now when you come to think of it, it would have been a far greater shame for the hunter to have killed Mr. and Mrs. Quack than for Reddy Fox to have done so. Reddy was hunting them because he was hungry. The hunter would have shot them for sport. He didn't need them. He had plenty of other food. Reddy Fox doesn't kill just for the pleasure of killing.

So the hunter continued to sit in his hiding-place with very friendly feelings for Sammy Jay. Sammy watched Reddy Fox disappear and then flew over to that side of the pond where the hunter was. Mr. and Mrs. Quack called their thanks to Sammy, to which he replied, that he had done no more for them than he would do for anybody, or than they would have done for him.

For some time Sammy sat quietly in the top of the tree, but all the time his sharp eyes were very busy. By and by he spied the hunter sitting on the log. At first he couldn't make out just what it was he was looking at. It didn't move, but nevertheless Sammy was suspicious. Presently he flew over to a tree where he could see better. Right away he spied the terrible gun, and he knew just what that was. Once more he began to yell, "Thief! thief! thief!" at the top of his lungs. It was then that the hunter lost his temper. He knew that now he had been discovered by Sammy Jay, and it was useless to remain there longer. He was angry clear through.



CHAPTER XIX: Sammy Jay Is Modest


As soon as the angry hunter with the terrible gun had disappeared among the trees of the Green Forest, and Lightfoot was sure that he had gone for good, Lightfoot came out from his hiding-place on top of the ridge and walked down to the pond of Paddy the Beaver for a drink. He knew that it was quite safe to do so, for Sammy Jay had followed the hunter, all the time screaming, "Thief! thief! thief!" Every one within hearing could tell just where that hunter was by Sammy's voice. It kept growing fainter and fainter, and by that Lightfoot knew that the hunter was getting farther and farther away.

Paddy the Beaver swam out from his hiding-place and climbed out on the bank near Lightfoot. There was a twinkle in his eyes. "That blue-coated mischief-maker isn't such a bad fellow at heart, after all, is he?" said he.

Lightfoot lifted his beautiful head and set his ears forward to catch the sound of Sammy's voice in the distance.

"Sammy Jay may be a mischief-maker, as some people say," said he, "but you can always count on him to prove a true friend in time of danger. He brought me warning of the coming of the hunter the other morning. You saw him save Mr. and Mrs. Quack a little while ago, and then he actually drove that hunter away. I suppose Sammy Jay has saved more lives than any one I know of. I wish he would come back here and let me thank him."

Some time later Sammy Jay did come back. "Well," said he, as he smoothed his feathers, "I chased that fellow clear to the edge of the Green Forest, so I guess there will be nothing more to fear from him today. I'm glad to see he hasn't got you yet, Lightfoot. I've been a bit worried about you."

"Sammy," said Lightfoot, "you are one of the best friends I have. I don't know how I can ever thank you for what you have done for me."

"Don't try," replied Sammy shortly. "I haven't done anything but what anybody else would have done. Old Mother Nature gave me a pair of good eyes and a strong voice. I simply make the best use of them I can. Just to see a hunter with a terrible gun makes me angry clear through.  I'd rather spoil his hunting than eat."

"You want to watch out, Sammy. One of these days a hunter will lose his temper and shoot you, just to get even with you," warned Paddy the Beaver.

"Don't worry about me," replied Sammy. "I know just how far those terrible guns can shoot, and I don't take any chances. By the way, Lightfoot, the Green Forest is full of hunters looking for you. I 've seen a lot of them, and I know they are looking for you because they do not shoot at anybody else even when they have a chance."



CHAPTER XX: Lightfoot Hears A Dreadful Sound


Day after day, Lightfoot the Deer played hide and seek for his life with the hunters who were seeking to kill him. He saw them many times, though not one of them saw him. More than once a hunter passed close to Lightfoot's hiding-place without once suspecting it.

But poor Lightfoot was feeling the strain. He was growing thin, and he was so nervous that the falling of a dead leaf from a tree would startle him. There is nothing quite so terrible as being continually hunted. It was getting so that Lightfoot half expected a hunter to step out from behind every tree. Only when the Black Shadows wrapped the Green Forest in darkness did he know a moment of peace. And those hours of safety were filled with dread of what the next day might bring.

Early one morning a terrible sound rang through the Green Forest and brought Lightfoot to his feet with a startled jump. It was the baying of hounds following a trail. At first it did not sound so terrible. Lightfoot had often heard it before. Many times he had listened to the baying of Bowser the Hound, as he followed Reddy Fox. It had not sounded so terrible then because it meant no danger to Lightfoot.

At first, as he listened early that morning, he took it for granted that those hounds were after Reddy, and so, though startled, he was not worried. But suddenly a dreadful suspicion came to him and he grew more and more anxious as he listened. In a few minutes there was no longer any doubt in his mind. Those hounds were following his trail. It was then that the sound of that baying became terrible. He must run for his life! Those hounds would give him no rest. And he knew that in running from them, he would no longer be able to watch so closely for the hunters with terrible guns. He would no longer be able to hide in thickets. At any time he might be driven right past one of those hunters.

Lightfoot bounded away with such leaps as only Lightfoot can make. In a little while the voices of the hounds grew fainter. Lightfoot stopped to get his breath and stood trembling as he listened. The baying of the hounds again grew louder and louder. Those wonderful noses of theirs were following his trail without the least difficulty. In a panic of fear, Lightfoot bounded away again. As he crossed an old road, the Green Forest rang with the roar of a terrible gun. Something tore a strip of bark from the trunk of a tree just above Lightfoot's back. It was a bullet and it had just missed Lightfoot. It added to his terror and this in turn added to his speed.

So Lightfoot ran and ran, and behind him the voices of the hounds continued to ring through the Green Forest.



CHAPTER XXI: How Lightfoot Got Rid Of The Hounds


Poor Lightfoot! It seemed to him that there were no such things as justice and fair play. Had it been just one hunter at a time against whom he had to match his wits it would not have been so bad. But there were many hunters with terrible guns looking for him, and in dodging one he was likely at any time to meet another. This in itself seemed terribly unfair and unjust. But now, added to this was the greater unfairness of being trailed by hounds.

Do you wonder that Lightfoot thought of men as utterly heartless? You see, he could not know that those hounds had not been put on his trail, but had left home to hunt for their own pleasure. He could not know that it was against the law to hunt him with dogs. But though none of those hunters looking for him were guilty of having put the hounds on his trail, each one of them was willing and eager to take advantage of the fact that the hounds were on his trail. Already he had been shot at once and he knew that he would be shot at again if he should be driven where a hunter was hidden.

The ground was damp and scent always lies best on damp ground. This made it easy for the hounds to follow him with their wonderful noses. Lightfoot tried every trick he could think of to make those hounds lose the scent.

"If only I could make them lose it long enough for me to get a little rest, it would help," panted Lightfoot, as he paused for just an instant to listen to the baying of the hounds.

But he couldn't. They allowed him no rest. He was becoming very, very tired. He could no longer bound lightly over fallen logs or brush, as he had done at first. His lungs ached as he panted for breath. He realized that even though he should escape the hunters he would meet an even more terrible death unless he could get rid of those hounds. There would come a time when he would have to stop. Then those hounds would catch up with him and tear him to pieces.

It was then that he remembered the Big River. He turned towards it. It was his only chance and he knew it. Straight through the Green Forest, out across the Green Meadows to the bank of the Big River, Lightfoot ran. For just a second he paused to look behind. The hounds were almost at his heels. Lightfoot hesitated no longer but plunged into the Big River and began to swim. On the banks the hounds stopped and bayed their disappointment, for they did not dare follow Lightfoot out into the Big River.



CHAPTER XXII: Lightfoot's Long Swim


The Big River was very wide. It would have been a long swim for Lightfoot had he been fresh and at his best. Strange as it may seem, Lightfoot is a splendid swimmer, despite his small, delicate feet. He enjoys swimming.

But now Lightfoot was terribly tired from his long run ahead of the hounds. For a time he swam rapidly, but those weary muscles grew still more weary, and by the time he reached the middle of the Big River it seemed to him that he was not getting ahead at all. At first he had tried to swim towards a clump of trees he could see on the opposite bank above the point where he had entered the water, but to do this he had to swim against the current and he soon found that he hadn't the strength to do this. Then he turned and headed for a point down the Big River. This made the swimming easier, for the current helped him instead of hindering him.

Even then he could feel his strength leaving him. Had he escaped those hounds and the terrible hunters only to be drowned in the Big River? This new fear gave him more strength for a little while. But it did not last long. He was three fourths of the way across the Big River but still that other shore seemed a long distance away. Little by little hope died in the heart of Lightfoot the Deer. He would keep on just as long as he could and then, -- well, it was better to drown than to be torn to pieces by dogs.

Just as Lightfoot felt that he could not take another stroke and that the end was at hand, one foot touched something. Then, all four feet touched. A second later he had found solid footing and was standing with the water only up to his knees. He had found a little sand bar out in the Big River. With a little gasp of returning hope, Lightfoot waded along until the water began to grow deeper again. He had hoped that he would be able to wade ashore, but he saw now that he would have to swim again.

So for a long time he remained right where he was. He was so tired that he trembled all over, and he was as frightened as he was tired. He knew that standing out there in the water he could be seen for a long distance, and that made him nervous and fearful. Supposing a hunter on the shore he was trying to reach should see him. Then he would have no chance at all, for the hunter would simply wait for him and shoot him as he came out of the water.

But rest he must, and so he stood for a long time on the little sand bar in the Big River. And little by little he felt his strength returning.



CHAPTER XXIII: Lightfoot Finds A Friend


As Lightfoot rested, trying to recover his breath, out there on the little sand bar in the Big River, his great, soft, beautiful eyes watched first one bank and then the other. On the bank he had left, he could see two black-and-white specks moving about, and across the water came the barking of dogs. Those two specks were the hounds who had driven him into the Big River. They were barking now, instead of baying. Presently a brown form joined the black-and-white specks. It was a hunter drawn there by the barking of the dogs. He was too far away to be dangerous, but the mere sight of him filled Lightfoot with terror again. He watched the hunter walk along the bank and disappear in the bushes.

Presently out of the bushes came a boat, and in it was the hunter. He headed straight towards Lightfoot, and then Lightfoot knew that his brief rest was at an end. He must once more swim or be shot by the hunter in the boat. So Lightfoot again struck out for the shore. His rest had given him new strength, but still he was very, very tired and swimming was hard work.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he drew nearer to the bank. What new dangers might be waiting there, he did not know. He had never been on that side of the Big River. He knew nothing of the country on that side. But the uncertainty was better than the certainty behind him. He could hear the sound of the oars as the hunter in the boat did his best to get to him before he should reach the shore.

On Lightfoot struggled. At last he felt bottom beneath his feet. He staggered up through some bushes along the bank and then for an instant it seemed to him his heart stopped beating. Right in front of him stood a man. He had come out into the back yard of the home of that man. It is doubtful which was the more surprised, Lightfoot or the man. Right then and there Lightfoot gave up in despair. He couldn't run. It was all he could do to walk. The long chase by the hounds on the other side of the Big River and the long swim across the Big River had taken all his strength.

Not a spark of hope remained to Lightfoot. He simply stood still and trembled, partly with fear and partly with weariness. Then a surprising thing happened. The man spoke softly. He advanced, not threateningly but slowly, and in a friendly way. He walked around back of Lightfoot and then straight towards him. Lightfoot walked on a few steps, and the man followed, still talking softly. Little by little he urged Lightfoot on, driving him towards an open shed in which was a pile of hay. Without understanding just how, Lightfoot knew that he had found a friend. So he entered the open shed and with a long sigh lay down in the soft hay.



CHAPTER XXIV: The Hunter Is Disappointed


How he knew he was safe, Lightfoot the Deer Couldn't have told you. He just knew it, that was all. He couldn't understand a word said by the man in whose yard he found himself when he climbed the bank after his long swim across the Big River. But he didn't have to understand words to know that he had found a friend. So he allowed the man to drive him gently over to an open shed where there was a pile of soft hay and there he lay down, so tired that it seemed to him he couldn't move another step.

It was only a few minutes later that the hunter who had followed Lightfoot across the River reached the bank and scrambled out of his boat. Lightfoot's friend was waiting just at the top of the bank. Of course the hunter saw him at once.

"Hello, Friend!" cried the hunter. "Did you see a Deer pass this way a few minutes ago? He swam across the river, and if I know anything about it he's too tired to travel far now. I've been hunting that fellow for several days, and if I have any luck at all I ought to get him this time." "I'm afraid you won't have any luck at all," said Lightfoot's friend. "You see, I don't allow any hunting on my land."

The hunter looked surprised, and then his surprise gave way to anger. "You mean," said he, "that you intend to get that Deer yourself."

Lightfoot's friend shook his head. "No," said he, "I don't mean anything of the kind. I mean that that Deer is not to be killed if I can prevent it, and while it is on my land, I think I can. The best thing for you to do, my friend, is to get into your boat and row back where you came from. Are those your hounds barking over there?"

"No," replied the hunter promptly. "I know the law just as well as you do, and it is against the law to hunt Deer with dogs. I don't even know who owns those two hounds over there."

"That may be true," replied Lightfoot's friend. "I don't doubt it is true. But you are willing to take advantage of the fact that the dogs of some one else have broken the law. You knew that those dogs had driven that Deer into the Big River and you promptly took advantage of the fact to try to reach that Deer before he could get across. You are not hunting for the pleasure of hunting but just to kill. You don't know the meaning of justice or fairness. Now get off my land. Get back into your boat and off my land as quick as you can. That Deer is not very far from here and so tired that he cannot move. Just as long as he will stay here, he will be safe, and I hope he will stay until this miserable hunting season is ended. Now go."

Muttering angrily, the hunter got back into his boat and pushed off, but he didn't row back across the river.



CHAPTER XXV: The Hunter Lies In Wait


If ever there was an angry hunter, it was the one who had followed Lightfoot the Deer across the Big River. When he was ordered to get off the land where Lightfoot had climbed out, he got back into his boat, but he didn't row back to the other side. Instead, he rowed down the river, finally landing on the same side but on land which Lightfoot's friend did not own.

"When that Deer has become rested he'll become uneasy," thought the hunter. "He won't stay on that man's land. He'll start for the nearest woods. I'll go up there and wait for him. I'll get that Deer if only to spite that fellow back there who drove me off. Had it not been for him, I'd have that Deer right now. He was too tired to have gone far. He's got the handsomest pair of antlers I've seen for years. I can sell that head of his for a good price."

So the hunter tied his boat to a tree and once more climbed out. He climbed up the bank and studied the land. Across a wide meadow he could see a brushy old pasture and back of that some thick woods. He grinned.

"That's where that Deer will head for," he decided. "There isn't any other place for him to go. All I've got to do is be patient and wait."

So the hunter took his terrible gun and tramped across the meadow to the brush-grown pasture. There he hid among the bushes where he could peep out and watch the land of Lightfoot's friend. He was still angry because he had been prevented from shooting Lightfoot. At the same time he chuckled, because he thought himself very smart. Lightfoot couldn't possibly reach the shelter of the woods without giving him a shot, and he hadn't the least doubt that Lightfoot would start for the woods just as soon as he felt able to travel. So he made himself comfortable and prepared to wait the rest of the day, if necessary.

Now Lightfoot's friend who had driven the hunter off had seen him row down the river and he had guessed just what was in that hunter's mind. "We'll fool him," said he, chuckling to himself, as he walked back towards the shed where poor Lightfoot was resting.

He did not go too near Lightfoot, for he did not want to alarm him. He just kept within sight of Lightfoot, paying no attention to him but going about his work. You see, this man loved and understood the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows, and he knew that there was no surer way of winning Lightfoot's confidence and trust than by appearing to take no notice of him. Lightfoot, watching him, understood. He knew that this man was a friend and would do him no harm. Little by little, the wonderful, blessed feeling of safety crept over Lightfoot. No hunter could harm him here.



CHAPTER XXVI: Lightfoot Does The Wise Thing


All the rest of that day the hunter with the terrible gun lay hidden in the bushes of the pasture where he could watch for Lightfoot the Deer to leave the place of safety he had found. It required a lot of patience on the part of the hunter, but the hunter had plenty of patience. It sometimes seems as if hunters have more patience than any other people.

But this hunter waited in vain. Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun sank down in the west to his bed behind the Purple Hills. The Black Shadows crept out and grew blacker. One by one the stars began to twinkle. Still the hunter waited, and still there was no sign of Lightfoot. At last it became so dark that it was useless for the hunter to remain longer. Disappointed and once more becoming angry, he tramped back to the Big River, climbed into his boat and rowed across to the other side. Then he tramped home and his thoughts were very bitter. He knew that he could have shot Lightfoot had it not been for the man who had protected the Deer. He even began to suspect that this man had himself killed Lightfoot, for he had been sure that as soon as he had become rested Lightfoot would start for the woods, and Lightfoot had done nothing of the kind. In fact, the hunter had not had so much as another glimpse of Lightfoot.

The reason that the hunter had been so disappointed was that Lightfoot was smart. He was smart enough to understand that the man who was saving him from the hunter had done it because he was a true friend. All the afternoon Lightfoot had rested on a bed of soft hay in an open shed and had watched this man going about his work and taking the utmost care to do nothing to frighten Lightfoot.

"He not only will let no one else harm me, but he himself will not harm me," thought Lightfoot. "As long as he is near, I am safe. I'll stay right around here until the hunting season is over, then I'll swim back across the Big River to my home in the dear Green Forest."

So all afternoon Lightfoot rested and did not so much as put his nose outside that open shed. That is why the hunter got no glimpse of him. When it became dark, so dark that he knew there was no longer danger, Lightfoot got up and stepped out under the stars. He was feeling quite himself again. His splendid strength had returned. He bounded lightly across the meadow and up into the brushy pasture where the hunter had been hidden. There and in the woods back of the pasture he browsed, but at the first hint of the coming of another day, Lightfoot turned back, and when his friend, the farmer, came out early in the morning to milk the cows, there was Lightfoot back in the open shed. The farmer smiled. "You are as wise as you are handsome, old fellow," said he.



CHAPTER XXVII: Sammy Jay Worries


It isn't often Sammy Jay worries about anybody but himself. Truth to tell, he doesn't worry about himself very often. You see, Sammy is smart, and he knows he is smart. Under that pointed cap of his are some of the cleverest wits in all the Green Forest. Sammy seldom worries about himself because he feels quite able to take care of himself.

But Sammy Jay was worrying now. He was worrying about Lightfoot the Deer. Yes, Sir, Sammy Jay was worrying about Lightfoot the Deer. For two days he had been unable to find Lightfoot or any trace of Lightfoot. But he did find plenty of hunters with terrible guns. It seemed to him that they were everywhere in the Green Forest. Sammy began to suspect that one of them must have succeeded in killing Lightfoot the Deer.

Sammy knew all of Lightfoot's hiding-places. He visited every one of them. Lightfoot wasn't to be found, and no one whom Sammy met had seen Lightfoot for two days.

Sammy felt badly. You see, he was very fond of Lightfoot. You remember it was Sammy who warned Lightfoot of the coming of the hunter on the morning when the dreadful hunting season began. Ever since the hunting season had opened, Sammy had done his best to make trouble for the hunters. Whenever he had found one of them he had screamed at the top of his voice to warn every one within hearing just where that hunter was. Once a hunter had lost his temper and shot at Sammy, but Sammy had suspected that something of the kind might happen, and he had taken care to keep just out of reach. Sammy had known all about the chasing of Lightfoot by the hounds. Everybody in the Green Forest had known about it. You see, everybody had heard the voices of those hounds. Once, Lightfoot had passed right under the tree in which Sammy was sitting, and a few moments later the two hounds had passed with their noses to the ground as they followed Lightfoot's trail. That was the last Sammy had seen of Lightfoot. He had been able to save Lightfoot from the hunters, but he couldn't save him from the hounds.

The more Sammy thought things over, the more he worried. "I am afraid those hounds drove him out where a hunter could get a shot and kill him, or else that they tired him out and killed him themselves," thought Sammy. "If he were alive, somebody certainly would have seen him and nobody has, since the day those hounds chased him. I declare, I have quite lost my appetite worrying about him. If Lightfoot is dead, and I am almost sure he is, the Green Forest will never seem the same."



CHAPTER XXVIII: The Hunting Season Ends


The very worst things come to an end at last. No matter how bad a thing is, it cannot last forever. So it was with the hunting season for Lightfoot the Deer. There came a day when the law protected all Deer, -- a day when the hunters could no longer go searching for Lightfoot.

Usually there was great rejoicing among the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows when the hunting season ended and they knew that Lightfoot would be in no more danger until the next hunting season. But this year there was no rejoicing. You see, no one could find Lightfoot. The last seen of him was when he was running for his life with two hounds baying on his trail and the Green Forest filled with hunters watching for a chance to shoot him.

Sammy Jay had hunted everywhere through the Green Forest. Blacky the Crow, whose eyes are quite as sharp as those of Sammy Jay, had joined in the search. They had found no trace of Lightfoot. Paddy the Beaver said that for three days Lightfoot had not visited his pond for a drink. Billy Mink, who travels up and down the Laughing Brook, had looked for Lightfoot's footprints in the soft earth along the banks and had found only old ones. Jumper the Hare had visited Lightfoot's favorite eating places at night, but Lightfoot had not been in any of them.

"I tell you what it is," said Sammy Jay to Bobby Coon, "something has happened to Lightfoot. Either those hounds caught him and killed him, or he was shot by one of those hunters. The Green Forest will never be the same without him. I don't think I shall want to come over here very much. There isn't one of all the other people who live in the Green Forest who would be missed as Lightfoot will be."

Bobby Coon nodded. "That's true, Sammy," said he. "Without Lightfoot, the Green Forest will never be the same. He never harmed anybody. Why those hunters should have been so anxious to kill one so beautiful is something I can't understand. For that matter, I don't understand why they want to kill any of us. If they really needed us for food, it would be a different matter, but they don't. Have you been up in the Old Pasture and asked Old Man Coyote if he has seen anything of Lightfoot?"

Sammy nodded. "I've been up there twice," said he. "Old Man Coyote has been lying very low during the days, but nights he has done a lot of traveling. You know Old Man Coyote has a mighty good nose, but not once since the day those hounds chased Lightfoot has he found so much as a tiny whiff of Lightfoot's scent. I thought he might have found the place where Lightfoot was killed, but he hasn't, although he has looked for it. Well, the hunting season for Lightfoot is over, but I am afraid it has ended too late."



CHAPTER XXIX: Mr. And Mrs. Quack Are Startled


It was the evening of the day after the closing of the hunting season for Lightfoot the Deer. Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun had gone to bed behind the Purple Hills, and the Black Shadows had crept out across the Big River. Mr. and Mrs. Quack were getting their evening meal among the brown stalks of the wild rice along the edge of the Big River. They took turns in searching for the rice grains in the mud. While Mrs. Quack tipped up and seemed to stand on her head as she searched in the mud for rice, Mr. Quack kept watch for possible danger. Then Mrs. Quack took her turn at keeping watch, while Mr. Quack stood on his head and hunted for rice.

It was wonderfully quiet and peaceful. There was not even a ripple on the Big River. It was so quiet that they could hear the barking of a dog at a farmhouse a mile away. They were far enough out from the bank to have nothing to fear from Reddy Fox or Old Man Coyote. So they had nothing to fear from any one save Hooty the Owl. It was for Hooty that they took turns in watching. It was just the hour when Hooty likes best to hunt.

By and by they heard Booty's hunting call. It was far away in the Green Forest, Then Mr. and Mrs. Quack felt easier, and they talked in low, contented voices. They felt that for a while at least there was nothing to fear.

Suddenly a little splash out in the Big River caught Mr. Quack's quick ear. As Mrs. Quack brought her head up out of the water, Mr. Quack warned her to keep quiet. Noiselessly they swam among the brown stalks until they could see out across the Big River. There was another little splash out there in the middle. It wasn't the splash made by a fish; it was a splash made by something much bigger than any fish. Presently they made out a silver line moving towards them from the Black Shadows. They knew exactly what it meant. It meant that some one was out there in the Big River moving towards them. Could it be a boat containing a hunter?

With their necks stretched high, Mr. and Mrs. Quack watched. They were ready to take to their strong wings the instant they discovered danger. But they did not want to fly until they were sure that it WAS danger approaching. They were startled, very much startled.

Presently they made out what looked like the branch of a tree moving over the water towards them. That was queer, very queer. Mr. Quack said so. Mrs. Quack said so. Both were growing more and more suspicious. They couldn't understand it at all, and it is always best to be suspicious of things you cannot understand. Mr. and Mrs. Quack half lifted their wings to fly.



CHAPTER XXX: The Mystery Is Solved


It was very mysterious. Yes, Sir, it was very mysterious. Mr. Quack thought so. Mrs. Quack thought so. There, out in the Big River, in the midst of the Black Shadows, was something which looked like the branch of a tree. But instead of moving down the river, as the branch of a tree would if it were floating, this was coming straight across the river as if it were swimming. But how could the branch of a tree swim? That was too much for Mr. Quack. It was too much for Mrs. Quack.

So they sat perfectly still among the brown stalks of the wild rice along the edge of the Big River, and not for a second did they take their eyes from that strange thing moving towards them. They were ready to spring into the air and trust to their swift wings the instant they should detect danger. But they did not want to fly unless they had to. Besides, they were curious. They were very curious indeed. They wanted to find out what that mysterious thing moving through the water towards them was.

So Mr. and Mrs. Quack watched that thing that looked like a swimming branch draw nearer and nearer, and the nearer it drew the more they were puzzled, and the more curious they felt. If it had been the pond of Paddy the Beaver instead of the Big River, they would have thought it was Paddy swimming with a branch for his winter food pile. But Paddy the Beaver was way back in his own pond, deep in the Green Forest, and they knew it. So this thing became more and more of a mystery. The nearer it came, the more nervous and anxious they grew, and at the same time the greater became their curiosity.

At last Mr. Quack felt that not even to gratify his curiosity would it be safe to wait longer. He prepared to spring into the air, knowing that Mrs. Quack would follow him. It was just then that a funny little sound reached him. It was half snort, half cough, as if some one had sniffed some water up his nose. There was something familiar about that sound. Mr. Quack decided to wait a few minutes longer.

"I'll wait," thought Mr. Quack, "until that thing, whatever it is, comes out of those Black Shadows into the moonlight. Somehow I have a feeling that we are in no danger."

So Mr. and Mrs. Quack waited and watched. In a few minutes the thing that looked like the branch of a tree came out of the Black Shadows into the moonlight, and then the mystery was solved. It was a mystery no longer. They saw that they had mistaken the antlers of Lightfoot the Deer for the branch of a tree. Lightfoot was swimming across the Big River on his way back to his home in the Green Forest. At once Mr. and Mrs. Quack swam out to meet him and to tell him how glad they were that he was alive and safe.



CHAPTER XXXI: A Surprising Discovery


Probably there was no happier Thanksgiving in all the Great World than the Thanksgiving of Lightfoot the Deer, when the dreadful hunting season ended and he was once more back in his beloved Green Forest with nothing to fear. All his neighbors called on him to tell him how glad they were that he had escaped and how the Green Forest would not have been the same if he had not returned. So Lightfoot roamed about without fear and was happy. It seemed to him that he could not be happier. There was plenty to eat and that blessed feeling of nothing to fear. What more could any one ask? He began to grow sleek and fat and handsomer than ever. The days were growing colder and the frosty air made him feel good.

Just at dusk one evening he went down to his favorite drinking place at the Laughing Brook. As he put down his head to drink he saw something which so surprised him that he quite forgot he was thirsty. What do you think it was he saw? It was a footprint in the soft mud. Yes, Sir, it was a footprint.

For a long time Lightfoot stood staring at that footprint. In his great, soft eyes was a look of wonder and surprise. You see, that footprint was exactly like one of his own, only smaller. To Lightfoot it was a very wonderful footprint. He was quite sure that never had he seen such a dainty footprint. He forgot to drink. Instead, he began to search for other footprints, and presently he found them. Each was as dainty as that first one.

Who could have made them? That is what Lightfoot wanted to know and what he meant to find out. It was clear to him that there was a stranger in the Green Forest, and somehow he didn't resent it in the least. In fact, he was glad. He couldn't have told why, but it was true.

Lightfoot put his nose to the footprints and sniffed of them. Even had he not known by looking at those prints that they had been made by a stranger, his nose would have told him this. A great longing to find the maker of those footprints took possession of him. He lifted his handsome head and listened for some slight sound which might show that the stranger was near. With his delicate nostrils he tested the wandering little Night Breezes for a stray whiff of scent to tell him which way to go. But there was no sound and the wandering little Night Breezes told him nothing. Lightfoot followed the dainty footprints up the bank. There they disappeared, for the ground was hard. Lightfoot paused, undecided which way to go.



CHAPTER XXXII: Lightfoot Sees The Stranger


Lightfoot the Deer was unhappy. It was a strange unhappiness, an unhappiness such as he had never known before. You see, he had discovered that there was a stranger in the Green Forest, a stranger of his own kind, another Deer. He knew it by dainty footprints in the mud along the Laughing Brook and on the edge of the pond of Paddy the Beaver. He knew it by other signs which he ran across every now and then. But search as he would, he was unable to find that newcomer. He had searched everywhere but always he was just too late. The stranger had been and gone.

Now there was no anger in Lightfoot's desire to find that stranger. Instead, there was a great longing. For the first time in his life Lightfoot felt lonely. So he hunted and hunted and was unhappy. He lost his appetite. He slept little. He roamed about uneasily, looking, listening, testing every Merry Little Breeze, but all in vain.

Then, one never-to-be-forgotten night, as he drank at the Laughing Brook, a strange feeling swept over him. It was the feeling of being watched. Lightfoot lifted his beautiful head and a slight movement caught his quick eye and drew it to a thicket not far away. The silvery light of gentle Mistress Moon fell full on that thicket, and thrust out from it was the most beautiful head in all the Great World. At least, that is the way it seemed to Lightfoot, though to tell the truth it was not as beautiful as his own, for it was uncrowned by antlers. For a long minute Lightfoot stood gazing. A pair of wonderful, great, soft eyes gazed back at him. Then that beautiful head disappeared.

With a mighty bound, Lightfoot cleared the Laughing Brook and rushed over to the thicket in which that beautiful head had disappeared. He plunged in, but there was no one there. Frantically he searched, but that thicket was empty. Then he stood still and listened. Not a sound reached him. It was as still as if there were no other living things in all the Green Forest. The beautiful stranger had slipped away as silently as a shadow.

All the rest of that night Lightfoot searched through the Green Forest but his search was in vain. The longing to find that beautiful stranger had become so great that he fairly ached with it. It seemed to him that until he found her he could know no happiness.



CHAPTER XXXIII: A Different Game Of Hide And Seek


Once more Lightfoot the Deer was playing hide and seek in the Green Forest. But it was a very different game from the one he had played just a short time before. You remember that then it had been for his life that he had played, and he was the one who had done all the hiding. Now, he was "it", and some one else was doing the hiding. Instead of the dreadful fear which had filled him in that other game, he was now filled with longing, -- longing to find and make friends with the beautiful stranger of whom he had just once caught a glimpse, but of whom every day he found tracks.

At times Lightfoot would lose his temper. Yes, Sir, Lightfoot would lose his temper. That was a foolish thing to do, but it seemed to him that he just couldn't help it. He would stamp his feet angrily and thrash the bushes with his great spreading antlers as if they were an enemy with whom he was fighting. More than once when he did this a pair of great, soft, gentle eyes were watching him, though he didn't know it. If he could have seen them and the look of admiration in them, he would have been more eager than ever to find that beautiful stranger.

At other times Lightfoot would steal about through the Green Forest as noiselessly as a shadow. He would peer into thickets and behind tangles of fallen trees and brush piles, hoping to surprise the one he sought. He would be very, very patient. Perhaps he would come to the thicket which he knew from the signs the stranger had left only a few moments before. Then his patience would vanish in impatience, and he would dash ahead, eager to catch up with the shy stranger. But always it was in vain. He had thought himself very clever but this stranger was proving herself more clever.

Of course it wasn't long before all the little people in the Green Forest knew what was going on. They knew all about that game of hide and seek just as they had known all about that other game of hide and seek with the hunters. But now, instead of trying to help Lightfoot as they did then, they gave him no help at all. The fact is, they were enjoying that game. Mischievous Sammy Jay even went so far as to warn the stranger several times when Lightfoot was approaching. Of course Lightfoot knew when Sammy did this, and each time he lost his temper. For the time being, he quite forgot all that Sammy had done for him when he was the one that was being hunted.

Once Lightfoot almost ran smack into Buster Bear and was so provoked by his own carelessness that instead of bounding away he actually threatened to fight Buster. But when Buster grinned good-naturedly at him, Lightfoot thought better of it and bounded away to continue his search.

Then there were times when Lightfoot would sulk and would declare over and over to himself, "I don't care anything about that stranger. I won't spend another minute looking for her." And then within five minutes he would be watching, listening and seeking some sign that she was still in the Green Forest.



CHAPTER XXXIV: A Startling New Footprint


The game of hide and seek between Lightfoot the Deer and the beautiful stranger whose dainty footprints had first started Lightfoot to seeking her had been going on for several days and nights when Lightfoot found something which gave him a shock. He had stolen very softly clown to the Laughing Brook, hoping to surprise the beautiful stranger drinking there. She wasn't to be seen. Lightfoot wondered if she had been there, so looked in the mud at the edge of the Laughing Brook to see if there were any fresh prints of those dainty feet. Almost at once he discovered fresh footprints. They were not the prints he was looking for. No, Sir, they were not the dainty prints he had learned to know so well. They were prints very near the size of his own big ones, and they had been made only a short time before.

The finding of those prints was a dreadful shock to Lightfoot. He understood instantly what they meant. They meant that a second stranger had come into the Green Forest, one who had antlers like his own. Jealousy took possession of Lightfoot the Deer; jealousy that filled his heart with rage.

"He has come here to seek that beautiful stranger I have been hunting for," thought Lightfoot. "He has come here to try to steal her away from me. He has no right here in my Green Forest. He belongs back up on the Great Mountain from which he must have come, for there is no other place he could have come from. That is where that beautiful stranger must have come from, too. I want her to stay, but I must drive this fellow out. I'll make him fight. That's what I'll do; I'll make him fight! I'm not afraid of him, but I'll make him fear me."

Lightfoot stamped his feet and with his great antlers thrashed the bushes as if he felt that they were the enemy he sought. Could you have looked into his great eyes then, you would have found nothing soft and beautiful about them. They became almost red with anger. Lightfoot quivered all over with rage. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Lightfoot the Deer looked anything but gentle.

After he had vented his spite for a few minutes on the harmless, helpless bushes, he threw his head high in the air and whistled angrily. Then he leaped over the Laughing Brook and once more began to search through the Green Forest. But this time it was not for the beautiful stranger with the dainty feet. He had no time to think of her now. He must first find this newcomer and he meant to waste no time in doing it.



CHAPTER XXXV: Lightfoot Is Reckless


In his search for the new stranger who had come to the Green Forest, Lightfoot the Deer was wholly reckless. He no longer stole like a gray shadow from thicket to thicket as he had done when searching for the beautiful stranger with the dainty feet. He bounded along, careless of how much noise he made. From time to time he would stop to whistle a challenge and to clash his horns against the trees and stamp the ground with his feet.

After such exhibitions of anger he would pause to listen, hoping to hear some sound which would tell him where the stranger was. Now and then he found the stranger's tracks, and from them he knew that this stranger was doing: just what he had been doing, seeking to find the beautiful newcomer with the dainty feet. Each time he found these signs Lightfoot's rage increased.

Of course it didn't take Sammy Jay long to discover what was going on. There is little that escapes those sharp eyes of Sammy Jay. As you know, he had early discovered the game of hide and seek Lightfoot had been playing with the beautiful young visitor who had come down to the Green Forest from the Great Mountain. Then, by chance, Sammy had visited the Laughing Brook just as the big stranger had come down there to drink. For once Sammy had kept his tongue still. "There is going to be excitement here when Lightfoot discovers this fellow," thought Sammy. "If they ever meet, and I have a feeling that they will, there is going to be a fight worth seeing. I must pass the word around."

So Sammy Jay hunted up his cousin, Blacky the Crow, and told him what he had discovered. Then he hunted up Bobby Coon and told him. He saw Unc' Billy Possum sitting in the doorway of his hollow tree and told him. He discovered Jumper the Hare sitting under a little hemlock-tree and told him. Then he flew over to the dear Old Briar-patch to tell Peter Rabbit. Of course he told Drummer the Woodpecker, Tommy Tit the Chickadee, and Yank Yank the Nuthatch, who were over in the Old Orchard, and they at once hurried to the Green Forest, for they couldn't think of missing anything so exciting as would be the meeting between Lightfoot and the big stranger from the Great Mountain.

Sammy didn't forget to tell Paddy the Beaver, but it was no news to Paddy. Paddy had seen the big stranger on the edge of his pond early the night before.

Of course, Lightfoot knew nothing about all this. His one thought was to find that big stranger and drive him from the Green Forest, and so he continued his search tirelessly.



CHAPTER XXXVI: Sammy Jay Takes A Hand


Sammy Jay was bubbling over with excitement as he flew about through the Green Forest, following Lightfoot the Deer. He was so excited he wanted to scream. But he didn't. He kept his tongue still. You see, he didn't want Lightfoot to know that he was being followed. Under that pointed cap of Sammy Jay's are quick wits. It didn't take him long to discover that the big stranger whom Lightfoot was seeking was doing his best to keep out of Lightfoot's way and that he was having no difficulty in doing so because of the reckless way in which Lightfoot was searching for him. Lightfoot made so much noise that it was quite easy to know just where he was and so keep out of his sight.

"That stranger is nearly as big as Lightfoot, but it is very plain that he doesn't want to fight," thought Sammy. "He must be a coward."

Now the truth is, the stranger was not a coward. He was ready and willing to fight if he had to, but if he could avoid fighting he meant to. You see, big as he was, he wasn't quite so big as Lightfoot, and he knew it. He had seen Lightfoot's big footprints, and from their size he knew that Lightfoot must be bigger and heavier than he. Then, too, he knew that he really had no right to be there in the Green Forest. That was Lightfoot's home and so he was an intruder. He knew that Lightfoot would feel this way about it and that this would make him fight all the harder. So the big stranger wanted to avoid a fight if possible. But he wanted still more to find that beautiful young visitor with the dainty feet for whom Lightfoot had been looking. He wanted to find her just as Lightfoot wanted to find her, and he hoped that if he did find her, he could take her away with him back to the Great Mountain. If he had to, he would fight for her, but until he had to he would keep out of the fight. So he dodged Lightfoot and at the same time looked for the beautiful stranger.

All this Sammy Jay guessed, and after a while he grew tired of following Lightfoot for nothing. "I'll have to take a hand in this thing myself," muttered Sammy. "At this rate, Lightfoot never will find that big stranger!"

So Sammy stopped following Lightfoot and began to search through the Green Forest for the big stranger. It didn't take very long to find him. He was over near the pond of Paddy the Beaver. As soon as he saw him, Sammy began to scream at the top of his lungs. At once he heard the sound of snapping twigs at the top of a little ridge back of Paddy's pond and knew that Lightfoot had heard and understood.



CHAPTER XXXVII: The Great Fight


Down from the top of the ridge back of the pond of Paddy the Beaver plunged Lightfoot the Deer, his eyes blazing with rage. He had understood the screaming of Sammy Jay. He knew that somewhere down there was the big stranger he had been looking for.

The big stranger had understood Sammy's screaming quite as well as Lightfoot. He knew that to run away now would be to prove himself a coward and forever disgrace himself in the eyes of Miss Daintyfoot, for that was the name of the beautiful stranger he had been seeking. He MUST fight. There was no way out of it, he MUST fight. The hair on the back of his neck stood up with anger just as did the hair on the neck of Lightfoot. His eyes also blazed. He bounded out into a little open place by the pond of Paddy the Beaver and there he waited.

Meanwhile Sammy Jay was flying about in the greatest excitement, screaming at the top of his lungs, "A fight! A fight! A fight!" Blacky the Crow, over in another part of the Green Forest, heard him and took up the cry and at once hurried over to Paddy's pond. Everybody who was near enough hurried there. Bobby Coon and Unc' Billy Possum climbed trees from which they could see and at the same time be safe. Billy Mink hurried to a safe place on the dam of Paddy the Beaver. Paddy himself climbed up on the roof of his house out in the pond. Peter Rabbit and Jumper the Hare, who happened to be not far away, hurried over where they could peep out from under some young hemlock-trees. Buster Bear shuffled down the hill and watched from the other side of the pond. Reddy and Granny Fox were both there.

For what seemed like the longest time, but which was for only a minute, Lightfoot and the big stranger stood still, glaring at each other. Then, snorting with rage, they lowered their heads and plunged together. Their antlers clashed with a noise that rang through the Green Forest, and both fell to their knees. There they pushed and struggled. Then they separated and backed away, to repeat the movement over again. It was a terrible fight. Everybody said so. If they had not known before, everybody knew now what those great antlers were for. Once the big stranger managed to reach Lightfoot's right shoulder with one of the sharp points of his antlers and made a long tear in Lightfoot's gray coat. It only made Lightfoot fight harder.

Sometimes they would rear up and strike with their sharp hoofs. Back and forth they plunged, and the ground was torn up by their feet. Both were getting out of breath, and from time to time they had to stop for a moment's rest. Then they would come together again more fiercely than ever. Never had such a fight been seen in the Green Forest.



CHAPTER XXXVIII: An Unseen Watcher


As Lightfoot the Deer and the big stranger from the Great Mountain fought in the little opening near the pond of Paddy the Beaver, neither knew or cared who saw them. Each was filled fully with rage and determined to drive the other from the Green Forest. Each was fighting for the right to win the love of Miss Daintyfoot.

Neither of them knew that Miss Daintyfoot herself was watching them. But she was. She had heard the clash of their great antlers as they had come together the first time, and she had known exactly what it meant. Timidly she had stolen forward to a thicket where, safely hidden, she could watch that terrible fight. She knew that they were fighting for her. Of course. She knew it just as she had known how both had been hunting for her. What she didn't know for some time was which one she wanted to win that fight.

Both Lightfoot and the big stranger were handsome. Yes, indeed, they were very handsome. Lightfoot was just a little bit the bigger and it seemed to her just a little bit the handsomer. She almost wanted him to win. Then, when she saw how bravely the big stranger was fighting and how well he was holding his own, even though he was a little smaller than Lightfoot, she almost hoped he would win.

That great fight lasted a long time. To pretty Miss Daintyfoot it seemed that it never would end. But after a while Lightfoot's greater size and strength began to tell. Little by little the big stranger was forced back towards the edge of the open place. Now he would be thrown to his knees when Lightfoot wasn't. As Lightfoot saw this, he seemed to gain new strength. At last he caught the stranger in such a way that he threw him over. While the stranger struggled to get to his feet again, Lightfoot's sharp antlers made long tears in his gray coat. The stranger was beaten and he knew it. The instant he succeeded in getting to his feet he turned tail and plunged for the shelter of the Green Forest. With a snort of triumph, Lightfoot plunged after him.

But now that he was beaten, fear took possession of the stranger. All desire to fight left him. His one thought was to get away, and fear gave him speed. Straight back towards the Great Mountain from which he had come the stranger headed. Lightfoot followed only a short distance. He knew that that stranger was going for good and would not come back. Then Lightfoot turned back to the open place where they had fought. There he threw up his beautiful head, crowned by its great antlers, and whistled a challenge to all the Green Forest. As she looked at him, Miss Daintyfoot knew that she had wanted him to win. She knew that there simply couldn't be anybody else so handsome and strong and brave in all the Great World.



CHAPTER XXXIX: Lightfoot Discovers Love


Wonderfully handsome was Lightfoot the Deer as he stood in the little opening by the pond of Paddy the Beaver, his head thrown back proudly, as he received the congratulations of his neighbors of the Green Forest who had seen him win the great fight with the big stranger who had come down from the Great Mountain. To beautiful Miss Daintyfoot, peeping out from the thicket where she had hidden to watch the great fight, Lightfoot was the most wonderful person in all the Great World. She adored him, which means that she loved him just as much as it was possible for her to love.

But Lightfoot didn't know this. In fact, he didn't know that Miss Daintyfoot was there. His one thought had been to drive out of the Green Forest the big stranger who had come down from the Great Mountain. He had been jealous of that big stranger, though he hadn't known that he was jealous. The real cause of his anger and desire to fight had been the fear that the big stranger would find Miss Daintyfoot and take her away. Of course this was nothing but jealousy.

Now that the great fight was over, and he knew that the big stranger was hurrying back to the Great Mountain, all Lightfoot's anger melted away. In its place was a great longing to find Miss Daintyfoot. His great eyes became once more soft and beautiful. In them was a look of wistfulness. Lightfoot walked down to the edge of the water and drank, for he was very, very thirsty. Then he turned, intending to take up once more his search for beautiful Miss Daintyfoot.

When he turned he faced the thicket in which Miss Daintyfoot was hiding. His keen eyes caught a little movement of the branches. A beautiful head was slowly thrust out, and Lightfoot gazed again into a pair of soft eyes which he was sure were the most beautiful eyes in all the Great World. He wondered if she would disappear and run away as she had the last time he saw her.

He took a step or two forward. The beautiful head was withdrawn. Lightfoot's heart sank. Then he bounded forward into that thicket. He more than half expected to find no one there, but when he entered that thicket he received the most wonderful surprise in all his life. There stood Miss Daintyfoot, timid, bashful, but with a look in her eyes which Lightfoot could not mistake. In that instant Light-foot understood the meaning of that longing which had kept him hunting for her and of the rage which had filled him when he had discovered the presence of the big stranger from the Great Mountain. It was love. Lightfoot knew that he loved Miss Daintyfoot and, looking into her soft, gentle eyes, he knew that Miss Daintyfoot loved him.



CHAPTER XL: Happy Days In The Green Forest


These were happy days in the Green Forest. At least, they were happy for Lightfoot the Deer. They were the happiest days he had ever known. You see, he had won beautiful, slender, young Miss Daintyfoot, and now she was no longer Miss Daintyfoot but Mrs. Lightfoot. Lightfoot was sure that there was no one anywhere so beautiful as she, and Mrs. Lightfoot knew that there was no one so handsome and brave as he.

Wherever Lightfoot went, Mrs. Lightfoot went. He showed her all his favorite hiding-places. He led her to his favorite eating-places. She did not tell him that she was already acquainted with every one of them, that she knew the Green Forest quite as well as he did. If he had stopped to think how day after day she had managed to keep out of his sight while he hunted for her, he would have realized that there was little he could show her which she did not already know. But he didn't stop to think and proudly led her from place to place. And Mrs. Lightfoot wisely expressed delight with all she saw quite as if it were all new.

Of course, all the little people of the Green Forest hurried to pay their respects to Mrs. Lightfoot and to tell Lightfoot how glad they felt for him. And they really did feel glad. You see, they all loved Lightfoot and they knew that now he would be happier than ever, and that there would be no danger of his leaving the Green Forest because of loneliness. The Green Forest would not be the same at all without Lightfoot the Deer.

Lightfoot told Mrs. Lightfoot all about the terrible days of the hunting season and how glad he was that she had not been in the Green Forest then. He told her how the hunters with terrible guns had given him no rest and how he had had to swim the Big River to get away from the hounds.

"I know," replied Mrs. Lightfoot softly. "I know all about it. You see, there were hunters on the Great Mountain. In fact, that is how I happened to come down to the Green Forest. They hunted me so up there that I did not dare stay, and I came down here thinking that there might be fewer hunters. I wouldn't have believed that I could ever be thankful to hunters for anything, but I am, truly I am."

There was a puzzled look on Lightfoot's face. "What for?" he demanded. "I can't imagine anybody being thankful to hunters for anything."

"Oh, you stupid," cried Mrs. Lightfoot. "Don't you see that if I hadn't been driven down from the Great Mountain, I never would have found YOU?"

"You mean, I never would have found YOU," retorted Lightfoot. "I guess I owe these hunters more than you do. I owe them the greatest happiness I have ever known, but I never would have thought of it myself. Isn't it queer how things which seem the very worst possible sometimes turn out to be the very best possible?"

Blacky the Crow is one of Lightfoot's friends, but sometimes even friends are envious. It is so with Blacky. He insists that he is quite as important in the Green Forest as is Lightfoot and that his doings are quite as interesting. Therefore just to please him the next book is to be Blacky the Crow.

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Buster The Big Brown Bear

By

George Ethelbert Walsh



Story I

When Buster Was A Cub


In the North Woods where Buster was born, a wide river tinkles merrily over stones that are so white you'd mistake them for snowballs, if you were not careful, and begin pelting each other with them. The birches hanging over the water look like white sticks of peppermint candy, except in the spring of the year when they blossom out in green leaves, and then they make you think of fairyland where everything is painted the colors of the rainbow.

The rocks that slope up from the bank of the river are dented and broken as if some giant in the past had smashed them with his hammer, cracking some and punching deep holes in others. It was in one of these holes, or caves, that Buster was born.

He didn't mind the hard rocky floor of his bed a bit, nor did he mind the darkness, nor the cold winds that swept through the open doorway. He was so well protected by his thick, furry coat that he didn't need a soft bed on which to take his nap. A big stone made a nice pillow for his head, and he rather liked the hard floor for a bed when he curled up to go to sleep.

Buster was an only child. He didn't know what a brother or sister was like, and so he didn't miss either. He had his mother, who was good enough for him, and when he was old enough to crawl out on the rocks in front of his home he would spend hours and hours there playing with her in the bright sunshine.

Sometimes Mother Bear had to leave him while she went off in the woods to get something to eat. At such times she made Buster stay in the cave.

"You mustn't show yourself on the rock, Buster," she cautioned, "until you hear me call you. I won't be gone long."

Buster was a dutiful little cub, and he accepted his mother's commands without asking why or wherefore. Perhaps that was because he was too young to understand, or because his mother was very strict with her only child. When he was very young, so young that he could hardly see at all, his mother used to tell him what to do and then gently but firmly make him do it, using her big hairy paws to enforce obedience.

These early lessons were never forgotten, and Buster got in the habit of minding his mother just as naturally as a tree grows straight when trained upright to a stake. But Buster grew curious as he got older, and one day when his mother was going away he asked: "Why can't I play in front until you come back?"

"Because," replied Mother Bear, "Loup the Lynx might come along and eat you up."

"Who is Loup the Lynx?" asked Buster, turning very pale, for he had a wholesome dread of being eaten up.

"Never mind, dear. You stay inside until I come back."

That was a mighty argument of Mother Bear's to make her child obey. He was so afraid of Loup the Lynx that he never dared to poke his nose out of the cave when his mother was away. And sometimes the temptation to do it was very strong, for as he grew bigger and stronger the sunshine had a great fascination for him. Nothing in the world seemed pleasanter than to roll around on the rocks outside, blinking at the warm sun, and smelling the odors of the sweet flowers. It was springtime then, and the woods were full of the song of birds and the drone of busy insects. It made one wish to be outdoors all the time.

"You must be careful today, Buster," his mother said to him one morning, "and stay inside the cave. I heard Loup the Lynx hunting around here last night. I don't like him. He's a rough, brutal fellow, and nearly always up to some mischief. I hate to leave you a minute today. But I must."

Buster kept his promise, and remained inside all the morning, playing with his tail and the few leaves the wind blew in the cave. Toward noon, however, he got tired of this, and also very hungry. When a bear is hungry, he becomes very bold and will do things that would never occur to him at other times.

Buster sniffed in all the corners of the cave for a bite of something good to eat, but there was nothing more digestible than rocks and stones. Then he crept nearer the entrance, venturing a little closer every moment.

A streak of sunlight played on the rocks in front of him, and it so fascinated him that he began trying to catch it with his little paws. He had it, then lost it, and then sprang for it again. But the sunlight danced around, and never stayed caught.

In the midst of this game of tag with the sunlight, Buster heard a noise outside. It sounded like some animal scuffing heavily over the rocks, and the little fellow was so sure it was his mother that he ran out to greet her.

But what a surprise met him! Instead of Mother Bear there stood Loup the Lynx, crouching and sniffing, with his long tail swishing back and forth making a noise like a nutmeg grater.

Buster had never seen Loup the Lynx before, but nobody had to tell him now. He recognized him instantly. His first thought was to run back in the dark cave. Loup had a great dread of being caught in the cave by Mother Bear. If he had to fight with a full grown bear he preferred to be out in the open where he could spring in a tree if knocked over by a big paw. So he resorted to cunning to induce Buster to come out further.

"Don't be afraid, Buster," he said pleasantly. "I'm not going to hurt you. Your mother was delayed in the woods, and she sent me here to watch the mouth of the cave so no harm would come to you."

Buster was surprised at this information, and he stopped to look at Loup. He didn't like his face, but if his mother sent him it must be all right.

"I was watching you playing with that sun-beam," Loup continued, lying down with his two paws in front of him. "I used to do that when I was young, but I'm too old now. I can't jump around as I used to. Now let me see if you can catch the sun-beam."

Buster was less afraid than ever, and he wanted to show Loup how spry he was. "I can catch it if I want to," he said boastfully.

"I don't believe you can. Now let's see you do it. If you do I'll tell your mother when she returns what a spry youngster you are."

Buster, swelling with pride and ambition, made a dart for the flickering sun-beam. At the same time Loup leaped into the air, and landed right at the mouth of the cave, with Buster on the outside. He was cut off from retreat, and Loup leered so cruelly at him that a spasm of fear ran down his spine. He wished now that he hadn't disobeyed his mother, but it was too late, and he set up a little cry of terror.

What Loup the Lynx did to him, and how Buster escaped to plunge into more adventures, will be told in the next story.




Story II

Buster And Loup


It was a dreadful position for a little rolly polly bear to be in, with Loup the Lynx facing him, and his mother away in the woods where she couldn't hear his cries. Loup was so sure of his prize that he let him squeal and cry for some time. It rather amused him.

"What a little howling brat you are!" Loup said finally. "Stop that squealing or I'll make you."

Buster was as much frightened by the tone of the voice as by the words, and almost instantly stopped calling for his mother. He was a very young bear -- a mere cub -- and you could not blame him for crying for help. Besides he had never been outside of the cave alone before, and right down in his heart he knew that his disobedience of his mother's commands had got him into trouble.

"I'll stop," he said, "if you'll please move away from that doorway and let me go inside. Mother told me not to come out of the cave when she was away."

"Oh, she did!" sneered Loup. "Then you've been a bad, wicked cub, and you deserve to be punished. I think I'll teach you a lesson."

"Please don't, Mr. Loup," pleaded Buster, who much preferred to be punished by his mother than this wicked looking animal. "One punishment will be enough, and I know mother will attend to that."

Loup laughed and swished his short tail as if he wished it were longer so he might use it as a whip to punish Buster with.

"No, I'll punish you too," he added. "You deserve it. Do you know how I punish cubs that disobey their mothers?"

Buster didn't know, and wasn't particularly anxious to find out. His one desire was to get back of Loup and escape in the cave where he might be able to hide until his mother returned. If he could only get Loup away from the front of the cave, he might run in it.

"Well, I'll tell you," Loup added. "I take them by the scruff of the neck, and shake them until they haven't breath enough to squeal."

He grabbed a stone in his jaws and shook it back and forth just to show how he would do it. The sight made Buster feel faint.

"And then," went on Loup, "I give them a pat on the back with my paw like this."

Loup raised a paw and brought it down on the rock so hard that it made Buster jump a foot in the air. The blow was so powerful that it seemed for a moment as if it would crack the rocks. Loup laughed joyfully at Buster's fright.

"Now that I've shown you what I intend to do with you," Loup continued, "you'll be prepared. Well, I'm coming now to punish you."

Buster backed away to the edge of the rock.

"And when I've cuffed your ears, and shaken out your teeth," Loup threatened, "I'm going to eat you. Oh, yes, a young cub makes delicious eating. I'll fill my stomach with you."

For the first time Buster showed a little spirit of defiance. Standing up on his two hind legs, he said, wagging his head: "No you won't, Mr. Loup, for my mother will kill you first. She's bigger than you, and she can strike harder than you. My, when she brings her big paw down it makes the rocks shake! If you touch me she'll strike you on the head, and knock you in the river."

"Huh!" snorted Loup angrily. The fact was he was afraid of Mother Bear, but he didn't want Buster to know it, and he tried to make him think so by boasting. "If your mother should come near me, I'd knock her over. I could do it easily."

Perhaps Buster wasn't convinced by this boastful talk, or may be he heard something in the bushes that sounded like his mother's familiar footsteps. At any rate, he turned suddenly, and clapped his paws.

"Now let me see you do it, Mr. Loup!" he cried. "Here comes mother! She won't let you hurt me!"

The way Loup jumped and growled showed that his courage wasn't so very great after all. He had no desire to meet Mother Bear, and the thought he had lost a delicious dinner by talking so long to Buster made him hungry. For a moment he hesitated. If he jumped on Buster and ran away with him, Mother Bear would be on his tracks immediately, and if he stayed he would be cornered in the cave. He decided to take the safest course.

"Well, if your mother's coming, Buster," he said in a changed voice, "it won't be necessary for me to stay here with you any longer. You might tell her I kept guard over the cave while she was away."

Buster was so surprised by these words that he turned to look at the Lynx. Loup smiled at him, and added: "Of course, you know this was all a joke. I didn't intend to hurt you. I love little bear cubs. That's why I came here to protect you. We'll always be great friends, and when you grow up I'll show you the ways of the woods."

Buster in his innocence believed these soft words, and his feelings toward Loup took a sudden change. He wasn't wise enough to follow up his advantage and let Loup go. Instead he said:

"Don't go yet, Mr. Loup. I'm not sure mother is coming after all. The noise in the bushes was just a bird scratching for worms."

Loup raised his ugly head and glanced around him. His ears were cocked up so that he could catch the faintest sound in the distance. Then a smile of satisfaction spread over his face. Turning to Buster he let out a roar that sounded like distant thunder rumbling in the sky. It made Buster jump nearly two feet in the air.

"So you were trying to deceive me!" he growled. "You lied to me! You said your mother was coming when she wasn't. Then for that I'll kill you and eat you up!"

Buster started to protest. "No, no, Mr. Loup, I didn't lie to you," he stammered.

But he couldn't get any further. Loup had crouched for a spring. Buster saw his big, dark body coming through the air at him, and very naturally he ran away crying with fright. Loup seeing that he had missed him in his spring struck viciously with one paw, and just grazed Buster's head. It was only a graze, but it drew blood, and made Buster whimper with pain.

There was one thing Buster wanted, and that was to get safely inside the cave, and the moment Loup sprang in the air he started for it. But Loup was a quick, powerful dodger, and before the cub could reach the entrance the Lynx had taken another long jump and landed directly in front of him.

Buster, to escape him, wheeled so suddenly that he rolled all over in a heap. The rock sloped down toward the water, and the cub rolled down it so fast that Loup was unable to catch him. It was the only thing that saved Buster's life.

He had never been in the river, and he didn't know whether he could swim or not, but he much preferred the water to Loup's dripping jaws. So instead of trying to check his rolling he kicked out to make himself go faster.

Loup reached him just as he got at the edge of the rocks, and with one paw tried to crush his head and body; but again he missed him, and merely cut a deep gash in Buster's shoulder. The next moment the cub splashed into the river, and went down, down, down until it seemed to him there was no bottom.

In the next story you will hear of how Buster was rescued from the river.




Story III

How Buster Got Out Of The River


Buster had never been in water over his head before, and you can imagine his feelings when it got in his eyes, mouth, ears and nose. He coughed and kicked, and made a great splutter, but after all it was more fright than real danger. He was such a fat little cub that he couldn't sink to the bottom, and stay there.

Just when he thought his end had surely come, he bobbed up on the surface, and his head came out of the water. What a wonderful thing it was to inhale pure fresh air again! Buster had never realized how good it was until then! Of course he had always breathed all the air he wanted, and so having enough he didn't know what it meant to be without it for even a few seconds. That's the way with a lot of things we have in this world.

Buster inhaled the air in great gulps, filling his lungs until they swelled up like balloons, and then to his horror he felt himself sinking. The mere thought of going down in the water again terrified him. He let out a squeal of fear, and began splashing with all four paws.

That was the best thing he could do, for a bear can swim without any lessons if he must do it to save his life. But it was a laughable sight to Loup the Lynx watching from the shore. Buster's swimming was clumsy and awkward.

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Loup gleefully. "Wag your tail, Buster, and maybe that will help you! Don't sneeze now, or you'll swallow all the water in the river. That's right, keep going around in a circle."

It was cruel of Loup to poke fun at him, and Buster thought so too, but he was so occupied in trying to keep his head above the surface he didn't have time to answer.

"Come toward the shore, Buster, and I'll help you," Loup called finally, running down to the edge, and wading knee-deep in the river.

This was the first kindly offer of the Lynx, and once more Buster began to think Loup was not so wicked after all, but when he had made his way a few feet toward the shore he stopped. Why was Loup so anxious to save him? Of course, there was only one explanation to it. He wanted to eat him up.

Buster turned suddenly and splashed away from the bank. Much as he dreaded death by drowning, he preferred it to being eaten up by Loup.

"This way, Buster! This way!" called Loup, thinking that the cub had got turned around and didn't know which way he was swimming.

Buster made no reply. He saw the opposite shore ahead. It was a long distance away, but he was going to swim for it. He began splashing harder than ever.

"I tell you to swim this way!" added Loup, growing suspicious and angry.

Buster continued to head in the opposite direction.

"If you don't come this way," angrily cried Loup, "I'll come after you, and hold your head under the water until you're dead."

Buster more frightened than ever paddled desperately, and he was really making pretty good time. He was beginning to learn how to swim. The opposite bank was growing nearer every moment. To his surprise he found that his strength was not leaving him, and he could keep his head up better than before. There was a chance of escaping the Lynx.

"You little brat!" shrieked Loup, dancing around in the shallow water. "I'll teach you to trick me!"

Loup was an excellent swimmer, but he didn't like the water. He hated to get his soft fur wet, for it took a long time to dry it in the sun. He never took a swim unless forced to it either to catch his victim or to save his life.

But this was one of those occasions when he had to swim or lose his prey. Buster was surely escaping him. In a few more minutes he would be on the opposite shore where he could hide in the bushes until his mother returned.

"All right!" added Loup finally, making up his mind. "I'm coming for you!"

These words didn't frighten Buster nearly so much as the terrible splash he heard a moment later behind him. It seemed as if the river rose a foot, and that big waves were dashing against the bank. Loup had run up a tree leaning over the edge of the river, and launched himself from it. When his body struck the water it made a loud noise.

Buster made a frantic effort to increase his speed, but once when he glanced over his shoulder he nearly lost heart. Loup was swimming with great powerful strokes which brought him closer every second. He didn't splash and flounder around in the water as the cub did, but, with all except his ugly head and long tail under the surface, he moved forward with the least amount of friction. Loup swam as steadily and easily as a boat propelled by a screw.

Buster grew frantic with dread. He expected any moment to feel Loup's powerful paw crushing down on his head, for right behind him he could hear the deep breathing of the Lynx. There was no hope -- no escape!

"Thought you'd get away from me, Buster, didn't you?" laughed Loup when within a few yards of the cub. "Ha! Ha! This is delicious sport! Now I'm going to duck you and half drown you, and then duck you again."

"Oh, please, please -- " gasped Buster, who was pretty well winded now. "Please let me go!"

For reply Loup laughed louder than ever. Then Buster thought of a trick. This time he made it up, for he had heard nothing in the bushes to make him think his mother was returning. But under the circumstances you can't blame him for stretching the truth.

"Oh, Loup, there's mother coming!" he cried. "I must go to her at once!"

Loup was not deceived this time. He took a cautious peep around him, and then splashed the water violently with his two front paws.

"You can't deceive me that way the second time, Buster," he said. "Your mother isn't coming. I'm going to kill you, and then take you up on the bank and eat you."

"But, Mr. Loup, I haven't done anything to you. Won't you let me go this time? I'll promise to be your friend, and -- "

"No!" roared the Lynx so loudly that the echo went ringing up and down the river.

He raised a great paw to grasp Buster, who to escape it dove under the water and disappeared for an instant; but he couldn't stay there long, and when he reappeared there was the menacing paw raised to strike him.

Loup really liked to torture his victims. It wasn't his nature to kill them outright. It gave him great pleasure to see them suffer. If he had struck at Buster at once, he might have killed him in one blow; but he didn't, and that was what saved the little bear's life. There was rescue at hand which neither one dreamed of.

There was a sudden splash in the water, and then a dull thud as something hard and heavy struck Loup on the nose. He jumped back with a scream of rage. At first he thought Buster had played a trick on him, but when another heavy thing hit him on the back of the head he knew differently.

From the shore there came excited cries. "Hit him again! Let me try him this time!"

Loup glanced that way, and understood instantly. Two men were standing on the shore pelting him with rocks. Two of them had hit him, and others were coming his way. There was no fight in Loup when caught in the water, and with a scream of rage he turned and swam for the opposite bank. He wasn't going to risk the loss of his life for the sake of a good dinner.

The next story will tell how Buster met the men, and was carried away as a captive.




Story IV

Buster Is Carried Away By The Men


Buster was nearly as much surprised as Loup by the sudden appearance of the men, but he lacked the strength to turn and swim back to the other side of the river. Indeed, between fear and his hard struggle he was almost ready to give up and sink. He felt he couldn't take many more strokes even to save his life.

At first he thought the rocks were being hurled at him, but as they followed Loup half way across the river, the men throwing them until the Lynx was out of reach, he concluded that maybe he was safer on that side with the men than on the other with his old enemy. This belief was strengthened when the men stopped bombarding the Lynx, and turned to Buster.

"It's a young bear!" said one of the men.

"Sure! I told you so before. We must save him. Here, little fellow! Come here! We won't hurt you!"

Buster looked at them with eyes that seemed ready to pop out of his head. He was so thankful that the men were not going to hurt him that he swam straight toward them. One ran out to meet him, and caught him in his arms.

"The poor little fellow's hurt," the man said, noticing the blood on Buster's shoulder where Loup's claw had caught him when he first tumbled in the river.

"I wish we had a gun to shoot that Lynx," remarked the other. "I'll come back and lay for him."

The man holding Buster stroked his head and back, as he carried him up on dry land. "The poor little fellow's tired out and half dead with fright," he added.

"And hungry, too," said the second man. "We must find him some warm milk. Got any in the camp?"

"Nothing but condensed milk."

"Well, we'll try him with that."

They carried Buster up to their camp in the woods, and brought out a can of condensed milk. After warming some of this over the fire, they gave it to Buster.

Nothing ever tasted so good as that milk, for Buster was cold, tired and still trembling from fright and weakness. He didn't know it until then, but he was dreadfully hungry, so hungry that he couldn't stop until he had lapped up the last drop.

The two men watched him in silence, and then patted him on the back. "You were hungry, little chap, weren't you?" remarked one. "Well, that's enough for the present. We don't want to make you sick."

"Oh, give him a bit of this honey-comb for dessert. That won't hurt him."

And then to Buster's delight, the man handed him something, the very odor of which sent the blood tingling through his veins. One taste of it, and Buster was in ecstasy. It was his first taste of honey, and the grunt of pleasure that escaped his lips sent the men into a roar of laughter.

"The little chap's having the time of his life," one laughed. "Like Oliver Twist he'll be begging for more when that's gone." Of course, Buster didn't know anything about Oliver Twist, but he did know that he could eat that delicious honey all day, and when the last drop was gone he did beg for more.

"Stand on your hind legs and ask for it, and I'll give it to you," said the man.

Buster didn't know exactly what he meant, but it was much easier to reach up to the hand containing the honey when he stood on two legs, and he unconsciously obeyed.

"Now ask for it."

Buster opened his mouth and snapped at it, but the hand was raised beyond his reach. Then, disappointed, he uttered a little cry of eagerness. To his surprise the man gave him the honey.

"That's right," he laughed. Then turning to his companion, he added: "I'm going to teach him tricks, Jim. You can teach a young cub almost anything if you begin early enough."

All this was strange talk to Buster, but he had learned the first lesson of his new life -- the trick of begging. After that when he wanted milk or honey or anything else, he stood up on his hind legs and grunted or cried for it. He found that he always got what he wanted in this way.

With his little stomach full of rich milk and sweet honey, Buster grew very sleepy, and when he curled up to rest one of his rescuers spread a warm blanket over him. In a few minutes he was lost in slumberland.

When Buster awoke he had a queer sensation of being carried in a hammock or something equally soft and comfortable. It was so different from his hard bed on the rocks! His first thought was that it was all part of a dream, but remembering his experience with Loup the Lynx he shuddered, and set up a call for his mother. He was frightened, and whimpered so loudly that the man carrying him opened the blanket and peeked in.

"What is it, Buster?" he asked, addressing him by the very name his mother had always called him. "Hungry again?"

Buster was indeed hungry again, but he was also homesick and wanted his mother. He kept on whimpering when the man took him out of the blanket and patted him.

"Oh, give him something to eat, Bill, and stop his crying," said the man's companion.

So they stopped long enough to feed him again, and after that Buster felt less homesick, and, it must be confessed, forgot his mother. The men began playing with him, and Buster rolled over and gnawed at a stick for them until they roared with laughter.

"Do you know, Jim," said one of his captors, "we've got a rich prize in that cub. He's the most intelligent little chap I ever saw. I wonder where he came from."

"Probably his mother was killed, and that Lynx knew it, and was trying to make a dinner off him."

"I'd like to get a crack at that lynx some day."

"So would I. But I'm mighty glad we saved the cub. He'll make a fine pet. He's as playful as a dog."

Buster was a little startled to hear that his mother had probably been killed. That would account for her not returning to the cave when he called her. Had Loup killed her? No, Buster didn't think so, for his mother was big and powerful, and could easily knock a lynx over with one blow from her paw. Then who was her murderer, or wasn't she dead?

These questions were too hard for Buster to answer, and he soon stopped trying to think of them. Meanwhile, he was safe and well fed, and his two captors liked him. Why should he worry about something that couldn't be helped?

At night time the men came to a cabin near the edge of the woods, and Buster was given a warm blanket in one corner of it. He watched them cook their evening meal, and ate whatever they fed him. The bacon sizzling in the frying pan smelt so good that Buster poked his nose in it, and then drew back with a howl of pain. It burnt his little nose and brought the tears to his eyes.

"Let that be a lesson, Buster, not to poke your nose in things that don't belong to you," laughed one of the men. Then he handed him a piece of bacon well cooked, and not too hot. Buster swallowed it in one gulp.

"What are you going to do with the little fellow, Jim?" suddenly asked one of the men. "You know we can't keep him in the city."

"I've thought of that," replied the other slowly. "The only thing we can do is to sell him. He ought to be worth something."

This was the first hint to Buster that he wasn't always going to live with his captors, and it made him very sad. When bears were sold, what became of them? Buster didn't know, and he went to sleep very troubled. But he wasn't sold after all, and in the next story you will hear how he was stolen.




Story V

How Buster Was Stolen


Buster remained three whole days in the camp with the two men who had saved him from Loup the Lynx, and during that time he learned many things that his mother had never taught him. For one thing he learned manners.

One day he stuck his nose in the pot of soup on the table and began licking it up until a hand grasped him by the neck, and jerked him back. "Buster, you've got to learn your manners, and the time to begin is when you're young," said the man who held him. "Now I must punish you so you'll never stick your nose in the soup again without remembering it."

With that two sharp blows from a small stick landed on Buster's nose. He yelped with pain, and tried to run away, but his captor held him. "The next time you will get three blows instead of two," he added gravely. Buster never repeated the offence.

For another thing he learned it paid to be obliging. When the men asked him to jump over a stick or dance on his hind legs, he received a double lump of sugar if he promptly obeyed. A little extra dance, or a new kind of trick, always brought something to reward him. Buster was shrewd enough to connect the two together -- the trick and the reward.

But there was one thing he hadn't learned, and it got him in trouble again just as it did that day when he disobeyed his mother in leaving the cave when she was away. The men had to go away for a few hours, and they shut Buster up in the cabin, with the remark:

"You stay in here, Buster, and watch the camp. We'll be back soon."

"Better close that window, Jim," remarked the other. "He might climb up to it and get out."

"No, it will be too hot in here. Besides, I think we can trust Buster. He won't try to get out."

Of course, when they left Buster had no intention of disobeying. He was satisfied to curl up in a corner of the cabin and sleep until they returned; but they were gone for a long time, and late in the afternoon he got very restless.

"I'll climb up there and look out," he said to himself, glancing up at the window. "They didn't tell me not to do that."

To reach the window he had to climb up on the stout table, and jump from that to the broad window-sill. This feat wasn't so difficult, for Buster had learned to use his claws with great skill in climbing. The jump to the window-sill was a short one, but he nearly missed it, and had to scramble desperately to prevent a fall.

Once on the window-sill, however, he was well repaid for his trouble. It was a beautiful day outside, and the woods smelt so sweet and attractive that Buster felt a strange longing to get out there and roll around among the leaves. But he wasn't going to do it. No, he remembered the words of his captors, and while he had made no promise he intended to obey them.

Just the same when Groundy the Woodchuck came along and cast a long shadow in front of the window, Buster leaned so far out that he nearly lost his balance. Groundy glanced up, and at first was startled and ready to run; but when he saw that Buster was no more than a cub, only a little larger than himself, he stopped and spoke to him.

"What are you doing up there?" he asked. "You don't live in that house, do you? If you don't look out the owners will come along and catch you."

"They've caught me already," replied Buster. "That's why I'm here, Groundy."

"Oh, then you're a prisoner!" sighed Groundy. "I'm sorry for you. Are you tied by a chain?"

"Indeed, I'm not! They don't chain me up. I'm not a prisoner, either."

Groundy looked at him in silence, not quite able to understand. Buster was grinning at him as if he enjoyed his perplexity. Finally, Groundy said:

"I can't believe you, Buster. But there's one way to show me. If you're not a prisoner, tied by a chain, climb down here. Then I'll believe you."

"I can't -- " began Buster, and then stopped. Of course, if he said that Groundy would go away convinced that he was actually chained inside the window.

"I thought so," nodded Groundy. "Well, I'm sorry for you. I must be going now."

"Wait a minute!" called Buster. "I'll climb down just to show you, but I can't stay."

It really wouldn't do any harm, he thought, to climb down and right back again to show Groundy that he was free. He would do it so quickly that he would be back in the cabin again before any one saw him. Groundy was waiting for him, and Buster couldn't disappoint him now.

He dropped easily to the ground under the window, and cried: "How was that for a jump, Groundy! You couldn't do better, could you?"

"No, but the thing that puzzles me is, how are you going to get back again? Anybody can jump down a hill, but not many can jump up it. Can you jump back to the window-sill?"

Buster had not given much thought to this. He looked up, and the window was so high above his head he knew that he could never jump half the way.

"I don't know," he stammered. "But maybe I can climb back. I've got good claws, and I can climb a tree."

"That may be, Buster, but you can't climb the side of a house," replied Groundy. "If you can I'll watch you."

Groundy squatted down, and Buster anxious to show how well he could climb started to go up the side of the house; but a bear hugs a tree when climbing it, and Buster couldn't get his paws around the cabin any more than he could fly to the moon. He made several attempts to dig his claws in the logs to pull himself up, but each time he tumbled back to the ground before he could reach half way. But he wasn't going to give up trying right away, and again and again he made the attempt until completely exhausted.

"You can't do it, Buster," remarked Groundy finally, rising to his feet. "I knew you couldn't. It's easier to roll down a hill than roll up it."

Buster was greatly disappointed, and he looked around to find something that he could roll under the window and climb up that way; but a noise in the woods suddenly startled Groundy.

"Someone's coming," he whispered. "I must be going. Better come with me, Buster."

"No," was the reply. "I live here now, and I won't run away just because I disobeyed and got in trouble."

Perhaps it would have been better for him had he accepted Groundy's invitation; but he didn't know that, and it was to his credit that he stayed. He knew that he had done wrong in climbing out of the window, but two wrongs don't make a right, and Buster decided that he would face his masters and let them punish him if they wanted to.

But he received a severe shock the next minute. A stranger appeared around the side of the cabin, and another on the other side. They were not pleasant looking. They were very unlike the two men who had rescued him from the river.

"Head him off!" shouted one. "Don't let him get away!"

Buster was too surprised and frightened to run, and before he knew it he was caught by four stout arms and something thick and blinding was thrown over his head. He grunted and squealed, but nobody seemed to hear him. He was picked up and carried swiftly away in the woods and for a long time he was jounced and pounded about in a thick blanket that completely covered him.

When he finally got a peek of daylight again, he was in a strange place, with two evil-looking faces bending over him. In the next story you will hear about Buster's new masters.




Story VI

Buster's Cruel Masters


Buster was so enraged at the treatment he had received that the moment one of the men touched him he growled and snapped at the hand. He had nearly suffocated in the blanket, and all the way through the woods he had been bounced and jounced around cruelly. His captors had seemed to take delight in tormenting him.

So you cannot exactly blame him for being very angry when one of the men poked him in the ribs with a hand. The hand was quickly withdrawn the moment Buster snapped at it.

"The little beast," snarled the owner of the hand. "I'll teach him to bite!"

Before Buster knew what was coming, he was slapped over the head with a stout stick. It stunned him for a moment, and he lay very quiet. But when he got back his senses, he showed his teeth again and sprang for the man.

This time he was knocked over and kicked about the room until he ached in every bone. His two captors came for him with short, stout sticks, which they used freely. Again and again Buster sprang at them, and tried to bite them, but each time he was knocked down.

You see, Buster was only a cub, and he was no match for two full grown men, but he had the spirit of his wild ancestors in him, and he fought until he was hardly able to stand up. Then he dropped down sullen and resentful, beaten into silence, but with his spirit still flaming with anger.

From that day began a new life for Buster. He was no longer treated kindly and coaxed to do tricks. Every time he failed to do what his captors demanded of him he was kicked and cuffed about, and when he obeyed them he was not rewarded by any sugar or honey.

Indeed, he never tasted either of these sweet things. What he had to eat were scraps of bread or meat which the men threw to him after they had eaten all they wanted. Instead of having the freedom of a cabin, he was kept chained up in a small, dark hut.

And what a hut it was! It was dirty and smelly, with scarcely any sun or daylight in it. At night time the men lighted a dirty old lamp or a smelly candle which spluttered and dripped without giving much light. His bed was the bare, hard floor, with nothing for a covering except a few whisps of straw.

Buster rebelled at all this treatment. He couldn't get used to it. The men never spoke a kind word to him, nor ever patted him on the back in a friendly way. They whipped him for the slightest thing, and made him so afraid of them that finally he ran whenever one of them approached.

But even this wasn't the worst of his captivity. In a short time his captors began to teach him to dance and do tricks, but not in the gentle way his former friends did. They put a muzzle on his nose so he could not bite any one, and tied a chain to his neck. Then with a long pole, one end of which was sharpened, they prodded him into dancing. If he didn't dance fast enough to suit them they jabbed him with the sharp pole, and sometimes when he was so tired he could hardly stand they made him stand on his head and turn a somersault.

As a reward for all this Buster was given a few dry crusts of bread and a drink of water, but never any honey or sugar. At night time, sore and tired, he would curl up in the corner of his room, and think of the past. With tears in his eyes, he thought of his happy home in the cave, of his mother who was so kind to him, of Loup the Lynx, and of the two men who had saved him from the river, and fed him with rich milk and sugar and honey.

Oh, how he wished he was back with them or at home in the cave with his mother! But wishing wouldn't help him, and after a while he began planning a way to escape. He decided to be good, and obey his cruel masters, but the first chance he had he would run away from them.

After that Buster became a model bear. He tried to please his masters, not because he liked them, but because he was waiting for the chance to run away. He was really a very bright bear, and within a couple of months he could do many tricks and stunts. He was given a tin cup, which he was taught to hold out to people, and when pennies were placed in it he bowed and carried them to the man with the pole.

One day he was taken out on the streets, and was led along until they came to some children playing. One of his masters played a wheezy old organ, while the other shook the chain and told Buster to dance.

Now dancing out in the fresh air, with children watching him and clapping their hands, was very much pleasanter than in his dirty room, and Buster enjoyed it. He danced as he never did before, and when the man holding the chain told him to stand on his head and turn a somersault he obeyed promptly.

There was a clapping of hands, and a shout of pleasure came from all sides. Buster got to his feet, bowed, and repeated the performance. Then a little girl, holding the hand of a gentleman, approached Buster and handed him a stick of candy.

It was time for him to pass the tin cup for pennies, but Buster was so pleased with the little girl's attention, and so hungry for something sweet, that he forgot his duties and took the candy. But before he could put it in his mouth the man with the chain jerked him back and prodded him with the sharp pole.

Buster grunted with pain and hurriedly picked up the tin cup. A shout of anger went up from the crowd, and the gentleman holding the little girl's hand spoke sharply to Buster's master. Then he picked up the stick of candy and handed it to Buster, who took it and tucked it in his mouth. How sweet and delicious it tasted! It made him think of the days when he was kept in the cabin with the two campers who had rescued him from the river.

Once more there came a jerk on the chain, and the pole prodded him in the side. He had forgotten to pass the tin cup for pennies. The candy had made him forget his duties.

Now it was not Buster's fault that the crowd didn't fill his cup with pennies. Indeed, it was because they knew the money was to go to the two men and not to Buster that the people refused to pay.

"They don't deserve anything!" somebody said. "They're cruel to the poor creature! Don't give them anything!"

Buster made a complete circle of the double row of men, women and children, but not a penny was dropped in his cup. When he returned, finally, and handed the empty cup to his master he was greeted by an angry cuff. There was an angry growl from the people, and the men fearing trouble led Buster away, jerking him hard with the chain.

But that wasn't the last of his punishment. That night when he got home Buster was sent to bed without even his crust of bread. The men were angry because he hadn't collected many pennies for them, and like many other people in this world they laid all the blame of their failure upon another. Buster was the scape-goat.

In the middle of the night, Buster thought of the little girl who had given him the stick of candy, and groaning with pain and hunger he made up his mind to run away very soon and find the girl if he had to travel half around the world. She would at least be kind to him, and that was all he wanted. On the very morrow he would plan a way to get out of the hut and begin his search for the girl with brown eyes and dimples in her cheek.

Buster gets away in the next story, but he joined a circus instead of finding the little girl who had been kind to him.




Story VII

Buster Makes His Escape


Buster had been growing rapidly all this time, and instead of being a little cub he was nearly as tall as his mother and as broad as a Newfoundland dog. A few months had made a tremendous difference in his size and strength.

But he was hardly aware of this change. He still thought of himself as a little bear, but had Loup the Lynx seen him now it is doubtful if he would have been so free to attack him. Loup had a wholesome respect for a full grown bear. It was only the young cubs that he liked to tackle and eat.

But if Buster wasn't aware of his growing size and strength his two captors were. That was why they kept him chained up at night and always carried a long pointed pole when they took him out on the street. They were afraid that some day Buster would realize his strength, and then all would be up with their control of him.

The day came, however, when Buster suddenly found that his muscles were powerful and his strength greater than that of his masters. They had been traveling all day from one small town to another, gathering in a few pennies here and there, and resting by the way-side whenever opportunity offered. It was a hot day, and the road was dusty and rough.

When they came to a small brook the sight of the cool, sweet water brought to Buster's mind pictures of the broad river that ran in front of the cave where he was born. A great desire to plunge in the stream and wallow in the cool water seized him. With this idea in mind he quickened his pace, and started down the embankment.

A sudden jerk of the chain around his neck brought him to his senses, but with an angry toss of the head he continued on, dragging the man behind him. In vain the man tugged at the chain, shouting to his companion, who came up and began prodding Buster with the sharp end of the long pole.

But Buster wanted to get in the brook. Nothing in all his life had ever appealed so much to him. The dust and dirt in his mouth, ears and nose irritated him. Instead of stopping he slapped at the pole and continued on his way.

Then something happened that aroused him to fury. The man gave him such a vicious jab with the sharpened pole that it made him grunt and squeal. Heretofore such cruel treatment had always cowered Buster, but it had an opposite effect on him now. It aroused his fury.

With a quick, lightening-like stroke he grasped the pole in his two paws, and before either of his captors could recover from their surprise he snapped it in two. It was all done so quickly that even Buster was surprised.

Seeing the instrument of his torture lying broken on the ground, Buster smiled, and leered at the men. Something in their eyes attracted his attention. It was fear! Buster read it as clearly as if it had been printed there in large letters.

His captors were afraid of him! They had lost their pointed pole, and thus disarmed they were no longer able to torment. Buster was the master of the situation. A great feeling of exultation swelled up in him. His eyes gleamed and flashed.

Then with a roar he turned on the one holding the chain and struck savagely at him. What happened filled Buster with glee. The man dropped the chain and fled with cries of fright. Buster pursued a few yards, and then sat down on his haunches and laughed.

"Ho! Ho! They're afraid of me!" he said. "I won't have to be their slave any more! All I've got to do is to growl at them, and strike them!"

He got up and strutted around. He was a free bear once more. Never more would he be a captive. He waddled down to the brook and plunged into the cool water. He washed and drank and gurgled to his heart's content. Once or twice his captors approached, and tried to coax him out, but he turned on them with a snarl and made them run away again.

Then they disappeared entirely, and Buster was left alone to enjoy his bath. But his freedom wasn't to last for long, although he didn't know it at the time.

Now as it happened there was a circus in the town a few miles back, and his two masters who cared more about the money value of Buster than anything else, decided that it was a good chance to make a bargain. They knew that they would never be able to control their half-grown bear once he had discovered his strength and power. He was henceforth useless for their work.

But a circus was different. Buster would be valuable in the circus either as a trick animal or as a dangerous man-eating creature that had to be kept caged all the time. People would pay money to view a bear that no man could tame. Of course, Buster was no such wild animal, and he had no intention of killing any one, but the fact that he had broken away from captivity and refused to be captured again furnished the foundation for a story that he was a wild, desperate animal that could not be tamed.

Buster was lying on the grass near the brook, enjoying a quiet snooze, when he was startled by the appearance of half a dozen men armed with sticks and pitchforks. He raised his head and looked mildly at them. Behind walked the two men who had cruelly tormented him.

"There he is!" shouted one. "Look out for him, or he'll jump on you!"

Buster growled when he heard that familiar voice, and rose on his two hind legs to face the approaching crowd. Some of them stopped and refused to go any further; but two or three approached warily. They were armed with clubs and pitchforks, but one of them carried a long rope looped over an arm. Buster didn't know what this was for, and he turned his attention to the men with the clubs.

He growled and stepped toward them. They retreated a few steps -- all except the man with the rope. He seemed cool and unafraid. Buster eyed him curiously when he raised an arm and twirled the rope over his head. He even watched the rope circle in the air and come toward him.

It was not until the rope looped over his head and settled on his shoulders that he understood; but it was too late then. The man jerked it, and Buster felt something around his neck that choked him almost to death. He tore at it with his paws, but before he could rip it off another from behind caught him.

Buster fought fiercely for a few moments, but when the men armed with pointed sticks and clubs ran in and began prodding him sharply every time he tore at the rope he began to grow afraid again. He was no match for all these men, especially when his neck was being squeezed so that he could barely draw a decent breath.

When he quieted down, the men stopped prodding him, and Buster soon found that it didn't pay to fight against such heavy odds. Only when his former captors came near him did he growl and show signs of anger.

Buster was led back a few miles and placed in a cage with iron bars. There was plenty of food and water in the cage, and he was glad to get inside with the ropes off his neck. Buster had joined the circus!

But would his new life be happier than the old? Had he jumped from the frying-pan into the fire, or were there days ahead when he could enjoy life once more without the fear of being beaten for every little mistake? He didn't know, but he slept soundly and peacefully that night even if he was a prisoner in an iron cage.

What happened to him in the circus will form part of the next story, called Buster's First Public Appearance.




Story VIII

Buster's First Public Appearance


The cage in which Buster was kept was rather small, but it was clean and fresh, with plenty of straw on the bottom, and a blanket stretched on one side to shield him from the draft. There were other cages in the place, and after the first night he began to get acquainted with their occupants.

On his right there was an old Lion, who had lost most of his teeth and much of his hair. He snored so loudly the first night that Buster was twice awakened by what he thought was the roll of thunder. When morning dawned he asked the Old Lion if he always snored like that.

"Yes, when I'm asleep, but when I'm awake I snore like this."

To Buster's surprise he opened his mouth and let out a roar that shook the whole place and started every animal crying and snarling. Spot the Leopard, who was caged on Buster's left, growled and spit ferociously as he sprang from one side of his cage to the other. But the Old Lion sat back on his haunches and roared with laughter.

"What did you do that for?" asked Buster, when the wild commotion began to subside.

"Just to show you how I snore in the day time," was the retort. "You want to hear it again?"

"No, thank you, once is enough."

"Well, if you say so, I won't," replied the Old Lion. "But after you've been here a long time you'll be glad to hear me roar. It breaks up the monotony. There's nothing else to do, you know, and it gets dreadfully tiresome doing nothing. Heigh-o! it's a dull life!"

He yawned and stretched himself. Spot the Leopard on the other side stopped his snarling, and glanced between his bars at Buster. He was interested in this new-comer, and he continued to stare so long that Buster finally smiled back at him and nodded his head.

"How did they catch you?" Spot asked suddenly.

"With a rope," replied Buster. "I wasn't expecting it, and they dropped it over my head before I could run."

Spot spit and snarled again to show his temper. "They caught me when I was a cub," he said. "They wouldn't have caught me if I was full grown. They're afraid of me now. Every time my trainer comes in I snarl and snap at her. She snaps the whip in my face, and I pretend to be afraid of it. But I'm not! I'm just waiting my chance. Some day I'll pounce on her, and then -- "

He swished his long tail and licked his lips, while his eyes glowed balefully.

"What sort of a trainer have you?" asked Buster. "Is she good to you?"

"There she comes now," whispered Spot. "You can see for yourself."

Buster turned and saw a young woman, dressed in a dazzling, sparkling costume of many colors, with a small cap surmounting her golden hair, and a thick, rawhide whip in her hand. There was a fearless look in the dark eyes, and when she strode up to Buster's cage she surveyed him quite calmly. Buster returned her stare, and blinked two or three times.

"He doesn't look so ugly," the woman said finally, addressing one of the attendants. "If I know anything about bears, I should say he was naturally good-humored. But of course you can't tell. His temper may have been ruined by some one. His name is Buster, you say?"

She walked up to the cage and stuck a hand between the bars and patted the shaggy head. "Well, Buster, we're either going to be friends or enemies," she added. "Which is it?"

Buster couldn't reply right away, so surprised was he, but unconsciously he stuck out his tongue and licked the hand. How soft and velvety it felt! Instead of drawing the hand away, she permitted him to lick it again. Then she smiled.

"You can see," she said, speaking to the attendant, "he's answered my question. We're going to be friends. Now open the door for me. I'm going inside."

Once more Buster was surprised, but not nearly so much as the attendant. "Don't do it, Chiquita," he said in alarm. "He's not to be trusted. He's a vicious brute."

Chiquita smiled and put on her gloves.

"Do I need your advice, Billy," she said, "when it comes to training animals? Now please open the door."

"But, Chiquita, you will wait until I summon the attendants to protect you if he attacks you."

"No, I'm going in now."

She opened the door herself and stepped in the cage. Buster watched her with eyes of admiration and surprise. He had no fear of her. This dainty little creature could not hurt him. Indeed, she looked so slight and helpless that he felt more like protecting her than hurting her.

She came up to him and rubbed his nose. He grunted with pleasure. Then she patted his head and talked to him in a low, sweet voice. Then she asked him to get down, and when he obeyed she sat on him. She touseled his head, opened his mouth and stuck a hand in it, and finally patted him again, and said:

"He's all right, Billy, as harmless as a kitten. We'll put him in the circus tonight in place of poor old Bowser."

Billy, the attendant, wasn't convinced of the wisdom of this course, and shook his head, but Chiquita laughed and walked out of the cage.

Buster didn't know just what they meant, for he had never been in a circus before, but that evening he learned.

He was wheeled into a brilliantly lighted place and stopped alongside of a big circular cage containing nearly a dozen other animals. There was the Old Lion, Spot the Leopard, Boar the Hound, Timber the Wolf, Ocelot the Jungle Cat, and several others which he did not instantly recognize.

His coming started up a commotion among the animals, for just like people they were curious and inquisitive. They eyed him furtively and sniffed at him. But without noticing them he waddled across the big cage and took a vacant place near the Old Lion.

Then something happened that dazzled him. The curtain around the big circular cage disappeared, and a sea of human faces were visible on every side. The lights went up, and the whole place seemed like a wonderful picture.

The next moment Chiquita entered the cage, holding her whip in one hand and a flag in the other. She gave a few sharp orders and the animals began to pose, dance and run around. It was all new to Buster and a little confusing, but he tried to follow and imitate the others. Apparently this pleased Chiquita, for she patted him once, and whispered in his ear:

"Well done, Buster! You're doing splendidly!"

Buster noticed that Spot the Leopard was often surly and ugly, refusing to obey until Chiquita hit him with the whip. This made him mind, but it didn't improve his temper any. His surliness made the others nervous, and once they got all snarled up and confused.

"You, Spot," cried Chiquita, "I'll punish you if you don't behave. Now take that!"

She gave him a sharp rap over the nose with her whip. It stung and enraged Spot, who cowered back a moment, and then crouched for a leap. Chiquita saw what was coming, but she didn't flinch. She snapped the whip in his face again, but this time the trick didn't work.

Spot flung himself through the air in a mighty leap, uttering a low savage growl, which excited the other animals so they set up a wild roar. Attendants ran to the cage with long irons and sticks in their hands, but Chiquita was penned against the iron bars, vainly trying to hold Spot off at arms' length. There was a great shout outside, and everybody stood up, with fear and horror in their eyes.

In the midst of the confusion, Buster suddenly came to life. He had taken no part in the commotion, but when he saw Spot attacking Chiquita, whose white face and appealing eyes were turned toward him, his anger flared up. He would not stand by idly while the Leopard tore and scratched the white flesh of his friend.

With a low growl, Buster started across the cage, baring his teeth in an ugly grin, and holding aloft a paw ready to strike. The other animals stood aside to let him pass, but Spot was snapping and snarling at Chiquita so that he did not see him.

How Buster saved Chiquita from Spot the Leopard, and won her undying friendship, will be told in the next story.




Story IX

Buster Saves Chiquita


Spot the Leopard had attacked Chiquita so suddenly that she had little chance of defending herself, and the other animals, excited by the commotion, were ready to join in the attack against their fair trainer.

Buster had not been in the circus long enough to learn the ways of the other animals. Chiquita had been kind to him, and after the cruel treatment from his former masters it seemed as if the dainty young trainer was more than a friend to him. He recalled Spot's threat to pounce upon Chiquita some day and punish her.

Buster resolved, as he crossed the cage in a few long strides, to protect Chiquita, and if necessary to fight Spot the Leopard. He was angry with Spot, but not so much as to inflict serious injury on him. It was only when he got close and saw the deep scratch on Chiquita's arm where the Leopard's claws had laid the flesh open, that his anger flared up to white heat.

With a deeper growl than before, he raised his right paw and delivered a telling blow on Spot's body. It was not intended as a knock-out blow, but Buster had grown to powerful proportions, and his most playful cuff was enough to do considerable damage.

It landed with a deep thud on Spot's side, and the Leopard was hurled to the other side of the cage with a bang. He struck the iron bars, and for a moment seemed too stunned or surprised to utter a sound. Buster calmly stood in front of Chiquita and glared defiantly at his enemy.

Spot recovered his senses after a while and let out a growl and screech that made every one in the circus shudder. He crouched down low, swishing his tail, and glaring at Buster. It was a moment of intense suspense.

To make matters worse the other animals kept up their uproar. The fight had stirred their blood, and they began crouching and stalking about the cage as if anxious to get in the fray. Ocelot the Jungle Cat in particular showed great excitement. He began creeping upon Buster from behind, and Timber the Wolf sneaked in closer to get a chance.

Buster through the corner of his eyes noticed the restless, threatening motions of the two. Boar the Hound ran around, barking vigorously, but made no attempt to take any part in the fight. The Old Lion, who was too sleepy and indolent even to roar, sat apart as if he was to be the judge of the contest.

Chiquita, who was slightly wounded, cowered back of her defender, unable to get her whip or to make her voice heard. A thousand spectators outside watched with horrified eyes the combat. Attendants were running around with long poles and irons to prod the animals back to their corners, but they were so excited they did little good.

Suddenly Spot the Leopard took advantage of a moment when Buster was watching Ocelot the Jungle Cat. He sprang at his enemy like an arrow from a bow. At the same instant Ocelot closed in, and Timber the Wolf watched for his opportunity.

But Buster hadn't been taken off his guard. He had kept one eye on Spot, and when he shot through the air that powerful right paw of his was raised again. It caught Spot in mid-air. It was no gentle blow this time. It was delivered with all the force that lay behind those powerful shoulder muscles.

It landed on Spot's body with such a thud that it could be heard in every corner of the great circus. The Leopard was hurled back against the iron bars with such force that it seemed for a moment as if they would give way. Spot grunted, and dropped to the floor in such a dazed state of mind that he couldn't think or act.

Buster having delivered this knock-out blow turned swiftly to Ocelot, whose claws had sunk into his shaggy leg. The huge paw came down on Ocelot's head and nearly crushed the skull. He dropped his hold and lay down as if suddenly struck by lightning.

Buster, smarting with the pain in his leg, growled in rage, and turned to Timber the Wolf. Now Timber was naturally a coward. The punishment meted out to Spot and Ocelot immediately caused him to change his mind. He ran around the cage as Buster started in pursuit.

A temper, once it gets beyond control, is a terrible thing to have. It may lead into all sorts of trouble. Buster by this time had lost his completely. He was so enraged that he wanted to kill everything in the cage. His eyes grew blood-shot and terrible to look at.

He lunged at Timber, and missed him, but the Old Lion happened to be in the way. Buster gave him a side cuff that made him roar with pain. It was a glancing blow. If Old Lion hadn't been so old that most of his teeth were gone he would have struck back, and Buster would have been in a peck of trouble. He didn't know much about lions in those days.

The next animal that got in his way was Boar the Hound, which he sent whimpering across the cage. Then he came to Spot, who was just recovering his senses, and with an angry snarl hit him again and stood before him like a cat over a mouse as if defying him to run or strike back.

Round and round the cage Buster pursued the animals, striking right and left, and tumbling them all in a heap whenever he got within striking distance. Ocelot climbed to the top of the iron bars and crouched there in shivering terror.

Timber the Wolf leaped and jumped over the backs of the others, and thus escaped serious injury. It was a mix-up that threatened to end in a terrible tragedy. Buster was master of the situation, and so enraged that he continually saw red. The pandemonium outside, and the quickly thrusting sticks and irons of the attendants, had no effect on his temper. He ignored the noise, and merely snapped and snarled at the sharp irons every time they got in his way.

Then Chiquita, who had been cowering in her corner in fright, suddenly regained control of her nerves. She picked up her whip, but did not use it. Instead she walked calmly up to the enraged bear, and said sharply:

"Buster! Buster!"

Buster stopped short as if pricked by a needle. When his name was repeated in that soft voice, he closed his dripping jaws and ceased growling.

"Buster, come here!" added Chiquita.

It was a soft, soothing command, and it fell on Buster's excited nerves like cooling balm. He looked at Chiquita, and then without so much as a grunt waddled toward her.

What followed made every one in the vast audience gasp. Chiquita, ignoring her danger, suddenly put her two arms around Buster's neck, and actually wept on his shaggy breast.

"Buster, you saved my life," she said gently. "Spot would surely have killed me if you hadn't come to my help. You dear old Buster!"

Buster's emotions cannot be described. All his rage suddenly vanished. He put a paw on Chiquita's shoulders, and then fearful of hurting her, dropped it to his side.

She raised her head from his breast, and added: "Now come with me. Take me outside."

And leading Buster she walked across the cage, opened the door and stepped out. Buster meekly followed. Outside she led him by a paw across the arena, and faced the great audience. "You have seen what happened," she said in a clear voice. "Can you wonder that I love Buster the Bear?"

The audience went wild, shouting and waving to them, and Buster was so confused he hardly knew what to do. In the next story Buster becomes a famous trick bear.




Story X

Buster Becomes A Trick Bear


Buster was not popular among the animals of the circus after his fight with Spot the Leopard, but he was a great favorite with the circus people. From being regarded as a dangerous bear, ready to kill his trainer at any moment, he was looked upon thereafter as a special pet who could be trusted by every one.

Of course, it was Chiquita who favored him the most. She bestowed more attention upon him than on any of the others. She petted him, praised him, feeding him dainties, and giving him the softest bed in the place. She even permitted him to roam about the rooms she occupied, and as Buster did not get in mischief or do any harm his liberty was extended day by day.

Buster grew as fond of Chiquita as she was of him, and he obeyed her as meekly and willingly as a pet dog. None of the ugly temper he showed when fighting Spot in the cage showed itself again, and Chiquita began training him for trick performances.

Buster had already received a little training, and he was quick to pick up his new lessons. He soon learned to jump through a hoop, skip rope, and turn somersaults back and forth. Then one day, Chiquita said:

"You would make a good clown, Buster, I believe. Yes, you would."

Not knowing what a clown was, Buster merely grinned and nodded his head. Chiquita made a wonderful dress for him out of red, white and blue flannel, and with a tall hat on his head Buster looked like the cartoon of Uncle Sam. Dressed as the goddess of liberty, Chiquita appeared in the arena walking arm in arm with her escort.

This brought great applause from the audience, and what pleased the people pleased Buster. He grinned and nodded his head, and strutted around with his head high in the air.

All the time he was receiving special favors and attention, Spot the Leopard and Ocelot the Jungle Cat were in their cages watching for an opportunity to get revenge on him. The pain they suffered from Buster's hard blows was nothing to what they suffered in mind and spirit. They were nearly consumed with rage and envy.

Buster never passed near the cage without their snarling and spitting at him. They could do this in safety, for the iron bars were between them. Right down in their hearts, however, they were afraid of him.

Buster, who carried no spirit of ill-feeling against them, merely grinned when they spit at him. But one day he stopped in front of Spot's cage, and said:

"Why don't you forget and forgive, Spot? This carrying a grouch around with you all the time spoils your face. Let's be friends."

"Friends!" snarled Spot. "I may think of that after I've clawed off some of your hide!"

"Me too!" echoed Ocelot. "And I'd like to begin with your eyes."

"And I'll lap up his warm blood when you've killed him," growled Timber the Wolf from his cage.

Buster, instead of being offended at these threats, sat back on his haunches and laughed. Then noticing the Old Lion watching them, his eyes blinking sleepily, he turned to him.

"What would you like to do to me, Old Lion?" he asked.

"Nothing, Buster, except to give you some good advice," was the reply.

"That's a friendly offer. I'll listen to it."

The Old Lion winked and blinked, stretched himself with a yawn, and then sat up looking for all the world like the noble king of the beasts.

"When your enemies threaten you, Buster," he said slowly, "it is wise to listen to them so you may be prepared. Don't let the pride of strength deceive you. The mouse gnawed through the net that the lion couldn't break, and Cobra the Reptile put a whole jungle of animals to flight. That is all, Buster."

"Thank you, Old Lion," replied Buster. "I'll remember what you said."

"It doesn't make any difference to me whether you remember it or not," was the answer, as the Old Lion stretched out and went to sleep.

Buster did remember the advice for a few days, and then forgot it. He also ignored Spot and Ocelot, for they refused to make friends with him. Meanwhile, his progress as a trick bear increased, and he appeared nightly before big audiences with Chiquita.

One day the big tent was taken down, for the circus was to move to another town. There was such noise and confusion that every one was upset. Buster found his customary resting place filled with packing boxes and baggage. Somewhat put out by this he wandered around, and finally climbed on the top of a bundle of canvas away from the confusion.

It was a soft, comfortable bed, and Buster soon fell asleep. He snored and rolled around in his slumber until attendants came running up to find out what the trouble was. When they discovered him, they laughed and said:

"It's only Buster taking his mid-day snooze with the high treble stops wide open."

Buster hadn't noticed that the pile of canvas was close to the two cages where Spot and Ocelot were kept. They had kept so quiet that he never suspected their nearness. But the Leopard and Jungle Cat had seen him, and were watching him with flashing eyes.

As he snored and rolled around in his sleep, they kept their eyes patiently and watchfully on him. Once a shaggy paw came close to Spot's cage, and he stealthily put out a fore-arm to see if he could reach it. He fell short about an inch.

He withdrew his paw silently and resumed his watchful waiting. Ocelot on the other side was equally interested in one of Buster's fore paws. It was within a few feet of his cage.

Buster rolled over and flung his legs out to their full length like an animal stretching. The result was just what the two vengeful enemies were waiting for. Spot reached through the bars of his cage and caught the hind leg of Buster with his sharp claws, and Ocelot attacked one of his fore-legs.

Buster was aroused from his sleep by sharp pains that seemed like a thousand needles sticking in him. When he attempted to spring to his feet he found himself a prisoner. Spot and Ocelot were tugging, tearing and biting with all their might as if they would pull him apart and haul him through the bars of their cages.

Taken at such a disadvantage, Buster for a moment was helpless. Then the pain became so severe that he brought all of his powerful muscles into play, and jerked with such force that both cages came tumbling over on top of him.

The sudden upsetting of their cages startled Spot and Ocelot so that they jumped back in fright. Buster was immediately on his feet, rolling the cages around as if they had been made of jackstraws. With a lightning blow through the bars he struck Spot a whack that sent him reeling backward. Then before he could recover, Buster sprang around on the opposite side and knocked him back. For a moment it looked as if he would break through the cage and kill Spot.

When the attendants ran up, Buster was shaking Ocelot's cage in a vain endeavor to get at him. The Jungle Cat was so frightened that he shivered and whined for mercy. Buster's anger could not be quieted until Chiquita came up. She patted him, and led him away to bind up his wounds. The Leopard and Jungle Cat were glad to see him go. In trying to get revenge on Buster they had been punished nearly as much as he.

"I should have remembered the Old Lion's advice," Buster said to himself when Chiquita bound up his wounds. Then looking at her, he added: "But there's some good in everything. I wouldn't have such a tender nurse if I wasn't wounded." And he smiled with satisfaction.

Next will come the story of how Buster was caught in a railroad wreck.




Story XI

Buster In A Railroad Wreck


The circus was preparing to move into its winter quarters, and it was the confusion of packing that caused Buster to get mixed up with Spot and Ocelot in their cages. His injuries were very slight, and within a few days after Chiquita had bound them up his legs were as good as new.

He felt a little angry at the Leopard and Jungle Cat for attacking him when fast asleep, but Buster wasn't the kind to nurse a grudge. When his wrath cooled a little he actually laughed at the occurrence. Strolling outside to where the cages were standing, he grinned at the Leopard.

"You got a good dig at me, Spot," he said, "but with that last cuff I gave you I guess we can call it even. Head ache yet?"

Spot didn't reply, but paced his narrow cage in restless dissatisfaction. Buster turned to the Jungle Cat.

"How about you, Ocelot! Got over your scare yet? I didn't touch you, but you looked as scared as a rat in a trap when I shook your cage."

Ocelot showed the same silent contempt and refused to reply other than with a low snarl. Buster turned to Old Lion.

"The only cheerful one I find in this group is you, Old Lion," he added. "Spot and Ocelot don't look happy, and Timber the Wolf acts as if he had an ingrowing pain in his stomach. How about you?"

"I'm always cheerful," replied Old Lion. "That's why I've grown bald and toothless, and lived to a good old age. Spot and Ocelot will die young if they don't change their manners. So will you, Buster."

"Why," stammered Buster, "I do try to be cheerful. I didn't know I was anything else."

"That may be," replied Old Lion, "but you're too ready for a fight. Every battle you get in shortens your life by so many days."

"I don't fight unless I'm attacked," was the quick reply.

"I didn't know the animals attacked you the other night in the circus. You started the fight."

"Yes, but not until after they had attacked Chiquita," Buster said indignantly. "I had to protect her, for she was a friend of mine."

"Are you going to fight to protect all your friends in this world?" asked Old Lion sleepily. "If you do, I predict you will die young. Now I must go to sleep, for we begin our long journey soon, and I do hate riding on a train. It rasps my nerves."

Buster never knew how seriously to take the Old Lion's words, but he was a companionable and harmless old fellow, and sometimes rambled on just to hear himself talk. He was getting so old that talking was the easiest thing to do, and between eating and sleeping that was about all he did. Sometimes he appeared in the circus as a fierce old lion, who had killed any number of keepers, but it was growing harder and harder for him to assume the pose. He wasn't fierce looking at all, except when he roared, and that was such an exertion he seldom did it unless prodded by the attendants.

"How does it feel to ride on a train?" Buster asked when he saw that the Old Lion was going to drop off asleep right before him.

"How does it feel?" he drawled. "Why, it feels as if all the bones in your body were rattling, and when the train stops -- and it's stopping all the time when it isn't going -- you stand on your head and then on your tail, and if you're lucky you don't die of fright."

"It must be a wonderful experience," remarked Buster.

"It is, and you won't enjoy it. I don't know what trains were invented for unless it was to torture those who ride in them. But when we get there we'll have a long rest."

"Where?" asked Buster.

"Where we're going, and when you get there you wonder why you came, and where you are. Now do you understand?"

Buster laughed good-naturedly, for his quizzing was making the Old Lion irritable. He wanted to sleep and Buster strolled away, leaving him to enjoy his nap.

The next day the animals were taken aboard the train. Some of the harmless ones were led there and tied to posts in box cars, and others like Ocelot and Spot were lifted aboard in their stout cages. No chance could be taken with them.

Buster found himself in a small compartment of a baggage car, with Chiquita occupying a seat just forward of him. She trusted him so much that she liked to have him near her. But as he had never been on a railroad journey before he was fastened in the car by a chain.

"You might forget yourself, Buster, or get excited, and try to jump off when the train was moving," she said to him, when chaining him up. "It isn't because I don't trust you. You understand that, don't you?"

Buster nodded his head, as she patted him, and looked at the chain. It was not a very strong one, and he smiled at the thought of what he could do to it if he wanted to escape. He could snap it in two with one jerk of his powerful body.

The train started finally, and Buster was as interested and excited as a child on her first railroad journey. The jolting and rattling began almost at once. He recalled Old Lion's words, and wondered if he was groaning in agony. Such rolling and jerking were enough to rattle Old Lion's teeth loose. And Spot and Ocelot! How did they like the noise and confusion?

The train steamed along slowly at first, and then faster. Through a window in the baggage car Buster could see the houses and trees flashing past as if they were all running in the opposite direction. It was a funny sensation. Instead of being frightened by it, Buster enjoyed it.

"I never ran so fast in my life," he said to himself. "Even Loup the Lynx couldn't run as fast as this."

He stopped and scowled. He never thought of Loup without growing angry. The Lynx had treated him in a cowardly, cruel way, and Buster somehow wanted to punish him for it. But there seemed little prospect of his ever meeting the Lynx again.

"Oh, well," Buster sighed, "I can't spoil my temper thinking of something that happened in the past."

Still right down in his heart he had a great desire to go back to the woods where he had been born. Perhaps his mother was alive yet, and he would dearly like to see her again. How surprised she would be to find him grown up, fully as big as she, and far more powerful!

Suddenly in the midst of these thoughts there came a grinding shriek outside, and the most fearful of explosions. Buster raised his head to listen, and then he was thrown against the opposite side of the baggage car with such force that the chain snapped. Everything began to break and fall down upon him, the whole roof of the car collapsing.

Stunned by the fall, and unable to understand what had happened, Buster lay there a moment in silence. Everything was quiet after that awful noise, but wild shrieks of Ocelot, Spot and other animals soon filled the air. Then came the deafening hiss of steam, and shouts and cries of men.

What had happened! Buster was curious to know what all this noise meant, and finding himself loose, with no roof over him, he climbed out of the wreck. It was dark outside, but there were many lights flashing around.

Buster walked down the track where a group of men were at work. They paid no attention to him, and he sat down to wait. Chiquita would come along soon to claim him. But he waited and waited, and nobody paid any attention to him. Finally, he got up and wandered off in the fields, and before he stopped he was lost and couldn't find his way back again.

"I think I'll sleep here until morning," he said, seeking a good resting place under a tree. "Then I'll find my way back to the train."

But it wasn't the train he found. It was the little girl who had given him candy that day he danced for pennies.




Story XII

Buster Meets The Little Girl Again


When Buster woke the next morning the sun was just peeping above the trees. He had slept so soundly that he couldn't recall right away all that had happened the previous night. He opened his eyes, and was surprised when he found that nothing around him was familiar.

He grunted and rose to his feet, blinking at the sun. Then it all returned to him. He remembered the jolt and crash, and the splintering of the roof of his car. He rubbed his head to see if the bruise still hurt him, and winced when it pained him.

"I wonder what happened to the Old Lion," he said, grinning. "He must have lost all his teeth last night."

Then he thought of Chiquita. If she was in the wreck, too, she may have lost something more than her teeth. Suppose she had lost her life! This thought grieved Buster.

"I must go back and find out," he said. "She'll miss me."

He waddled away through the bushes until he came to a road that was unfamiliar to him. Which way did he go to reach the railroad? He started up it, but hadn't gone far before he saw a man approaching, carrying a basket on his arm. Buster was less alarmed than the man apparently, for with a shriek of terror the latter dropped his basket and ran up the road so fast that he was soon out of sight.

"What a foolish thing to do," laughed Buster. "He must have had an evil conscience or he wouldn't be frightened like that."

He waddled up to the basket the man had dropped. One sniff at its contents made his heart jump with joy. It was filled with nice fresh bread, rolls, and two blackberry pies.

Buster didn't consider it stealing. The man had left the basket, and it belonged to any one who found it. He was very hungry, but bear-like or boy-like (I don't know which to call it) he began with the blackberry pies instead of the bread. He ate them up rapidly, stuffing them in his mouth with both paws. When they were gone he looked through the basket for more.

The bread didn't taste nearly so good after the pies, but Buster was still very hungry, and, not finding any more dessert, he began slowly munching the bread. If there had been soup, I suppose, he would have ended his meal with that.

After eating a dozen rolls, and one loaf of bread, he felt better. A noise up the street, accompanied by loud shouting, suddenly made him stop and listen. Perhaps the man who owned the basket was returning with help.

Buster decided that he wouldn't wait until the men appeared, and taking a loaf of bread in each of his front paws he climbed over the fence and disappeared in the woods. Long before the men reached the spot he had made his way into the heart of a big swamp where he sat down and finished his meal.

He felt so much better by that time that he took a long drink from the brook, and then resumed his journey. He came out of the swamp on the opposite side, and seeing a hill climbed to the top. He hoped to get a view of the railroad from there.

But when he reached it he saw no signs of it. There was a small cluster of houses on his right, a swamp and woods behind him, and open country on his left, with here and there a farm house. Buster decided to keep away from the village.

The farm houses attracted him, for he could hear the crowing of a rooster off in that direction and the cackling of geese. There was the moo of a cow and the neighing of a horse from one barn-yard, and the barking of a dog from another.

"I won't bother the dog," Buster said, keeping away from that farm-yard. "They're harmless, but very annoying."

He waddled across a field and climbed a fence until he stood in the barn-yard of the nearest farm. After reaching the barn he poked his head in the open doorway. A boy was in there milking a cow. Buster watched the streams of milk, and a sudden desire to taste milk again made him forget all caution. He stepped across the threshold, a pleasant grin on his face, and a rollicking smile in his eyes.

But the boy didn't see anything friendly in either the grin or the twinkling eyes. When he glanced up and caught sight of Buster, he sat on his milk stool as if paralyzed, and then recovering himself he let out a shrill cry and darted for the opposite door. He disappeared like a flash, leaving the milk pail behind him.

"How foolish of him!" said Buster. "I wouldn't hurt him!"

He picked up the milk pail and held it to his lips. There was a gurgle, gurgle as the milk ran down his throat, and it never stopped until three whole quarts were emptied in his stomach.

"That makes me feel better," he said, rubbing his fat stomach. "I'm so full now I can hardly walk. I'm sleepy, too."

The hay-mow overhead attracted him. How pleasant it would be to rest and sleep there! He was going to climb up the ladder for this purpose when a great noise outside alarmed him. He peeked out, and saw a big crowd of men and boys armed with sticks, axes, pitchforks and shot-guns, running toward the barn.

Buster decided to leave, for he had no desire to meet the crowd. While his enemies came in the front door, Buster ran out of the back one, crossed an orchard, and reached a field beyond before he was discovered. He had a long start of them, but when they caught sight of him again they began to blaze away with their shot-guns.

Buster was an excellent runner, and he made good time. Ahead of him was a bigger house, with a wide lawn in front, and a garden in back. Buster wasn't going to enter this place, but another crowd of men appeared in front of him. If he kept on he would run right into their arms.

Buster darted to the right, crossed the lawn and reached the back of the house. There was no one around, and Buster hunted for a hiding place. There was an open window over his head on the second story of the house, and a low shed leading up to it.

Buster suddenly decided that was his best hiding place, and up the shed he climbed, scrambling to the roof and crawling across this to the open window. He looked inside, and seeing no one he entered.

He was breathing hard, for after eating so much, his exertions told on him. This noise must have awakened the little sleeper on the bed, for suddenly she rose up and startled Buster so that he nearly fell down in a faint. He supposed the room was empty, and here was a young person staring at him. He stared back, grinning foolishly. He felt very much like a boy who had been caught stealing.

Then to his surprise the girl clapped her hands, and said: "Oh, I believe you're Buster! Yes, I know you are! And I'm so glad!"

Until then Buster hadn't recognized the little person. Now he remembered her. It was the little girl who had offered him a stick of candy that day he danced for pennies on the street.

But what pleased Buster more than anything else was her joy. She wasn't a bit afraid of him! She wasn't going to run away and scream for help. She wouldn't hand him over to the men pursuing him with shot-guns. What a relief to him this was! She was surely his friend, and would protect him just as Chiquita had done so many times. He grinned with pleasure, and waddled toward the bed.

How the little girl outwitted the men, and saved Buster from them, will be told in the next story.




Story XIII

Buster And The Little Girl


Instead of showing fear when Buster approached the bed, the little girl held out a hand, and when he was near enough she took one of his shaggy paws and patted it. This seemed natural enough to Buster, for he could not understand why any one should be afraid of him, and Chiquita had done the same thing many times; but to most little girls perhaps it would seem like a brave and fearless thing. This little girl like Little Red Riding-Hood was not afraid of bears or wolves until they tried to eat her up.

"I'm glad to see you, Buster," she said with quaint gravity. "But how did you ever get here?"

Buster grinned and turned his head toward the open window. The little girl followed his gaze, and instantly understood.

"Oh, you came through the window," she added. "That makes it so much more interesting. Fairies and elves always come through open windows. Won't you sit down?"

Buster was quite tired after his hard run, and was very glad to accept this invitation. The foot of the bed seemed a very inviting seat, and he sat on the white coverlet.

But almost immediately he sprang up in alarm. The springs creaked under his great weight, and for a moment it looked as if the whole bed would collapse. He jumped to his feet with a queer expression on his face. In fact, he wasn't sure but this was some sort of a trap set for him.

But the little girl laughed merrily at the accident, and clapped both hands. He could not believe she was attempting to deceive him, and he grinned like a foolish boy who had discovered a bent pin in his chair.

"Oh, Buster," she cried, "I guess this isn't a bear-bed. You're too heavy for it. Maybe the chair will hold you."

Buster turned and looked at the chair. He seemed a little doubtful, but he wanted to be polite. He tried it carefully, but when it began to crack and groan under his weight he was wise enough not to go any further. He shook his head, and put the chair back in its place.

The little girl shrieked with laughter again. It was very amusing to her, and Buster, not wishing to offend her, grinned and nodded his head. He liked children, and this one was anxious to play with him. After a while she grew serious again, and looked around at every article in the room.

"I don't know, Buster," she said slowly, "but you'll have to sit on the floor. I don't think anything else is strong enough to hold you. It's not very polite to ask visitors to sit on the floor, but what else can I do, unless you prefer to stand?"

Buster didn't prefer to stand. He was very tired, and he didn't mind the floor as a seat at all. In fact, it was more suitable to him than a bed or chair. So he squatted down on his haunches, and smiled. Even then his head towered above the little girl's.

"Are you comfortable there?" she asked.

Buster nodded. "Then," she added, "you must tell me where you came from, and how you escaped those cruel men. I want to hear the whole story. It's better than a story from a book, and I love story books about bears. Did you ever hear the story of Goldy Locks or the Three Little Bears? No. Then I'll tell you."

But she didn't have time. Just then there was a great commotion outside. Men were shouting and calling, dogs barking, and a great hullabaloo going on under the open window.

"What's that!" exclaimed the little girl, hopping out of the bed, and running to the window in her bare feet.

Buster could have told her what the noise meant, and for a moment he thought it was his duty to give himself up to keep the little girl from being harmed. Suppose the crowd searching for him should hurt her! He got up, and tried to pull her away from the window, but she pushed him back quickly.

"Go back, Buster!" she cried. "They're looking for you, but they won't have you. They mustn't see you!"

The dogs below were barking. They had tracked Buster to the woodshed, and were now holding their nose up in the air baying loudly. As plain as words they were saying the bear had climbed to the roof of the shed.

The men saw the open window, and immediately a hoarse cry rose. "He's gone in that window! He's eating up little Nell! Oh! Oh!"

You could imagine Buster's emotions when he heard this outcry. To be accused of eating up little Nell was enough to make any self-respecting bear angry. He growled savagely, and started for the window again. But the little girl restrained him once more.

"No, no, Buster, you mustn't let them see you!" she cried. "Now let me think! What ought I to do? They'll be here soon. Yes," glancing out of the window, "they're climbing up the shed. Oh, Buster, hide under the bed!"

Buster obeyed, but he might just as well have tried to crawl through the key-hole of the lock on the door. He couldn't possibly squeeze under the bed without upsetting it.

"Dear me," added Nell, biting her lips, "where can I hide you?"

She looked at the closet filled with her pretty clothes. She ran to it and looked in. It was such a small closet that Buster couldn't possibly crowd in it.

"I don't know, Buster," she added, "what I can do." She looked at her trunk. No, of course, not; she couldn't get Buster in that. The bureau next, and then the wash-stand. Not one of them was big enough to hold one of Buster's hind legs.

They could hear the men climbing to the roof of the shed now. In a few moments they would appear at the open window with their shot-guns and pitchforks. The little girl was more excited than Buster. Suddenly an idea came to her, and she gasped with delight.

"Here, Buster," she called sharply, seizing him by a paw. "You must lie down on the floor at the foot of the bed. Get way down! No, no, not that way! This way! Pull your legs up like a cat cuddling up before the fire. There, that's right. Now don't you move or make a sound. You hear me?"

She shook a finger warningly at him. She had made Buster curl up on the floor at the foot of the bed in the smallest space he had ever before occupied. It was not a comfortable position for him, but for the little girl's sake he was satisfied to stay there.

Then Nell pulled the clothes down, and threw them over the foot-board of the bed and spread them out on the floor until Buster was completely covered. She laid the pillows on top just as if they had been put there to air. She had been taught to do this every morning after rising, and then open the window for the fresh air to blow in.

The men appeared at the window just as she had finished. Without waiting for an invitation they climbed in.

"Where is he?" they asked. "Where's the bear? We thought he was in here eating you up, Nell."

They were glancing all around the room, and if Buster hadn't been so well concealed they would have seen him. Nell turned to them with dignity, and said in her high little voice:

"What an idea! Is there a bear around here? Oh, I'd dearly like to see him! I know he wouldn't hurt me! Where did he come from? Is he outside?"

She ran to the window and looked out. Satisfied now that Buster was not in the room, the men climbed out, but they closed the window after them, and said: "Keep that shut, Nell!"

In the next story Buster is discovered in the house.




Story XIV

Buster Tries To Escape And Is Discovered


When the men left the room and closed the window after them, Buster and the little girl felt greatly relieved. Satisfied that the bear had not climbed in the open window, the searching party turned their attention elsewhere. But the danger wasn't over yet, and Nell knew it. She patted the top of the bed-clothes, and whispered:

"Keep quiet a little longer, Buster. Here comes some one up the stairs."

Buster grunted and lay as still as a mouse. There was a knocking on the door, and when the little girl opened it her father appeared. He was very white and trembling.

"A bear that escaped from the railroad wreck is roaming around here, Nell," he said. "I was terribly afraid he had climbed up the shed to your room. I'm so glad you're safe."

He kissed her and seemed greatly relieved to find his daughter safe. He crossed the room and looked out of the window. Then he returned to her.

"Perhaps you're safer here until they find him," he added. "Stay right here in your room, and keep the door and window locked. I'll come and tell you when they find him."

The little girl could have laughed in her glee, for this was just what she wanted. She was terribly afraid Buster would smother under all those clothes and make a noise. She couldn't get her father out of the room quick enough.

When he was gone, and the door locked, she ran to the bed, and threw back the clothes. Buster was all curled up just as she had left him. But he was fast asleep! It was a warm, comfortable bed, and after his long run and heavy breakfast of pies, rolls, bread and milk it had seemed impossible to keep his eyes open for long. And the moment he closed them he was sound asleep.

The little girl sat down on the floor, and laughed until the tears streamed down her cheeks. Buster woke with a start and blinked at her. He couldn't for several minutes imagine where he was.

"Oh, Buster," she exclaimed finally, "I thought you were being smothered to death, and you were so comfortable you fell asleep."

Buster struggled to his feet and began chuckling. It made him happy to see the merriment of the little girl. She pulled the clothes up and flung them back on the bed. She was a very prim little housekeeper, for she was not satisfied until the pillows were brushed off and patted in position and the sheets and covers carefully smoothed out.

Buster watched her in silence, and then in his clumsy way offered to help, but he pulled the clothes so hard, and made such a general mess of it, that he stopped when the girl sat down and laughed again at him.

"I never saw anybody so clumsy, Buster," she said. "No, you can't help any more. You sit down there in the middle of the floor until I'm through. Then we'll have breakfast together."

The moment she uttered these words she stopped. Have breakfast together? How could she arrange that? How, in fact, could she manage to get Buster any breakfast without somebody discovering him in her room?

What did bears eat anyway? And how much? Goodness, from the size of him, he might eat her father out of house and home! The little girl felt terribly distressed all of a sudden. She had saved Buster from his pursuers, but now that she had him what was she going to do with him?

You couldn't keep bears in a bed-room or closet, nor could you chain them up in the back yard like a dog? Everybody would be afraid to visit the house, and all the servants would leave. What could she do?

"Buster, haven't you any home you can go to?" she asked suddenly, turning to him. Then she remembered what her father had told her. The train carrying the circus animals had been wrecked, and some of the people and animals killed. Of course, the circus people would like Buster back again, but was he happy there? Or did he run away because they treated him cruelly?

"Buster, do you want to go back to the circus?" she added after a pause. "For if you do I'll have to tell them you're here, and if they want you they'll call for you."

Now Buster had no desire just then to return to the circus. He thought it would be much nicer to live with the little girl and play with her. So he shook his head vigorously, which made the girl sigh, and say solemnly: "Then you won't have to go back! I'll keep you here!"

She cleaned up things in the room, and dressed herself. Her breakfast was waiting for her downstairs, and if she didn't go soon her father would be up after her.

"Buster," she said once more, laying a hand on his head, "I'm going down now to get my breakfast, and then I'll bring you something to eat -- some sugar and coffee, and jam and -- and -- what do you like to eat?"

Buster only grinned and shook his head. The little girl was puzzled. "I know what I'll do," she added, smiling. "I'll ask my father. He's wise and knows everything, and he'll tell me what bears eat. I know he'll like you, Buster."

Of course, Buster wasn't quite so sure of this, but he had no way to express his doubts. He heard the little girl running down the stairs, and then for a long time he was left alone. It was a queer situation for him. He walked across the room, and the floor squeaked with every tread. Then he looked out of the window and immediately ducked his head, for there was a man and dog below on guard.

He waited a long time for the little girl to return, and then grew restless. He tried the door, and finding it unlocked opened it and stuck his head out. All was quiet in the house. He couldn't hear any one around.

A great fear that something had happened to the little girl suddenly made him very anxious. Perhaps the men and dogs had captured her, and were holding her because she had hid him in her bed-room. This thought made him angry. If she was in trouble and needed him, he would go to her assistance.

Buster closed the door softly behind him and started down the stairs. Now that he was going to the little girl's assistance he wasn't afraid of anything. He hadn't been afraid to attack all the animals in the big cage when Chiquita was in danger. Then why should he be afraid now!

Down, down the stairs he clumped, his great weight making each step squeak and groan. Nobody was in the hall below, and the whole house seemed quiet and deserted. Had the men taken the little girl away with them? Buster uttered an angry growl and took another step down.

Then directly in front of him appeared a man. He stepped out of a doorway so suddenly that both bear and man were surprised. Buster recognized him immediately as the gentleman who held the little girl's hands that day she fed him a stick of candy.

The man started suddenly, stared at the bear on the stairs, and backed slowly away. "Nell! Nell!" he called. "Keep away! Go back! The bear is in the house! Run for your life and tell the men!"

But little Nell, instead of running away, pushed past her father and surprised him so that he nearly dropped down with fright. She ran straight up to Buster and hugged him. Then laughing she turned to her father.

"It's only Buster, and he wouldn't hurt me. Why, he's been in my bed-room all the time!"

What they decided to do with Buster after that will be told in the next story.




Story XV

Buster Is To Be Sent To The Zoo


It seemed almost like a fairy story to the little girl's father when she told him how Buster had climbed through the window of her room, and how she had covered him up with the bed-clothes to protect him from the men. And he didn't believe in fairy stories! In fact, he didn't believe just then that he was awake and hearing things. It surely was all a dream.

But there was Buster on the stairs, and his little girl hugging the great big, shaggy creature. Why, with one blow the bear could crush the life out of her! It made him tremble to think of it. He tried to call her away, but she didn't hear him. She was talking to Buster, who seemed to understand.

"Now, papa, you see he won't hurt me," she said finally, "and I won't let the men hurt him. We must do something for him."

"Yes, yes, dear," was the stammering reply. "But what?"

"Can't we keep him here?"

The man smiled for the first time. "Where --  -- in your bed-room?"

"No-o, but maybe outdoors. I think he likes outdoors the best."

"But, dear, he would never be happy here, and he'd frighten all of our neighbors. He may be good to you, but he might be ugly to others."

"Not if they were kind to him," was the confident answer.

"Maybe not! Maybe not! But we must think of it."

He was quiet for a moment, watching Buster out of the corner of his eyes. He was less afraid of the bear than at first. Something in his eyes made him think that perhaps his little girl's trust was not misplaced after all. But he had a natural fear of all wild animals, and did not like to run any risks.

"I'll tell you, dear," he added finally, "we'll put Buster in the cellar until the men have gone, and then -- then we'll telegraph to the owners of the circus. They will come for him, and he'll be better off with them than with us."

"But maybe he ran away from the circus because they were cruel to him," protested Nell. "I don't want him to go back then."

"I don't know about that, but I read in the papers that the circus people are going out of business. Their loss of animals in the smash-up decided them to give up the show business. Chiquita, their famous trainer, was injured so she'll never go back to performing again. I believe she's in the hospital now, and won't be out for a month or two."

Now all this was news to Buster. They couldn't understand how eager he was to learn all about the circus. If Chiquita was injured in the wreck, then perhaps Spot and Ocelot and Old Lion were hurt, too, or even dead.

It made him very sad, for it meant the end of his circus life. He would never want to perform for another trainer now that Chiquita was gone. Poor Chiquita! Buster shed a tear for her, for she had been his dear friend, and he knew now that he couldn't help her or ever see her again.

"Then, papa," broke in little Nell again, "we can keep Buster, can't we?"

"Only a few days, dear," was the smiling reply. "We have no place to keep him, and I'm sure he'd soon try to escape."

The little girl pouted, and looked anxiously at Buster before speaking. "Then what will become of him?" she added. "He won't have any home at all. That will be dreadful, papa, and he's been so good to me."

"Ah!" exclaimed her father suddenly, his eyes brightening. "I have it. We'll send him to the Zoo. We'll make them a present of him if the circus people don't come to claim him."

The little girl was not exactly sure that she approved of this, and she continued pouting and looking at Buster. "But won't they shut him up in a cage, and keep him there all the time?" she queried. "I don't think I'd like to be caged forever and forever, would you?"

The question was addressed to her father, but Buster answered it with a vigorous shake of the head. He didn't know anything about the Zoo. It was a place he had never heard about, but if they kept bears caged up there all the time he didn't care to know more about it. It certainly was a dreadful place.

He had often pitied Spot and Ocelot for being shut up in their cages all the time, but he blamed them a good deal for that. They wouldn't behave themselves decently, and it served them right. But that was no reason why he should be kept in a cage all the rest of his life. No, he preferred to be free.

"My dear," Buster heard the father say after a pause, "that is the only wise thing to do. Keeping him here is simply out of the question. We must put him in the cellar until I can notify the authorities. Then they'll put him in a cage at the Zoo, and you can go and see him as often as you like."

The thought of being able to see Buster at the Zoo made her feel better, and she turned and whispered to him: "I'll come every week to see you, Buster, and I'll bring you sugar and peanuts and candy, and everything."

Buster smiled, for he knew that she meant what she said, but he was greatly troubled in mind. Could he, for the sake of seeing the little girl once a week, endure prison for the rest of his life? All the outdoor freedom would then be denied him. He couldn't walk around, nor perform before people in the circus; he couldn't even crawl under a pile of canvas or a clump of bushes to sleep. He would always be behind those iron bars.

He remembered how Old Lion had complained of the monotony of life in the cage, and Old Lion had grown old and weak in doing nothing. Spot, Ocelot and Timber had never become reconciled to their captivity, but paced their cages day and night longing to escape.

Buster drew a great sigh, and glanced out of the window. He saw green trees, smiling fields and tinkling brook. Ah, how he loved those! No, he could not leave them forever. He started for the outside door as if to leave the house.

"Don't let him out, Nell," the little girl's father said. "The men and dogs are out there. Do you think you can get him down the cellar for the night?"

"Yes, papa, he'll come with me," was the answer. "Won't you, Buster?"

Buster nodded, and followed her. He had no wish to go outside and fall in the hands of his pursuers. So he meekly followed the little girl down the stairs to the cellar where he was safe from all his enemies. It was a wide, roomy cellar, and Buster felt quite content there, but the thought that the men might call for him on the morrow to take him away to the Zoo spoilt his happiness.

When the little girl left him, he had made up his mind. Before morning he would break out of the cellar and escape. There had come into his mind a vision of the woods where he had been born, and a great desire to find his way back. Could he do it? In the next story you will hear how he set out on his long journey, and what happened to him.




Story XVI

Buster Returns To The North Woods


Buster spent the rest of the day in the cellar of the house where the little girl lived, sleeping part of the time and playing with his little friend whenever she had the time to come down. There were many things in the cellar that smelt good -- jams and jellies stored away in a closet, potatoes, apples and cabbages in bins, and boxes full of dry groceries -- but Buster did not touch any of these. He ate what the little girl fed him, and nothing else.

As the day dragged along, and night approached, he thought more and more of the North Woods where he had been born. He saw the beautiful river that flowed past the cave, heard the tinkling of the waves and the songs of the birds, and sniffed the fragrance of the millions of wild flowers. He thought of his mother, who had mourned his death -- of Loup the Lynx, who had driven him from home, and made him an exile.

And the more he thought of these things, the more anxious he was to return to the woods. He was not needed in the circus now. Chiquita had gone, and he would never find another trainer like her. The little girl was his friend and loved him, but he could have no home with her. Then the place for him was in the woods where he would be free to roam about and hunt as he chose.

It was nearly dark when the little girl said good-night to him. She kissed him on the tip of the nose, and Buster felt a desire to take her in his arms and hug her. But he knew that would never do. His gentlest hug might break her little bones and kill her. So he contented himself with a smile and grin, and waved a paw to her as she closed the door.

Buster ate the supper she had brought down to him. He felt that he needed it all for his great journey. It might be days before he could get another such supper. It was quite dark outside when he had finished.

But there were lights upstairs and sounds of voices. Buster sat down and waited until they had all gone to bed, and the house was as quiet as a mouse. Then he got up and began preparing for his escape. The windows were out of the question, for they were too small for him to crawl through. So he devoted himself to breaking through the outside door.

This was locked, but Buster leaned his heavy weight against it until the lock creaked and then snapped. The door sprung open so suddenly that he tumbled outside all in a heap. The night was clear and quiet. The noise made by the bursting of the lock did not seem to disturb anybody, and Buster started across the fields in a slow jog trot.

When he reached the border of the swamp, he skirted the edge instead of plunging through it. He finally came out on the road where he had frightened the man carrying a basket of pies and rolls. He smiled at the remembrance of it, and wondered if the man would come again with another basketful of good things.

Buster had started out with the intention of finding his way back to the North Woods, but he soon found himself in a quandary. Which way should he go to find them? And how far off were they?

He might have been compelled, after all, to return to the little girl's house and go to the Zoo for the rest of his days, if he hadn't stumbled by accident upon Sleepy the Opossum cuddled up in a crotch of a tree.

"Hello, Sleepy," he called, "can you direct me to the North Woods, and tell me how far I must travel to reach them?"

"Follow the wind, Buster," replied Sleepy, "and travel day and night until you get there. That's all I know."

The wind was blowing from the north, and after traveling in that direction all night, crossing fields, woods and swamps, he came to rest in a dense thicket. "I'll sleep here," he said, "until night, and then go on."

He didn't want to show himself in the day time, and so he slept soundly all day. When he stretched himself toward sundown, he saw Curly the Skunk nearby watching.

"How far is it to the North Woods, Curly?" he asked. "And which way do I go?"

"It's far again as you've traveled, Buster," was the reply, "and it will take you twice as long to reach it, for there's a big river to cross. Follow the moon, and you won't miss it."

Buster thanked him for this information, and as there was a bright moon he had no trouble in keeping in the right direction. As on the previous night he traveled until the dawn of a new day, and then once more sought refuge in a dense swamp to sleep.

He was awake bright and early, rising before the moon was up. This time he asked Washer the Raccoon, who responded promptly:

"Follow the trail made by White Tail the Deer until you come to the river. Then cross it, if you can. It's a long swim, and I wouldn't like to undertake it."

Again Buster thanked his little forest friend, and resumed his hard journey. He was pretty tired and dirty by this time, for he had walked through swamps and thickets of briars in the dark, and had fallen and stumbled a number of times. But he had to reach the North Woods where he would be in no further danger of capture. Now that he had decided to return to his old home, he wasn't going to be turned aside by anything.

He reached the bank of the river by dawn. It was certainly a wide river, and very swift. He walked in it and drank his fill of cool, refreshing water. Seeing Billy the Mink washing himself on the bank, he called to him: "Must I swim the river to reach the North Woods, Billy?"

"You certainly must," laughed Billy, "unless you can fly across. You haven't wings yet, have you, Buster?"

"Not yet, Billy."

Then taking a plunge in the deep, swift stream, Buster began his long swim. The current was so strong that it carried him far down from the point he had in view, and at times it seemed as if he wasn't making any headway at all. His long tramp in the woods began to tell on him, and he puffed and grunted as never before.

But he was a powerful swimmer, and in time his feet touched sandy bottom on the other side. He waded through the shallow water until he stood on dry land once more.

"My, Buster, you look like a drowned rat!" exclaimed a voice in the bushes. He turned to see Groundy the Woodchuck smiling at him. "When did you arrive?" continued Groundy. "And how big you've grown! I hardly knew you at first."

"How far am I from the North Woods, Browny?" Buster interrupted.

"How far? Why, as far again as half."

"This is no time for joking, Browny. I want a plain, straightforward answer."

"Well, then you'll have it. You're there now! You're standing in the North Woods!"

Buster gave a little sigh of relief. So he was back home, in the woods where had been born! How good the trees and bushes looked and smelt! He sniffed the pines and spruces. He looked at the river he had crossed, and for the first time realized this was the stream that passed the door of his old home. By following it up he could come to the cave where his mother had lived, and where Loup the Lynx had found him that day when he tried to kill him.

<eob>

Raggedy Andy Stories

By

Johnny Gruelle



How Raggedy Andy Came


One day Daddy took Raggedy Ann down to his office and propped her up against some books upon his desk; he wanted to have her where he could see her cheery smile all day, for, as you must surely know, smiles and happiness are truly catching.

Daddy wished to catch a whole lot of Raggedy Ann's cheeriness and happiness and put all this down on paper, so that those who did not have Raggedy Ann dolls might see just how happy and smiling a rag doll can be.

So Raggedy Ann stayed at Daddy's studio for three or four days.

She was missed very, very much at home and Marcella really longed for her, but knew that Daddy was borrowing some of Raggedy Ann's sunshine, so she did not complain.

Raggedy Ann did not complain either, for in addition to the sunny, happy smile she always wore (it was painted on), Raggedy Ann had a candy heart, and of course no one (not even a rag doll) ever complains if they have such happiness about them.

One evening, just as Daddy was finishing his day's work, a messenger boy came with a package; a nice, soft lumpy package.

Daddy opened the nice, soft lumpy package and found a letter.

Gran'ma had told Daddy, long before this, that at the time Raggedy Ann was made, a neighbor lady had made a boy doll, Raggedy Andy, for her little girl, who always played with Gran'ma.

And when Gran'ma told Daddy this she wondered whatever had become of her little playmate and the boy doll, Raggedy Andy.

After reading the letter, Daddy opened the other package which had been inside the nice, soft, lumpy package and found -- Raggedy Andy.

Raggedy Andy had been carefully folded up.

His soft, loppy arms were folded up in front of him and his soft, loppy legs were folded over his soft, loppy arms, and they were held this way by a rubber band.

Raggedy Andy must have wondered why he was being "done up" this way, but it could not have caused him any worry, for in between where his feet came over his face Daddy saw his cheery smile.

After slipping off the rubber band, Daddy smoothed out the wrinkles in Raggedy Andy's arms and legs.

Then Daddy propped Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy up against books on his desk, so that they sat facing each other; Raggedy Ann's shoe button eyes looking straight into the shoe button eyes of Raggedy Andy.

They could not speak -- not right out before a real person -- so they just sat there and smiled at each other.

Daddy could not help reaching out his hands and feeling their throats.

Yes! There was a lump in Raggedy Ann's throat, and there was a lump in Raggedy Andy's throat. A cotton lump, to be sure, but a lump nevertheless.

"So, Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy, that is why you cannot talk, is it?" said Daddy.

"I will go away and let you have your visit to yourselves, although it is good to sit and share your happiness by watching you."

Daddy then took the rubber band and placed it around Raggedy Ann's right hand, and around Raggedy Andy's right hand, so that when he had it fixed properly they sat and held each other's hands.

Daddy knew they would wish to tell each other all the wonderful things that had happened to them since they had parted more than fifty years before.

So, locking his studio door, Daddy left the two old rag dolls looking into each other's eyes.

The next morning, when Daddy unlocked his door and looked at his desk, he saw that Raggedy Andy had fallen over so that he lay with his head in the bend of Raggedy Ann's arm.




The Nursery Dance


When Raggedy Andy was first brought to the nursery he was very quiet.

Raggedy Andy did not speak all day, but he smiled pleasantly to all the other dolls. There was Raggedy Ann, the French doll, Henny, the little Dutch doll, Uncle Clem, and a few others.

Some of the dolls were without arms and legs.

One had a cracked head. She was a nice doll, though, and the others all liked her very much.

All of them had cried the night Susan (that was her name) fell off the toy box and cracked her china head.

Raggedy Andy did not speak all day.

But there was really nothing strange about this fact, after all.

None of the other dolls spoke all day, either.

Marcella had played in the nursery all day and of course they did not speak in front of her.

Marcella thought they did, though, and often had them saying things which they really were not even thinking of.

For instance, when Marcella served water with sugar in it and little oyster crackers for "tea," Raggedy Andy was thinking of Raggedy Ann, and the French doll was thinking of one time when Fido was lost.

Marcella took the French doll's hand, and passed a cup of "tea" to Raggedy Andy, and said, "Mr. Raggedy Andy, will you have another cup of tea?" as if the French doll was talking.

And then Marcella answered for Raggedy Andy, "Oh, yes, thank you! It is so delicious!"

Neither the French doll nor Raggedy Andy knew what was going on, for they were thinking real hard to themselves.

Nor did they drink the tea when it was poured for them. Marcella drank it instead.

Perhaps this was just as well, for, most of the dolls were moist inside from the "tea" of the day before.

Marcella did not always drink all of the tea, often she poured a little down their mouths.

Sugar and water, if taken in small quantities, would not give the dolls colic, Marcella would tell them, but she did not know that it made their cotton, or sawdust insides, quite sticky.

Quite often, too, Marcella forgot to wash their faces after a "tea," and Fido would do it for them when he came into the nursery and found the dolls with sweets upon their faces.

Really, Fido was quite a help in this way, but he often missed the corners of their eyes and the backs of their necks where the "tea" would run and get sticky. But he did his best and saved his little Mistress a lot of work.

No, Raggedy Andy did not speak; he merely thought a great deal.

One can, you know, when one has been a rag doll as long as Raggedy Andy had. Years and years and years and years!

Even Raggedy Ann, with all her wisdom, did not really know how long Raggedy Andy and she had been rag dolls.

If Raggedy Ann had a pencil in her rag hand and Marcella guided it for her, Raggedy Ann could count up to ten -- sometimes. But why should one worry one's rag head about one's age when all one's life has been one happy experience after another, with each day filled with love and sunshine?

Raggedy Andy did not know his age, but he remembered many things that had happened years and years and years ago, when he and Raggedy Ann were quite young.

It was of these pleasant times Raggedy Andy was thinking all day, and this was the reason he did not notice that Marcella was speaking for him.

Raggedy Andy could patiently wait until Marcella put all the dollies to bed and left them for the night, alone in the nursery.

The day might have passed very slowly had it not been for the happy memories which filled Raggedy Andy's cotton-stuffed head.

But he did not even fidget.

Of course, he fell out of his chair once, and his shoe button eyes went "Click!" against the floor, but it wasn't his fault. Raggedy Andy was so loppy he could hardly be placed in a chair so that he would stay, and Marcella jiggled the table.

Marcella cried for Raggedy Andy, "AWAA! AWAA!" and picked him up and snuggled him and scolded Uncle Clem for jiggling the table.

Through all this Raggedy Andy kept right on thinking his pleasant thoughts, and really did not know he had fallen from the chair.

You see how easy it is to pass over the little bumps of life if we are happy inside.

And so Raggedy Andy was quiet all day, and so the day finally passed.

Raggedy Andy was given one of Uncle Clem's clean white nighties and shared Uncle Clem's bed. Marcella kissed them all good night and left them to sleep until morning.

But as soon as she had left the room all the dolls raised up in their beds. When their little mistress' footsteps passed out of hearing, all the dollies jumped out of their beds and gathered around Raggedy Andy.

Raggedy Ann introduced them one by one and Raggedy Andy shook hands with each.

"I am very happy to know you all!" he said, in a voice as kindly as Raggedy Ann's, "and I hope we will all like each other as much as Raggedy Ann and I have always liked each other!"

"Oh, indeed we shall!" the dollies all answered. "We love Raggedy Ann because she is so kindly and happy, and we know we shall like you too, for you talk like Raggedy Ann and have the same cheery smile!"

"Now that we know each other so well, what do you say to a game, Uncle Clem?" Raggedy Andy cried, as he caught Uncle Clem and danced about the floor.

Henny, the Dutch doll, dragged the little square music box out into the center of the room and wound it up. Then all, catching hands, danced in a circle around it, laughing and shouting in their tiny doll voices.

"That was lots of fun!" Raggedy Andy said, when the music stopped and all the dolls had taken seats upon the floor facing him. "You know I have been shut up in a trunk up in an attic for years and years and years."

"Wasn't it very lonesome in the trunk all that time?" Susan asked in her queer little cracked voice. You see, her head had been cracked.

"Oh, not at all," Raggedy Andy replied, "for there was always a nest of mice down in the corner of the trunk. Cute little Mama and Daddy mice, and lots of little teeny weeny baby mice. And when the mama and daddy mice were away, I used to cuddle the tiny little baby mice!"

"No wonder you were never lonesome!" said Uncle Clem, who was very kind and loved everybody and everything.

"No, I was never lonesome in the old trunk in the attic, but it is far more pleasant to be out again and living here with all you nice friends!" said Raggedy Andy.

And all the dolls thought so too, for already they loved Raggedy Andy's happy smile and knew he would prove to be as kindly and lovable as Raggedy Ann.




The Spinning Wheel


One night, after all the household had settled down to sleep, Raggedy Andy sat up in bed and tickled Uncle Clem.

Uncle Clem twisted and wiggled in his sleep until finally he could stand it no longer and awakened.

"I dreamed that some one told me the funniest story!" said Uncle Clem; "But I cannot remember what it was!"

"I was tickling you!" laughed Raggedy Andy.

When the other dolls in the nursery heard Raggedy Andy and Uncle Clem talking, they too sat up in their beds.

"We've been so quiet all day," said Raggedy Andy. "Let's have a good romp!"

This suggestion suited all the dolls, so they jumped out of their beds and ran over towards Raggedy Andy's and Uncle Clem's little bed.

Raggedy Andy, always in for fun, threw his pillow at Henny, the Dutch doll.

Henny did not see the pillow coming towards him so he was knocked head over heels.

Henny always said "Mama" when he was tilted backward or forward, and when the pillow rolled him over and over, he cried, "Mama, Mama, Mama!"

It was not because it hurt him, for you know Santa Claus always sees to it that each doll he makes in his great workshop is covered with a very magical Wish, and this Wish always keeps them from getting hurt.

Henny could talk just as well as any of the other dolls when he was standing up, sitting, or lying down, but if he was being tipped forward and backward, all he could say was, "Mama."

This amused Henny as much as it did the other dolls, so when he jumped to his feet he laughed and threw the pillow back at Raggedy Andy.

Raggedy Andy tried to jump to one side, but forgot that he was on the bed, and he and Uncle Clem went tumbling to the floor.

Then all the dolls ran to their beds and brought their pillows and had the jolliest pillow fight imaginable.

The excitement ran so high and the pillows flew so fast, the floor of the nursery was soon covered with feathers. It was only when all the dolls had stopped to rest and put the feathers back into the pillow cases that Raggedy Andy discovered he had lost one of his arms in the scuffle.

The dolls were worried over this and asked, "What will Marcella say when she sees that Raggedy Andy has lost an arm?"

"We can push it up his sleeve!" said Uncle Clem. "Then when Raggedy Andy is taken out of bed in the morning, Marcella will find his arm is loose!"

"It has been hanging by one or two threads for a day or more!" said Raggedy Andy. "I noticed the other day that sometimes my thumb was turned clear around to the back, and I knew then that the arm was hanging by one or two threads and the threads were twisted."

Uncle Clem pushed Raggedy Andy's arm up through his sleeve, but every time Raggedy Andy jumped about, he lost his arm again.

"This will never do!" said Raggedy Ann. "Raggedy Andy is lopsided with only one arm and he cannot join in our games as well as if he had two arms!"

"Oh, I don't mind that!" laughed Raggedy Andy. "Marcella will sew it on in the morning and I will be all right, I'm sure!"

"Perhaps Raggedy Ann can sew it on now!" suggested Uncle Clem.

"Yes, Raggedy Ann can sew it on!" all the dolls cried. "She can play Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater on the toy piano and she can sew!"

"I will gladly try," said Raggedy Ann, "but there are no needles or thread in the nursery, and I have to have a thimble so the needle can be pressed through Raggedy Andy's cloth!"

"Marcella always gets a needle from Mama!" said the French Doll.

"I know," said Raggedy Ann, "but we cannot waken Mama to ask her!"

The dolls all laughed at this, for they knew very well that even had Mama been awake, they would not have asked her for needle and thread, because they did not wish her to know they could act and talk just like real people.

"Perhaps we can get the things out of the machine drawer!" Henny suggested.

"Yes," cried Susan, "let's all go get the things out of the machine drawer! Come on, everybody!"

And Susan, although she had only a cracked head, ran out the nursery door followed by all the rest of the dolls.

Even the tiny little penny dolls clicked their china heels upon the floor as they followed the rest, and Raggedy Andy, carrying his loose arm, thumped along in the rear.

Raggedy Andy had not lived in the house as long as the others; so he did not know the way to the room in which the machine stood.

After much climbing and pulling, the needle and thread and thimble were taken from the drawer, and all raced back again to the nursery.

Uncle Clem took off Raggedy Andy's waist, and the other dolls all sat around watching while Raggedy Ann sewed the arm on again.

Raggedy Ann had only taken two stitches when she began laughing so hard she had to quit. Of course when Raggedy Ann laughed, all the other dolls laughed too, for laughter, like yawning, is very catching.

"I was just thinking!" said Raggedy Ann. "Remember, 'way, 'way back, a long, long time ago, I sewed this arm on once before?" she asked Raggedy Andy.

"I do remember, now that you mention it," said Raggedy Andy, "but I can not remember how the arm came off!"

"Tell us about it!" all the dolls cried.

"Let's see!" Raggedy Ann began. "Your Mistress left you over at our house one night, and after everyone had gone to bed, we went up into the attic!"

"Oh, yes! I do remember now!" Raggedy Andy laughed. "We played with the large whirligig!"

"Yes," Raggedy Ann said. "The large spinning wheel. We held on to the wheel and went round and round! And when we were having the most fun, your feet got fastened between the wheel and the rod which held the wheel in position and there you hung, head down!"

"I remember, you were working the pedal and I was sailing around very fast," said Raggedy Andy, "and all of a sudden the wheel stopped!"

"We would have laughed at the time," Raggedy Ann explained to the other dolls, "but you see it was quite serious."

"My mistress had put us both to bed for the night, and if she had discovered us 'way up in the attic, she would have wondered how in the world we got there! So there was nothing to do but get Raggedy Andy out of the tangle!"

"But you pulled me out all right!" Raggedy Andy laughed.

"Yes, I pulled and I pulled until I pulled one of Raggedy Andy's arms off," Raggedy Ann said. "And then I pulled and pulled until finally his feet came out of the wheel and we both tumbled to the floor!"

"Then we ran downstairs as fast as we could and climbed into bed, didn't we!" Raggedy Andy laughed.

"Yes, we did!" Raggedy Ann replied. "And when we jumped into bed, we remembered that we had left Raggedy Andy's arm lying up on the attic floor, so we had to run back up there and get it! Remember, Raggedy Andy?"

"Yes! Wasn't it lots of fun?"

"Indeed it was!" Raggedy Ann agreed.

"Raggedy Andy wanted to let the arm remain off until the next morning, but I decided it would be better to have it sewed on, just as it had been when Mistress put us to bed. So, just like tonight, we went to the pincushion and found a needle and thread and I sewed it on for him!"

"There!" Raggedy Ann said, as she wound the thread around her hand and pulled, so that the thread broke near Raggedy Andy's shoulder. "It's sewed on again, good as new!"

"Thank you, Raggedy Ann!" said Raggedy Andy, as he threw the arm about Raggedy Ann's neck and gave her a hug.

"Now we can have another game!" Uncle Clem cried as he helped Raggedy Andy into his waist and buttoned it for him.

Just then the little Cuckoo Clock on the nursery wall went, "Whirrr!" the little door opened, and the little bird put out his head and cried, "Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!"

"No more games!" Raggedy Ann said. "We must be very quiet from now on. The folks will be getting up soon!"

"Last one in bed is a monkey!" cried Raggedy Andy.

There was a wild scramble as the dolls rushed for their beds, and Susan, having to be careful of her cracked head, was the monkey. So Raggedy Andy, seeing that Susan was slow about getting into her bed, jumped out and helped her.

Then, climbing into the little bed which Uncle Clem shared with him, he pulled the covers up to his eyes and, after pretending to snore a couple of times, he lay very quiet, thinking of the kindness of his doll friends about him, until Marcella came and took him down to breakfast.

And all the other dolls smiled at him as he left the room, for they were very happy to know that their little mistress loved him as much as they did.




The Taffy Pull


"I know how we can have a whole lot of fun!" Raggedy Andy said to the other dolls. "We'll have a taffy pull!"

"Do you mean crack the whip, Raggedy Andy?" asked the French doll.

"He means a tug of war, don't you, Raggedy Andy?" asked Henny.

"No," Raggedy Andy replied, "I mean a taffy pull!"

"If it's lots of fun, then show us how to play the game!" Uncle Clem said. "We like to have fun, don't we?" And Uncle Clem turned to all the other dolls as he asked the question.

"It really is not a game," Raggedy Andy explained. "You see, it is only a taffy pull.

"We take sugar and water and butter and a little vinegar and put it all on the stove to cook. When it has cooked until it strings 'way out when you dip some up in a spoon, or gets hard when you drop some of it in a cup of water, then it is candy.

"Then it must be placed upon buttered plates until it has cooled a little, and then each one takes some of the candy and pulls and pulls until it gets real white. Then it is called 'Taffy'."

"That will be loads of fun!" "Show us how to begin!" "Let's have a taffy pull!" "Come on, everybody!" the dolls cried.

"Just one moment!" Raggedy Ann said. She had remained quiet before, for she had been thinking very hard, so hard, in fact, that two stitches had burst in the back of her rag head. The dolls, in their eagerness to have the taffy pull, were dancing about Raggedy Andy, but when Raggedy Ann spoke, in her soft cottony voice, they all quieted down and waited for her to speak again.

"I was just thinking," Raggedy Ann said, "that it would be very nice to have the taffy pull, but suppose some of the folks smell the candy while it is cooking."

"There is no one at home!" Raggedy Andy said. "I thought of that, Raggedy Ann. They have all gone over to Cousin Jenny's house and will not be back until day after tomorrow. I heard Mama tell Marcella."

"If that is the case, we can have the taffy pull and all the fun that goes with it!" Raggedy Ann cried, as she started for the nursery door.

After her ran all the dollies, their little feet pitter-patting across the floor and down the hall.

When they came to the stairway Raggedy Ann, Raggedy Andy, Uncle Clem and Henny threw themselves down the stairs, turning over and over as they fell.

The other dolls, having china heads, had to be much more careful; so they slid down the banisters, or jumped from one step to another.

Raggedy Ann, Raggedy Andy, Uncle Clem and Henny piled in a heap at the bottom of the steps, and by the time they had untangled themselves and helped each other up, the other dolls were down the stairs.

To the kitchen they all raced. There they found the fire in the stove still burning.

Raggedy Andy brought a small stew kettle, while the others brought the sugar and water and a large spoon. They could not find the vinegar and decided not to use it, anyway.

Raggedy Andy stood upon the stove and watched the candy, dipping into it every once in a while to see if it had cooked long enough, and stirring it with the large spoon.

At last the candy began to string out from the spoon when it was held above the stew kettle, and after trying a few drops in a cup of cold water, Raggedy Andy pronounced it "done."

Uncle Clem pulled out a large platter from the pantry, and Raggedy Ann dipped her rag hand into the butter jar and buttered the platter.

The candy, when it was poured into the platter, was a lovely golden color and smelled delicious to the dolls. Henny could not wait until it cooled; so he put one of his chamois skin hands into the hot candy.

Of course it did not burn Henny, but when he pulled his hand out again, it was covered with a great ball of candy, which strung out all over the kitchen floor and got upon his clothes.

Then too, the candy cooled quickly, and in a very short time Henny's hand was encased in a hard ball of candy. Henny couldn't wiggle any of his fingers on that hand and he was sorry he had been so hasty.

While waiting for the candy to cool, Raggedy Andy said, "We must rub butter upon our hands before we pull the candy, or else it will stick to our hands as it has done to Henny's hands and have to wear off!"

"Will this hard ball of candy have to wear off of my hand?" Henny asked. "It is so hard, I cannot wiggle any of my fingers!"

"It will either have to wear off, or you will have to soak your hand in water for a long time, until the candy on it melts!" said Raggedy Andy.

"Dear me!" said Henny.

Uncle Clem brought the poker then and, asking Henny to put his hand upon the stove leg, he gave the hard candy a few sharp taps with the poker and chipped the candy from Henny's hand.

"Thank you, Uncle Clem!" Henny said, as he wiggled his fingers. "That feels much better!"

Raggedy Andy told all the dolls to rub butter upon their hands.

"The candy is getting cool enough to pull!" he said.

Then, when all the dolls had their hands nice and buttery, Raggedy Andy cut them each a nice piece of candy and showed them how to pull it.

"Take it in one hand this way," he said, "and pull it with the other hand, like this!"

When all the dolls were supplied with candy they sat about and pulled it, watching it grow whiter and more silvery the longer they pulled.

Then, when the taffy was real white, it began to grow harder and harder, so the smaller dolls could scarcely pull it any more.

When this happened, Raggedy Andy, Raggedy Ann, Uncle Clem and Henny, who were larger, took the little dolls' candy and mixed it with what they had been pulling until all the taffy was snow white.

Then Raggedy Andy pulled it out into a long rope and held it while Uncle Clem hit the ends a sharp tap with the edge of the spoon.

This snipped the taffy into small pieces, just as easily as you might break icicles with a few sharp taps of a stick.

The small pieces of white taffy were placed upon the buttered platter again and the dolls all danced about it, singing and laughing, for this had been the most fun they had had for a long, long time.

"But what shall we do with it?" Raggedy Ann asked.

"Yes, what shall we do with it!" Uncle Clem said. "We can't let it remain in the platter here upon the kitchen floor! We must hide it, or do something with it!"

"While we are trying to think of a way to dispose of it, let us be washing the stew kettle and the spoon!" said practical Raggedy Ann.

"That is a very happy thought, Raggedy Ann!" said Raggedy Andy. "For it will clean the butter and candy from our hands while we are doing it!"

So the stew kettle was dragged to the sink and filled with water, the dolls all taking turns scraping the candy from the sides of the kettle, and scrubbing the inside with a cloth.

When the kettle was nice and clean and had been wiped dry, Raggedy Andy found a roll of waxed paper in the pantry upon one of the shelves.

"We'll wrap each piece of taffy in a nice little piece of paper," he said, "then we'll find a nice paper bag, and put all the pieces inside the bag, and throw it from the upstairs window when someone passes the house so that someone may have the candy!"

All the dolls gathered about the platter on the floor, and while Raggedy Andy cut the paper into neat squares, the dolls wrapped the taffy in the papers.

Then the taffy was put into a large bag, and with much pulling and tugging it was finally dragged up into the nursery, where a window faced out toward the street.

Then, just as a little boy and a little girl, who looked as though they did not ever have much candy, passed the house, the dolls all gave a push and sent the bag tumbling to the sidewalk.

The two children laughed and shouted, "Thank you," when they saw that the bag contained candy, and the dolls, peeping from behind the lace curtains, watched the two happy faced children eating the taffy as they skipped down the street.

When the children had passed out of sight, the dolls climbed down from the window.

"That was lots of fun!" said the French doll, as she smoothed her skirts and sat down beside Raggedy Andy.

"I believe Raggedy Andy must have a candy heart too, like Raggedy Ann!" said Uncle Clem.

"No!" Raggedy Andy answered, "I'm just stuffed with white cotton and I have no candy heart, but some day perhaps I shall have!"

"A candy heart is very nice!" Raggedy Ann said. (You know, she had one.) "But one can be just as nice and happy and full of sunshine without a candy heart."

"I almost forgot to tell you," said Raggedy Andy, "that when pieces of taffy are wrapped in little pieces of paper, just as we wrapped them, they are called 'Kisses'."




The Rabbit Chase


"Well, what shall we play tonight?" asked Henny, the Dutch doll, when the house was quiet and the dolls all knew that no one else was awake.

Raggedy Andy was just about to suggest a good game, when Fido, who sometimes slept in a basket in the nursery, growled.

All the dollies looked in his direction.

Fido was standing up with his ears sticking as straight in the air as loppy silken puppy dog ears can stick up.

"He must have been dreaming!" said Raggedy Andy.

"No, I wasn't dreaming!" Fido answered. "I heard something go, 'Scratch! Scratch!' as plain as I hear you!"

"Where did the sound come from, Fido?" Raggedy Andy asked when he saw that Fido really was wide awake.

"From outside somewhere!" Fido answered. "And if I could get out without disturbing all the folks, I'd run out and see what it might be! Perhaps I had better bark!"

"Please do not bark!" Raggedy Andy cried as he put his rag arm around Fido's nose. "You will awaken everybody in the house. We can open a door or a window for you and let you out, if you must go!"

"I wish you would. Listen! There it is again: 'Scratch! Scratch!' What can it be?"

"You may soon see!" said Raggedy Andy. "We'll let you out, but please don't sit at the door and bark and bark to get back in again, as you usually do, for we are going to play a good game and we may not hear you!"

"You can sleep out in the shed after you have found out what it is," said Raggedy Andy.

As soon as the dolls opened the door for Fido, he went running across the lawn, barking in a loud shrill voice. He ran down behind the shed and through the garden, and then back towards the house again.

Raggedy Andy and Uncle Clem stood looking out of the door, the rest of the dolls peeping over their shoulders, so when something came jumping through the door, it hit Uncle Clem and Raggedy Andy and sent them flying against the other dolls behind them.

All the dolls went down in a wiggling heap on the floor.

It was surprising that the noise and confusion did not waken Daddy and the rest of the folks, for just as the dolls were untangling themselves from each other and getting upon their feet, Fido came jumping through the door and sent the dolls tumbling again.

Fido quit barking when he came through the door.

"Which way did he go?" he asked, when he could get his breath.

"What was it?" Raggedy Andy asked in return.

"It was a rabbit!" Fido cried. "He ran right in here, for I could smell his tracks!"

"We could feel him!" Raggedy Andy laughed.

"I could not tell you which way he went!" Uncle Clem said, "Except I feel sure he came through the door and into the house!"

None of the dolls knew into which room the rabbit had run.

Finally, after much sniffing, Fido traced the rabbit to the nursery, where, when the dolls followed, they saw the rabbit crouching behind the rocking horse.

Fido whined and cried because he could not get to the rabbit and bite him.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Fido!" cried Raggedy Ann. "Just see how the poor bunny is trembling!"

"He should not come scratching around our house if he doesn't care to be chased!" said Fido.

"Why don't you stay out in the woods and fields where you really belong?" Raggedy Andy asked the rabbit.

"I came to leave some Easter eggs!" the bunny answered in a queer little quavery voice.

"An Easter bunny!" all the dolls cried, jumping about and clapping their hands. "An Easter bunny!"

"Well!" was all Fido could say, as he sat down and began wagging his tail.

"You may come out from behind the rocking horse now, Easter bunny!" said Raggedy Andy. "Fido will not hurt you, now that he knows, will you, Fido?"

"Indeed I won't!" Fido replied. "I'm sorry that I chased you! And I remember now, I had to jump over a basket out by the shed! Was that yours?"

"Yes, it was full of Easter eggs and colored grasses for the little girl who lives here!" the bunny said.

When the Easter bunny found out that Fido and the dolls were his friends, he came out from behind the rocking horse and hopped across the floor to the door.

"I must go see if any of the eggs are broken, for if they are, I will have to run home and color some more! I was just about to make a nice nest and put the eggs in it when Fido came bouncing out at me!"

And with a squeeky little laugh the Easter bunny, followed by Fido and all the dolls, hopped across the lawn towards the shed. There they found the basket. Four of the lovely colored Easter eggs were broken.

"I will run home and color four more. It will only take a few minutes, so when I return and scratch again to make a nest, please do not bark at me!" said the Easter bunny.

"I won't! I promise!" Fido laughed.

"May we go with you and watch you color the Easter eggs?" Raggedy Andy begged.

"Indeed you may!" the Easter bunny answered. "Can you run fast?"

Then down through the garden and out through a crack in the fence the Easter bunny hopped, with a long string of dolls trailing behind.

When they came to the Easter bunny's home, they found Mama Easter bunny and a lot of little teeny weeny bunnies who would some day grow up to be big Easter bunnies like their Mama and Daddy bunny.

The Easter bunny told them of his adventure with Fido, and all joined in his laughter when they found it had turned out well at the end.

The Easter bunny put four eggs on to boil and while these were boiling he mixed up a lot of pretty colors.

When the eggs were boiled, he dipped the four eggs into the pretty colored dye and then painted lovely flowers on them.

When the Easter bunny had finished painting the eggs he put them in his basket and, with all the dolls running along beside him, they returned to the house.

"Why not make the nest right in the nursery?" Raggedy Andy asked.

"That would be just the thing! Then the little girl would wonder and wonder how I could ever get into the nursery without awakening the rest of the folks, for she will never suspect that you dolls and Fido let me in!"

So with Raggedy Andy leading the way, they ran up to the nursery and there, 'way back in a corner, they watched the Easter bunny make a lovely nest and put the Easter eggs in it.

And in the morning when Marcella came in to see the dolls you can imagine her surprise when she found the pretty gift of the Easter bunny.

"How in the world did the bunny get inside the house and into this room without awakening Fido?" she laughed.

And Fido, pretending to be asleep, slowly opened one eye and winked over the edge of his basket at Raggedy Andy.

And Raggedy Andy smiled back at Fido, but never said a word.




The New Tin Gutter


All day Saturday the men had worked out upon the eaves of the house and the dolls facing the window could see them.

The men made quite a lot of noise with their hammers, for they were putting new gutters around the eaves, and pounding upon tin makes a great deal of noise.

Marcella had not played with the dolls all that day, for she had gone visiting; so when the men hammered and made a lot of noise, the dolls could talk to each other without fear of anyone hearing or knowing they were really talking to each other.

"What are they doing now?" Raggedy Andy asked.

He was lying with his head beneath a little bed quilt, just as Marcella had dropped him when she left the nursery; so he could not see what was going on.

"We can only see the men's legs as they pass the window," answered Uncle Clem. "But they are putting new shingles or something on the roof!"

After the men had left their work and gone home to supper and the house was quiet, Raggedy Andy cautiously moved his head out from under the little bed quilt and, seeing that the coast was clear, sat up.

This was a signal for all the dolls to sit up and smooth out the wrinkles in their clothes.

The nursery window was open; so Raggedy Andy lifted the penny dolls to the sill and climbed up beside them.

Leaning out, he could look along the new shiny tin gutter the men had put in place.

"Here's a grand place to have a lovely slide!" he said as he gave one of the penny dolls a scoot down the shiny tin gutter.

"Whee! See her go!" Raggedy Andy cried.

All the other dolls climbed upon the window sill beside him.

"Scoot me too!" cried the other little penny doll in her squeeky little voice, and Raggedy Andy took her in his rag hand and gave her a great swing which sent her scooting down the shiny tin gutter, "Kerswish!"

Then Raggedy Andy climbed into the gutter himself and, taking a few steps, spread out his feet and went scooting down the shiny tin.

The other dolls followed his example and scooted along behind him.

When Raggedy Andy came to the place where he expected to find the penny dolls lying, they were nowhere about.

"Perhaps you scooted them farther than you thought!" Uncle Clem said.

"Perhaps I did!" Raggedy Andy said, "We will look around the bend in the eave!"

"Oh dear!" he exclaimed when he had peeped around the corner of the roof, "the gutter ends here and there is nothing but a hole!"

"They must have scooted right into the hole," Henny, the Dutch doll said.

Raggedy Andy lay flat upon the shiny tin and looked down into the hole.

"Are you down there, penny dolls?" he called.

There was no answer.

"I hope their heads were not broken!" Raggedy Ann said.

"I'm so sorry I scooted them!" Raggedy Andy cried, as he brushed his hand over his shoe button eyes.

"Maybe if you hold to my feet, I can reach down the hole and find them and pull them up again!" he added.

Uncle Clem and Henny each caught hold of a foot of Raggedy Andy and let him slide down into the hole.

It was a rather tight fit, but Raggedy Andy wiggled and twisted until all the dolls could see of him were his two feet.

"I can't find them!" he said in muffled tones. "Let me down farther and I think I'll be able to reach them!"

Now Henny and Uncle Clem thought that Raggedy Andy meant for them to let go of his feet and this they did.

Raggedy Andy kept wiggling and twisting until he came to a bend in the pipe and could go no farther.

"I can't find them!" he cried. "They have gone farther down the pipe! Now you can pull me up!"

"We can't reach you, Raggedy Andy!" Uncle Clem called down the pipe. "Try to wiggle back up a piece and we will catch your feet and pull you up!"

Raggedy Andy tried to wiggle backward up the pipe, but his clothes caught upon a little piece of tin which stuck out from the inside of the pipe and there he stayed. He could neither go down nor come back up.

"What shall we do?" Uncle Clem cried, "The folks will never find him down there, for we can not tell them where he is, and they will never guess it!"

The dolls were all very sad. They stayed out upon the shiny new tin gutter until it began raining and hoped and hoped that Raggedy Andy could get back up to them.

Then they went inside the nursery and sat looking out the window until it was time for the folks to get up and the house to be astir. Then they went back to the position each had been in, when Marcella had left them.

And although they were very quiet, each one was so sorry to lose Raggedy Andy, and each felt that he would never be found again.

"The rain must have soaked his cotton through and through!" sighed Raggedy Ann. "For all the water from the house runs down the shiny tin gutters and down the pipe into a rain barrel at the bottom!"

Then Raggedy Ann remembered that there was an opening at the bottom of the pipe.

"Tomorrow night if we have a chance, we dolls must take a stick and see if we can reach Raggedy Andy from the bottom of the pipe and pull him down to us!" she thought.

Marcella came up to the nursery and played all day, watching the rain patter upon the new tin gutter. She wondered where Raggedy Andy was, although she did not get worried about him until she had asked Mama where he might be.

"He must be just where you left him!" Mama said.

"I cannot remember where I left him!" Marcella said.

"I thought he was with all the other dolls in the nursery, though!"

All day Sunday it rained and all of Sunday night, and Monday morning when Daddy started to work it was still raining.

As Daddy walked out of the front gate, he turned to wave good-bye to Mama and Marcella and then he saw something.

Daddy came right back into the house and called up the men who had put in the new shiny tin gutters.

"The drain pipe is plugged up. Some of you must have left shavings or something in the eaves, and it has washed down into the pipe, so that the water pours over the gutter in sheets!"

"We will send a man right up to fix it!" the men said.

So along about ten o'clock that morning one of the men came to fix the pipe.

But although he punched a long pole down the pipe, and punched and punched, he could not dislodge whatever it was which plugged the pipe and kept the water from running through it.

Then the man measured with his stick, so that he knew just where the place was, and with a pair of tin shears he cut a section from the pipe and found Raggedy Andy.

Raggedy Andy was punched quite out of shape and all jammed together, but when the man straightened out the funny little figure, Raggedy Andy looked up at him with his customary happy smile.

The man laughed and carried little water-soaked Raggedy Andy into the house.

"I guess your little girl must have dropped this rag doll down into the drain pipe!" the man said to Mama.

"I'm so glad you found him!" Mama said to the man.

"We have hunted all over the house for him! Marcella could not remember where she put him; so when I get him nice and dry, I'll hide him in a nice easy place for her to find, and she will not know he has been out in the rain all night!"

So Mama put Raggedy Andy behind the radiator and there he sat all afternoon, steaming and drying out.

And as he sat there he smiled and smiled, even though there was no one to see him.

He felt very happy within and he liked to smile, anyway, because his smile was painted on.

And another reason Raggedy Andy smiled was because he was not lonesome.

Inside his waist were the two little penny dolls.

The man had punched Raggedy Andy farther down into the pipe, and he had been able to reach the two little dolls and tuck them into a safe place.

"Won't they all be surprised to see us back again!" Raggedy Andy whispered as he patted the two little penny dolls with his soft rag hands.

And the two little penny dolls nestled against Raggedy Andy's soft cotton stuffed body, and thought how nice it was to have such a happy, sunny friend.




Doctor Raggedy Andy


Raggedy Andy, Raggedy Ann, Uncle Clem and Henny were not given medicine.

Because, you see, they had no mouths.

That is, mouths through which medicine could be poured.

Their mouths were either painted on, or were sewed on with yarn.

Sometimes the medicine spoon would be touched to their faces but none of the liquid be given them. Except accidentally.

But the French doll had a lovely mouth for taking medicine; it was open and showed her teeth in a dimpling smile.

She also had soft brown eyes which opened and closed when she was tilted backward or forward.

The medicine which was given the dolls had great curing properties.

It would cure the most stubborn case of croup, measles, whooping cough or any other ailment the dolls had wished upon them by their little Mistress.

Some days all the dolls would be put to bed with "measles" but in the course of half an hour they would have every other ailment in the Doctor book.

The dolls enjoyed it very much, for, you see, Marcella always tried the medicine first to see if it was strong enough before she gave any to the dolls.

So the dolls really did not get as much of the medicine as their little mistress.

The wonderful remedy was made from a very old recipe handed down from ancient times.

This recipe is guaranteed to cure every ill a doll may have.

The medicine was made from brown sugar and water. Perhaps you may have used it for your dollies.

The medicine was also used as "tea" and "soda water," except when the dolls were supposed to be ill.

Having nothing but painted or yarn mouths, the ailments of Raggedy Andy, Raggedy Ann, Uncle Clem and Henny, the Dutch doll, mostly consisted of sprained wrists, arms and legs, or perhaps a headache and a toothache.

None of them knew they had the trouble until Marcella had wrapped up the "injured" rag arm, leg or head, and had explained in detail just what was the matter.

Raggedy Andy, Raggedy Ann, Uncle Clem, or Henny were just as happy with their heads tied up for the toothache as they were without their heads tied up.

Not having teeth, naturally they could not have the toothache, and if they could furnish amusement for Marcella by having her pretend they had the toothache, then that made them very happy.

So this day, the French doll was quite ill. She started out with the "croup," and went through the "measles," "whooping cough," and "yellow fever" in an hour.

The attack came on quite suddenly.

The French doll was sitting quietly in one of the little red chairs, smiling the prettiest of dimpling smiles at Raggedy Andy, and thinking of the romp the dolls would have that night after the house grew quiet, when Marcella discovered that the French doll had the "croup" and put her to bed.

The French doll closed her eyes when put to bed, but the rest of her face did not change expression. She still wore her happy smile.

Marcella mixed the medicine very "strong" and poured it into the French doll's open mouth.

She was given a "dose" every minute or so.

It was during the "yellow fever" stage that Marcella was called to supper and left the dolls in the nursery alone.

Marcella did not play with them again that evening; so the dolls all remained in the same position until Marcella and the rest of the folks went to bed.

Then Raggedy Andy jumped from his chair and wound up the little music box. "Let's start with a lively dance!" he cried.

When the music started tinkling he caught the French doll's hand, and danced 'way across the nursery floor before he discovered that her soft brown eyes remained closed as they were when she lay upon the "sick" bed.

All the dolls gathered around Raggedy Andy and the French doll.

"I can't open my eyes!" she said.

Raggedy Andy tried to open the French doll's eyes with his soft rag hands, but it was no use.

They shook her. This sometimes has the desired effect when dolls do not open their eyes.

They shook her again and again. It was no use, her eyes remained closed.

"It must be the sticky, sugary 'medicine'!" said Uncle Clem.

"I really believe it must be!" the French doll replied. "The 'medicine' seemed to settle in the back of my head when I was lying down, and I can still feel it back there!"

"That must be it, and now it has hardened and keeps your pretty eyes from working!" said Raggedy Ann. "What shall we do?"

Raggedy Andy and Raggedy Ann walked over to a corner of the nursery and thought and thought. They pulled their foreheads down into wrinkles with their hands, so that they might think harder.

Finally Raggedy Ann cried, "I've thought of a plan!" and went skipping from the corner out to where the other dolls sat about the French doll.

"We must stand her upon her head, then the 'medicine' will run up into her hair, for there is a hole in the top of her head. I remember seeing it when her hair came off one time!"

"No sooner said than done!" cried Uncle Clem, as he took the French doll by the waist and stood her upon her head.

"That should be long enough!" Raggedy Ann said, when Uncle Clem had held the French doll in this position for five minutes.

But when the French doll was again placed upon her feet her eyes still remained tightly closed.

All this time, Raggedy Andy had remained in the corner, thinking as hard as his rag head would think.

He thought and thought, until the yarn hair upon his head stood up in the air and wiggled.

"If the 'medicine' did not run up into her hair when she stood upon her head," thought Raggedy Andy, "then it is because the 'medicine' could not run; so, if the medicine can not run, it is because it is too sticky and thick to run out the hole in the top of her head." He also thought a lot more.

At last he turned to the others and said out loud, "I can't seem to think of a single way to help her open her eyes unless we take off her hair and wash the medicine from inside her china head."

"Why didn't I think of that?" Raggedy Ann asked. "That is just the way we shall have to do!"

So Raggedy Ann caught hold of the French doll's feet, and Raggedy Andy caught hold of the French doll's lively curls, and they pulled and they pulled.

Then the other dolls caught hold of Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy and pulled and pulled, until finally, with a sharp "R-R-Rip!" the French doll's hair came off, and the dolls who were pulling went tumbling over backwards.

Laughingly they scrambled to their feet and sat the French doll up, so they might look into the hole in the top of her head.

Yes, the sticky "medicine" had grown hard and would not let the French doll's eyes open.

Raggedy Andy put his hand inside and pushed on the eyes so that they opened.

This was all right, only now the eyes would not close when the French doll lay down. She tried it.

So Raggedy Andy ran down into the kitchen and brought up a small tin cup full of warm water and a tiny rag.

With these he loosened the sticky "medicine" and washed the inside of the French doll's head nice and clean.

There were lots of cooky and cracker crumbs inside her head, too.

Raggedy Andy washed it all nice and clean, and then wet the glue which made the pretty curls stay on.

So when her hair was placed upon her head again, the French doll was as good as new.

"Thank you all very much!" she said, as she tilted backwards and forwards, and found that her eyes worked very easily.

Raggedy Andy again wound up the little music box and, catching the French doll about the waist, started a rollicking dance which lasted until the roosters in the neighborhood began their morning crowing.

Then, knowing the folks might soon be astir, the dolls left off their playing, and all took the same positions they had been in when Marcella left them the night before.

And so Marcella found them.

The French doll was in bed with her eyes closed, and her happy dimpling smile lighting up her pretty face.

And to this day, the dollies' little mistress does not know that Raggedy Andy was the doctor who cured the French doll of her only ill.




Raggedy Andy's Smile


Raggedy Andy's smile was gone.

Not entirely, but enough so that it made his face seem onesided.

If one viewed Raggedy Andy from the left side, one could see his smile.

But if one looked at Raggedy Andy from the right side, one could not see his smile. So Raggedy Andy's smile was gone.

It really was not Raggedy Andy's fault.

He felt just as happy and sunny as ever.

And perhaps would not have known the difference had not the other dolls told him he had only one half of his cheery smile left.

Nor was it Marcella's fault. How was she to know that Dickie would feed Raggedy Andy orange juice and take off most of his smile?

And besides taking off one half of Raggedy Andy's smile, the orange juice left a great brown stain upon his face.

Marcella was very sorry when she saw what Dickie had done.

Dickie would have been sorry, too, if he had been more than two years old, but when one is only two years old, he has very few sorrows.

Dickie's only sorrow was that Raggedy Andy was taken from him, and he could not feed Raggedy Andy more orange juice.

Marcella kissed Raggedy Andy more than she did the rest of the dolls that night, when she put them to bed, and this made all the dolls very happy.

It always gave them great pleasure when any of their number was hugged and kissed, for there was not a selfish doll among them.

Marcella hung up a tiny stocking for each of the dollies, and placed a tiny little china dish for each of the penny dolls beside their little spool box bed.

For, as you probably have guessed, it was Christmas eve, and Marcella was in hopes Santa Claus would see the tiny stockings and place something in them for each dollie.

Then when the house was very quiet, the French doll told Raggedy Andy that most of his smile was gone.

"Indeed!" said Raggedy Andy. "I can still feel it! It must be there!"

"Oh, but it really is gone!" Uncle Clem said. "It was the orange juice!"

"Well, I still feel just as happy," said Raggedy Andy, "so let's have a jolly game of some sort! What shall it be?"

"Perhaps we had best try to wash your face!" said practical Raggedy Ann. She always acted as a mother to the other dolls when they were alone.

"It will not do a bit of good!" the French doll told Raggedy Ann, "for I remember I had orange juice spilled upon a nice white frock I had one time, and the stain would never come out!"

"That is too bad!" Henny, the Dutch doll, said. "We shall miss Raggedy Andy's cheery smile when he is looking straight at us!"

"You will have to stand on my right side, when you wish to see my smile!" said Raggedy Andy, with a cheery little chuckle 'way down in his soft cotton inside.

"But I wish everyone to understand," he went on, "that I am smiling just the same, whether you can see it or not!"

And with this, Raggedy Andy caught hold of Uncle Clem and Henny, and made a dash for the nursery door, followed by all the other dolls.

Raggedy Andy intended jumping down the stairs, head over heels, for he knew that neither he, Uncle Clem nor Henny would break anything by jumping down stairs.

But just as they got almost to the door, they dropped to the floor in a heap, for there, standing watching the whole performance, was a man.

All the dolls fell in different attitudes, for it would never do for them to let a real person see that they could act and talk just like real people.

Raggedy Andy, Uncle Clem and Henny stopped so suddenly they fell over each other and Raggedy Andy, being in the lead and pulling the other two, slid right through the door and stopped at the feet of the man.

A cheery laugh greeted this and a chubby hand reached down and picked up Raggedy Andy and turned him over.

Raggedy Andy looked up into a cheery little round face, with a little red nose and red cheeks, and all framed in white whiskers which looked just like snow.

Then the little round man walked into the nursery and picked up all the dolls and looked at them. He made no noise when he walked, and this was why he had taken the dolls by surprise at the head of the stairs.

The little man with the snow-white whiskers placed all the dolls in a row and from a little case in his pocket he took a tiny bottle and a little brush. He dipped the little brush in the tiny bottle and touched all the dolls' faces with it.

He had purposely saved Raggedy Andy's face until the last. Then, as all the dolls watched, the cheery little white-whiskered man touched Raggedy Andy's face with the magic liquid, and the orange juice stain disappeared, and in its place came Raggedy Andy's rosy cheeks and cheery smile.

And, turning Raggedy Andy so that he could face all the other dolls, the cheery little man showed him that all the other dolls had new rosy cheeks and newly-painted faces. They all looked just like new dollies. Even Susan's cracked head had been made whole.

Henny, the Dutch doll, was so surprised he fell over backward and said, "Squeek!"

When the cheery little man with the white whiskers heard this, he picked Henny up and touched him with the paint brush in the center of the back, just above the place where Henny had the little mechanism which made him say "Mama" when he was new. And when the little man touched Henny and tipped him forward and backward, Henny was just as good as new and said "Mama" very prettily.

Then the little man put something in each of the tiny doll stockings, and something in each of the little china plates for the two penny dolls.

Then, as quietly as he had entered, he left, merely turning at the door and shaking his finger at the dolls in a cheery, mischievous manner.

Raggedy Andy heard him chuckling to himself as he went down the stairs.

Raggedy Andy tiptoed to the door and over to the head of the stairs.

Then he motioned for the other dolls to come.

There, from the head of the stairs, they watched the cheery little white-whiskered man take pretty things from a large sack and place them about the chimneyplace.

"He does not know that we are watching him," the dolls all thought, but when the little man had finished his task, he turned quickly and laughed right up at the dolls, for he had known that they were watching him all the time.

Then, again shaking his finger at them in his cheery manner, the little white-whiskered man swung the sack to his shoulder, and with a whistle such as the wind makes when it plays through the chinks of a window, he was gone -- up the chimney.

The dolls were very quiet as they walked back into the nursery and sat down to think it all over, and as they sat there thinking, they heard out in the night the "tinkle, tinkle, tinkle" of tiny sleigh bells, growing fainter and fainter as they disappeared in the distance.

Without a word, but filled with a happy wonder, the dolls climbed into their beds, just as Marcella had left them, and pulled the covers up to their chins.

And Raggedy Andy lay there, his little shoe button eyes looking straight towards the ceiling and smiling a joyful smile -- not a "half smile" this time, but a "full size smile."




The Wooden Horse


Santa Claus left a whole lot of toys.

A wooden horse, covered with canton flannel and touched lightly with a paint brush dipped in black paint to give him a dappled gray appearance, was one of the presents.

With the wooden horse came a beautiful red wagon with four yellow wheels. My! The paint was pretty and shiny.

The wooden horse was hitched to the wagon with a patent leather harness; and he, himself, stood proudly upon a red platform running on four little nickel wheels.

It was true that the wooden horse's eyes were as far apart as a camel's and made him look quite like one when viewed from in front, but he had soft leather ears and a silken mane and tail.

He was nice to look upon, was the wooden horse. All the dolls patted him and smoothed his silken mane and felt his shiny patent leather harness the first night they were alone with him in the nursery.

The wooden horse had a queer voice; the dolls could hardly understand him at first, but when his bashfulness wore off, he talked quite plainly.

"It is the first time I have ever tried to talk," he explained when he became acquainted, "and I guess I was talking down in my stomach instead of my head!"

"You will like it here in the nursery very much!" said Raggedy Andy. "We have such jolly times and love each other so much I know you will enjoy your new home!"

"I am sure I shall!" the wooden horse answered. "Where I came from, we -- the other horses and myself -- just stood silently upon the shelves and looked and looked straight ahead, and never so much as moved our tails."

"See if you can move your tail now!" Henny, the Dutch doll, suggested.

The wooden horse started to roll across the nursery floor and if Raggedy Ann had not been in the way, he might have bumped into the wall. As it was, the wooden horse rolled against Raggedy Ann and upset her but could go no further when his wheels ran against her rag foot.

When the wooden horse upset Raggedy Ann, he stood still until Uncle Clem and Henny and Raggedy Andy lifted him off Raggedy Ann's feet. "Did I frisk my tail?" he asked when Raggedy Ann stood up and smoothed her apron.

"Try it again!" said Raggedy Ann. "I couldn't see!" She laughed her cheery rag doll laugh, for Raggedy Ann, no matter what happened, never lost her temper.

The wooden horse started rolling backward at this and knocked Henny over upon his back, causing him to cry "Mama!" in his squeeky voice.

Uncle Clem, Raggedy Ann, and the tin soldier all held to the wooden horse and managed to stop him just as he was backing out of the nursery door towards the head of the stairs.

Then the dolls pulled the wooden horse back to the center of the room. "It's funny" he said, "that I start moving backward or forward when I try to frisk my tail!"

"I believe it is because you have stood so long upon the shelf without moving," Raggedy Andy suggested. "Suppose you try moving forward!"

Uncle Clem, who was standing in front of the wooden horse, jumped to one side so hastily his feet slipped out from under him, just as if he had been sliding upon slippery ice.

The wooden horse did not start moving forward as Uncle Clem had expected; instead, his silken tail frisked gaily up over his back.

"Whee! There, you frisked your tail!" cried all the dolls as joyfully as if the wooden horse had done something truly wonderful.

"It's easy now!" said the wooden horse. "When I wish to go forward or backward I'll try to frisk my tail and then I'll roll along on my shiny wheels; then when I wish to frisk my tail I'll try to roll forward or backward, like this!" But instead of rolling forward, the wooden horse frisked his tail. "I wanted to frisk my tail then!" he said in surprise. "Now I'll roll forward!" And sure enough, the wooden horse rolled across the nursery floor.

When he started rolling upon his shiny wheels, Raggedy Andy cried, "All aboard!" and, taking a short run, he leaped upon the wooden horse's back. Uncle Clem, Raggedy Ann, Henny, the Dutch doll and Susan, the doll without a head, all scrambled up into the pretty red wagon.

The wooden horse thought this was great fun and round and round the nursery he circled. His shiny wheels and the pretty yellow wheels of the red wagon creaked so loudly none of the dolls heard the cries of the tiny penny dolls who were too small to climb aboard. Finally, as the wagon load of dolls passed the penny dolls, Raggedy Andy noticed the two little midgets standing together and missing the fun; so, leaning 'way over to one side as the horse swept by them, Raggedy Andy caught both the penny dolls in his strong rag arms and lifted them to a seat upon the broad back of the wooden horse.

"Hooray!" cried all the dolls when they saw Raggedy Andy's feat. "It was just like a Wild West Show!"

"We must all have all the fun we can together!" said Raggedy Andy.

"Good for you!" cried Uncle Clem. "The more fun we can give each other, the more fun each one of us will have!"

The wooden horse made the circle of the nursery a great many times, for it pleased him very much to hear the gay laughter of the dolls and he thought to himself, "How happy I will be, living with such a jolly crowd."

But just as he was about to pass the door, there was a noise upon the stairs and the wooden horse, hearing it, stopped so suddenly Raggedy Andy and the penny dolls went clear over his head and the dolls in the front of the wagon took Raggedy Andy's seat upon the horse's back.

They lay just as they fell, for they did not wish anyone to suspect that they could move or talk.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! I knew you were having a lot of fun!" cried a cheery voice.

At this, all the dolls immediately scrambled back into their former places, for they recognized the voice of the French dollie.

But what was their surprise to see her dressed in a lovely fairy costume, her lovely curls flying out behind, as she ran towards them.

Raggedy Andy was just about to climb upon the horse's back again when the French doll leaped there herself and, balancing lightly upon one foot, stood in this position while the wooden horse rolled around the nursery as fast as he could go.

Raggedy Andy and the two penny dolls ran after the wagon and, with the assistance of Uncle Clem and Raggedy Ann, climbed up in back.

When the wooden horse finally stopped the dolls all said, "This is the most fun we have had for a long time!"

The wooden horse, a thrill of happiness running through his wooden body, cried, "It is the most fun I have ever had!"

And the dolls, while they did not tell him so, knew that he had had the most fun because he had given them the most pleasure.

For, as you must surely know, they who are the most unselfish are the ones who gain the greatest joy; because they give happiness to others.




Making "Angels" In The Snow


"Whee! It's good to be back home again!" said Raggedy Andy to the other dolls, as he stretched his feet out in front of the little toy stove and rubbed his rag hands briskly together, as if to warm them.

All the dolls laughed at Raggedy Andy for doing this, for they knew there had never been a fire in the little toy stove in all the time it had been in the nursery. And that was a long time.

"We are so glad and happy to have you back home again with us!" the dolls told Raggedy Andy. "For we have missed you very, very much!"

"Well," Raggedy Andy replied, as he held his rag hands over the tiny lid of the stove and rubbed them again, "I have missed all of you, too, and wished many times that you had been with me to join in and share in the pleasures and frolics I've had."

And as Raggedy Andy continued to hold his hands over the little stove, Uncle Clem asked him why he did it.

Raggedy Andy smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Really," he said, "I wasn't paying any attention to what I was doing! I've spent so much of my time while I was away drying out my soft cotton stuffing it seems as though it has almost become a habit."

"Were you wet most of the time, Raggedy Andy?" the French doll asked.

"Nearly all the time!" Raggedy Andy replied. "First I would get sopping wet and then I'd freeze!"

"Freeze!" exclaimed all the dolls in one breath.

"Dear me, yes!" Raggedy Andy laughed. "Just see here!" And Raggedy Andy pulled his sleeve up and showed where his rag arm had been mended. "That was quite a rip!" he smiled.

"Dear! Dear! How in the world did it happen? On a nail?" Henny, the Dutch doll, asked as he put his arm about Raggedy Andy.

"Froze!" said Raggedy Andy.

The dolls gathered around Raggedy Andy and examined the rip in his rag arm.

"It's all right now!" he laughed. "But you should have seen me when it happened! I was frozen into one solid cake of ice all the way through, and when Marcella tried to limber up my arm before it had thawed out, it went, 'Pop!' and just bursted.

"Then I was placed in a pan of nice warm water until the icy cotton inside me had melted, and then I was hung up on a line above the kitchen stove, out at Gran'ma's."

"But how did you happen to get so wet and then freeze?" asked Raggedy Ann.

"Out across the road from Gran'ma's home, 'way out in the country, there is a lovely pond," Raggedy Andy explained. "In the summer time pretty flowers grow about the edge, the little green frogs sit upon the pond lilies and beat upon their tiny drums all through the night, and the twinkling stars wink at their reflections in the smooth water. But when Marcella and I went out to Gran'ma's, last week, Gran'ma met us with a sleigh, for the ground was covered with starry snow. The pretty pond was covered with ice, too, and upon the ice was a soft blanket of the white, white snow. It was beautiful!" said Raggedy Andy.

"Gran'ma had a lovely new sled for Marcella, a red one with shiny runners.

"And after we had visited Gran'ma a while, we went to the pond for a slide.

"It was heaps of fun, for there was a little hill at one end of the pond so that when we coasted down, we went scooting across the pond like an arrow.

"Marcella would turn the sled sideways, just for fun, and she and I would fall off and go sliding across the ice upon our backs, leaving a clean path of ice, where we pushed aside the snow as we slid. Then Marcella showed me how to make 'angels' in the soft snow!"

"Oh, tell us how, Raggedy Andy!" shouted all the dollies.

"It's very easy!" said Raggedy Andy. "Marcella would lie down upon her back in the snow and put her hands back up over her head, then she would bring her hands in a circle down to her sides, like this." And Raggedy Andy lay upon the floor of the nursery and showed the dollies just how it was done. "Then," he added, "when she stood up it would leave the print of her body and legs in the white, white snow, and where she had swooped her arms there were the 'angel's wings!'"

"It must have looked just like an angel!" said Uncle Clem.

"Indeed it was very pretty!" Raggedy Andy answered. "Then Marcella made a lot of 'angels' by placing me in the snow and working my arms; so you see, what with falling off the sled so much and making so many 'angels,' we both were wet, but I was completely soaked through. My cotton just became soppy and I was ever so much heavier! Then Gran'ma, just as we were having a most delightful time, came to the door and 'Ooh-hooed' to Marcella to come and get a nice new doughnut. So Marcella, thinking to return in a minute, left me lying upon the sled and ran through the snow to Gran'ma's. And there I stayed and stayed until I began to feel stiff and could hear the cotton inside me go, 'Tic! Tic!' as it began to freeze.

"I lay upon the sled until after the sun went down. Two little Chicadees came and sat upon the sled and talked to me in their cute little bird language, and I watched the sky in the west get golden red, then turn into a deep crimson purple and finally a deep blue, as the sun went farther down around the bend of the earth. After it had been dark for some time, I heard someone coming through the snow and could see the yellow light of a lantern. It was Gran'ma.

"She pulled the sled over in back of her house and did not see that I was upon it until she turned to go in the kitchen; then she picked me up and took me inside. 'He's frozen as stiff as a board!' she told Marcella as she handed me to her. Marcella did not say why she had forgotten to come for me, but I found out afterward that it was because she was so wet. Gran'ma made her change her clothes and shoes and stockings and would not permit her to go out and play again.

"Well, anyway," concluded Raggedy Andy, "Marcella tried to limber my arm and, being almost solid ice, it just burst. And that is the way it went all the time we were out at Gran'ma's; I was wet nearly all the time. But I wish you could all have been with me to share in the fun."

And Raggedy Andy again leaned over the little toy stove and rubbed his rag hands briskly together.

Uncle Clem went to the waste paper basket and came back with some scraps of yellow and red paper. Then, taking off one of the tiny lids, he stuffed the paper in part of the way as if the flames were "shooting up!"

Then, as all the dolls' merry laughter rang out, Raggedy Andy stopped rubbing his hands, and catching Raggedy Ann about the waist, he went skipping across the nursery floor with her, whirling so fast neither saw they had gone out through the door until it was too late. For coming to the head of the stairs, they both went head over heels, "blumpity, blump!" over and over, until they wound up, laughing, at the bottom.

"Last one up is a Cocoa baby!" cried Raggedy Ann, as she scrambled to her feet. And with her skirts in her rag hands she went racing up the stairs to where the rest of the dollies stood laughing.

"Hurrah, for Raggedy Ann!" cried Raggedy Andy generously. "She won!"




The Singing Shell


For years and years the beautiful shell had been upon the floor in Gran'ma's front room. It was a large shell with many points upon it. These were coarse and rough, but the shell was most beautiful inside.

Marcella had seen the shell time and time again and often admired its lovely coloring, which could be seen when one looked inside the shell.

So one day, Gran'ma gave the beautiful shell to Marcella to have for her very own, up in the nursery.

"It will be nice to place before the nursery door so the wind will not blow the door to and pinch anyone's fingers!" Gran'ma laughed.

So Marcella brought the shell home and placed it in front of the nursery door. Here the dolls saw it that night, when all the house was still, and stood about it wondering what kind of toy it might be.

"It seems to be nearly all mouth!" said Henny, the Dutch doll. "Perhaps it can talk."

"It has teeth!" the French doll pointed out. "It may bite!"

"I do not believe it will bite," Raggedy Andy mused, as he got down upon his hands and knees and looked up into the shell. "Marcella would not have it up here if it would bite!" And, saying this, Raggedy Andy put his rag arm into the lovely shell's mouth.

"It doesn't bite! I knew it wouldn't!" he cried. "Just feel how smooth it is inside!"

All the dolls felt and were surprised to find it polished so highly inside, while the outside was so coarse and rough. With the help of Uncle Clem and Henny, Raggedy Andy turned the shell upon its back, so that all the dolls might look in.

The coloring consisted of dainty pinks, creamy whites and pale blues, all running together just as the coloring in an opal runs from one shade into another. Raggedy Andy, stooping over to look further up inside the pretty shell, heard something.

"It's whispering!" he said, as he raised up in surprise.

All the dolls took turns putting their ears to the mouth of the beautiful shell. Yes, truly it whispered, but they could not catch just what it said.

Finally Raggedy Andy suggested that all the dolls lie down upon the floor directly before the shell and keep very quiet.

"If we don't make a sound we may be able to hear what it says!" he explained.

So the dolls lay down, placing themselves flat upon the floor directly in front of the shell and where they could see and admire its beautiful coloring.

Now the dolls could be very, very quiet when they really wished to be, and it was easy for them to hear the faint whispering of the shell.

This is the story the shell told the dolls in the nursery that night:

"A long, long time ago, I lived upon the yellow sand, deep down beneath the blue, blue waters of the ocean. Pretty silken sea weeds grew around my home and reached their waving branches up, up towards the top of the water.

"Through the pretty sea weeds, fishes of pretty colors and shapes darted here and there, playing at their games.

"It was still and quiet 'way down where I lived, for even if the ocean roared and pounded itself into an angry mass of tumbling waves up above, this never disturbed the calm waters down where I lived.

"Many times, little fishes or other tiny sea people came and hid within my pretty house when they were being pursued by larger sea creatures. And it always made me very happy to give them this protection.

"They would stay inside until I whispered that the larger creature had gone, then they would leave me and return to their play.

"Pretty little sea horses with slender, curving bodies often went sailing above me, or would come to rest upon my back. It was nice to lie and watch the tiny things curl their little tails about the sea weed and talk together, for the sea horses like one another and are gentle and kind to each other, sharing their food happily and smoothing their little ones with their cunning noses.

"But one day a diver leaped over the side of a boat and came swimming head-first down, down to where I lay. My! How the tiny sea creatures scurried to hide from him. He took me within his hand and, giving his feet a thump upon the yellow sand, rose with me to the surface.

"He poured the water from me, and out came all the little creatures who had been hiding there!"

Raggedy Andy wiggled upon the floor, he was so interested.

"Did the tiny creatures get back into the water safely?" he asked the beautiful shell.

"Oh, yes!" the shell whispered in reply. "The man held me over the side of the boat, so the tiny creatures went safely back into the water!"

"I am so glad!" Raggedy Andy said, with a sigh of relief. "He must have been a kindly man!"

"Yes, indeed!" the beautiful shell replied. "So I was placed along with a lot of other shells in the bottom of the boat and every once in a while another shell was placed amongst us. We whispered together and wondered where we were going. We were finally sold to different people and I have been at Gran'ma's house for a long, long time."

"You lived there when Gran'ma was a little girl, didn't you?" Raggedy Ann asked.

"Yes," replied the shell, "I have lived there ever since Gran'ma was a little girl. She often used to play with me and listen to me sing."

"Raggedy Ann can play 'Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater' on the piano, with one hand," said Uncle Clem, "but none of us can sing. Will you sing for us?" he asked the shell.

"I sing all the time," the shell replied, "for I cannot help singing, but my singing is a secret and so is very soft and low. Put your head close to the opening in my shell and listen!"

The dolls took turns doing this, and heard the shell sing softly and very sweetly.

"How strange and far away it sounds!" exclaimed the French doll. "Like fairies singing in the distance! The shell must be singing the songs of the mermaids and the water-fairies!"

"It is queer that anything so rough on the outside could be so pretty within!" said Raggedy Andy. "It must be a great pleasure to be able to sing so sweetly!"

"Indeed it is," replied the beautiful shell, "and I get a great happiness from singing all the time."

"And you will bring lots of pleasure to us, by being so happy!" said Raggedy Andy. "For although you may not enter into our games, we will always know that you are happily singing, and that will make us all happy!"

"I will tell you the secret of my singing," said the shell. "When anyone puts his ear to me and listens, he hears the reflection of his own heart's music, singing; so, you see, while I say that I am singing all the time, in reality I sing only when someone full of happiness hears his own singing as if it were mine."

"How unselfish you are to say this!" said Raggedy Andy. "Now we are ever so much more glad to have you with us. Aren't we?" he asked, turning to the rest of the dolls.

"Yes, indeed!" came the answer from all the dolls, even the tiny penny dolls.

"That is why the shell is so beautiful inside!" said Raggedy Ann. "Those who are unselfish may wear rough clothes, but inside they are always beautiful, just like the shell, and reflect to others the happiness and sunny music within their hearts!"

<eob>

The Ocean And Its Wonders

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

What The Ocean Has To Say -- Its Whispers -- Its Thunders -- Its Secrets.

There is a voice in the waters of the great sea. It calls to man continually. Sometimes it thunders in the tempest, when the waves leap high and strong and the wild winds shriek and roar, as if to force our attention. Sometimes it whispers in the calm, and comes rippling on the shingly beach in a still, small voice, as if to solicit our regard. But whether that voice of ocean comes in crashing billows or in gentle murmurs, it has but one tale to tell, -- it speaks of the love, and power, and majesty of Him who rides upon the storm, and rules the wave.

Yes, the voice of ocean tells but one tale; yet there are many chapters in that wonderful story. The sea has much to say; far more than could possibly be comprehended in one volume, however large. It tells us of the doings of man on its broad bosom, from the day in which he first ventured to paddle along shore in the hollow trunk of a tree, to the day when he launched his great iron ship of 20,000 tons, and rushed out to sea, against wind and tide, under an impulse equal to the united strength of 11,500 horses. No small portion of the ocean's tale this, comprising many chapters of deeds of daring, blood, villainy, heroism, and enterprise. But with this portion of its story we have nothing to do just now. It tells us, also, of God's myriad and multiform creatures, that dwell in its depths, from the vast whale, whose speed is so great, that it might, if it chose, circle round the world in a few days, to the languid zoophyte, which clings to the rock, and bears more resemblance to a plant than to a living animal.

The sea has secrets, too, some of which it will not divulge until that day when its Creator shall command it to give up its dead; while others it is willing to part with to those who question it closely, patiently, and with intelligence.

Among the former kind of secrets are those foul deeds that have been perpetrated, in all ages, by abandoned men; when no human ears listened to the stifled shriek, or the gurgling plunge; when no human eyes beheld the murderous acts, the bloody decks, the blazing vessels, or the final hiss of the sinking wrecks.

Among the latter kind of secrets are the lives and habits of the creatures of the deep, and the causes and effects of those singular currents of air and water, which, to the eye of ignorance, seem to be nothing better than irregularity and confusion; but which, to the minds of those who search them out, and have pleasure therein, are recognised as a part of that wonderful, orderly, and systematic arrangement of things that we call Nature: much of which we now know, more of which we shall certainly know, as each day and year adds its quota to the sum of human knowledge; but a great deal of which will, doubtless, remain for ever hidden in the mind of nature's God, whose ways are wonderful, and past finding out. It is the latter class of secrets to which we purpose directing the readers attention in the following pages.

On approaching so vast a subject, we feel like the traveller who, finding himself suddenly transported into the midst of a new and magnificent region, stands undecided whither to direct his steps in the endlessly varied scene. Or, still more, like the visitor to our great International Exhibition of 1862, who, -- entering abruptly that gigantic palace, where were represented the talent, the ingenuity, time wealth, and industry of every people and clime, -- attempts, in vain, to systematise his explorations, or to fix his attention. It is probable that, in each of these supposed cases, the traveller and visitor, resigning the desire to achieve what is impossible, would give themselves up to the agreeable guidance of a wandering and wayward fancy.

Let us, reader, act in a somewhat similar manner. Let us touch here, and there, and everywhere, on the wonders of the sea, and listen to such notes of the Ocean's Voice as strike upon our ears most pleasantly.



Chapter Two.

Composition Of The Sea -- Its Salts -- Power And Uses Of Water -- Advantage And Disadvantage Of Salts -- Anecdote -- Deep-Sea Soundings -- Brookes Apparatus -- Importance Of The Search After Truth -- Illustrations --  Discoveries Resulting From Deep-Sea Soundings.

Before proceeding to the consideration of the wonders connected with and contained in the sea, we shall treat of the composition of the sea itself and of its extent, depth, and bottom.

What is the sea made of? Salt water, is the ready reply that rises naturally to every lip. But to this we add the question, -- What is salt water? or, as there are many kinds of salt water, of what sort of salt water does the sea consist? To these queries we give the following reply, which, we doubt not, will rather surprise some of our readers.

Fresh water, as most people are aware, is composed of two gases -- oxygen and hydrogen. Sea water is composed of the same gases, with the addition of muriate of soda, magnesia, iron, lime, sulphur, copper, silex, potash, chlorine, iodine, bromine, ammonia, and silver. What a dose! Let bathers think of it next time they swallow a gulp of sea water.

Most of these substances, however, exist in comparatively small quantity in the sea, with the exception of muriate of soda, or common table salt; of which, as all bathers know from bitter experience, there is a very considerable quantity. The quantity of silver contained in sea water is very small indeed. Nevertheless, small though it be, the ocean is so immense, that, it has been calculated, if all the silver in it were collected, it would form a mass that would weigh about two hundred million tons!

The salt of the ocean varies considerably in different parts. Near the equator, the great heat carries up a larger proportion of water by evaporation than in the more temperate regions; and thus, as salt is not removed by evaporation, the ocean in the torrid zone is salter than in the temperate or frigid zones.

The salts of the sea, and other substances contained in it, are conveyed thither by the fresh-water streams that pour into it from all the continent of the world. Maury, in his delightful work, "The Physical Geography of the Sea," tells us that "water is Nature's great carrier. With its currents it conveys heat away from the torrid zone, and ice from the frigid; or, bottling the caloric away in the vesicle of its vapour, it first makes it impalpable, and then conveys it by unknown paths to the most distant parts of the Earth. The materials of which the coral builds the island, and the sea-conch its shell, are gathered by this restless leveller from mountains, rocks, and valleys, in all latitudes. Some it washes down from the Mountains of the Moon in Africa, or out of the gold-fields of Australia, or from the mines of Potosi; others from the battle-fields of Europe, or from the marble quarries of ancient Greece and Rome. The materials thus collected, and carried over falls and down rapids, are transported to the sea."

Here, as these substances cannot be evaporated, they would accumulate to such a degree as to render the ocean uninhabitable by living creatures, had not God provided against this by the most beautiful compensation. He has filled the ocean with innumerable animals and marine plants, whose special duty it is to seize and make use of the substances thus swept from the land, and reconvert them into solids. We cannot form an adequate conception of the extent of the great work carried on continually in this way; but we see part of it in the chalk cliffs, the marl beds of the sea shore, and the coral islands of the South Seas, -- of which last more particular notice shall be taken in a succeeding chapter.

The operations of the ocean are manifold. Besides forming a great reservoir, into which what may be termed the impurities of the land are conveyed, it is, as has been shown, the great laboratory of Nature, where these are reconverted, and the general balance restored. But we cannot speak of these things without making passing reference to the operations of water, as that wonder-working agent of which the ocean constitutes but a part.

Nothing in this world is ever lost or annihilated. As the ocean receives all the water that flows from the land, so it returns that water, fresh and pure, in the shape of vapour, to the skies; where, in the form of clouds, it is conveyed to those parts of the earth where its presence is most needed, and precipitated in the form of rain and dew, fertilising the soil, replenishing rivers and lakes, penetrating the earth's deep caverns; whence it bubbles up in the shape of springs, and, after having gladdened the heart of man by driving his mills and causing his food to grow, it finds its way again into the sea: and thus the good work goes on with ceaseless regularity.

Water beats upon the rocks of the sea-shore until it pounds them into sand, or rolls them into pebbles and boulders. It also sweeps the rich soil from the mountains into the valleys. In the form of snow it clothes the surface of the temperate and frigid zones with a warm mantle, which preserves vegetable life from the killing frosts of winter. In the form of ice it splits asunder the granite hills; and in the northern regions it forms great glaciers, or masses of solidified snow, many miles in extent, and many hundred feet thick. These glaciers descend by slow, imperceptible degrees, to the sea; their edges break off and fall into it, and, floating southward, sometimes in great mountainous masses, are seen by man in the shape of icebergs. Frequently huge rocks, that have fallen upon these glaciers from cliffs in the arctic regions, are carried by them to other regions, and are deposited on flat beaches, far from their native cliffs.

The saltness of the sea rendering it more dense, necessarily renders it more buoyant, than fresh water. This is obviously a great advantage to man in the matter of commerce. A ship does not sink so deep in the sea as it does in a fresh-water lake; hence it can carry more cargo with greater facility. It is easier to swim in salt than in fresh water.

The only disadvantage to commerce in the saltness of the sea is the consequent unfitness of its water for drinking. Many and harrowing are the accounts of instances in which sailors have been reduced to the most terrible extremities for want of fresh water; and many a time, since navigation began, have men been brought to feel the dread reality of that condition which is so forcibly expressed in the poem of the "Ancient Mariner": -- 

"Water, water everywhere, And not a drop to drink."

Science, however, at length enabled us to overcome this disadvantage of saltness. By the process of distillation, men soon managed to procure enough water at least to save their lives. One captain of a ship, by accident, lost all his fresh water; and, before he could put into port to replenish, a gale of wind, which lasted three weeks, drove him far out to sea. He had no distilling apparatus on board, and it seemed as if all hope of the crew escaping the most horrible of deaths were utterly taken away. In this extremity the captain's inventive genius came to his aid. He happened to have on board an old iron pitch-pot, with a wooden cover. Using this as a boiler, a pipe made of a pewter plate, and a wooden cask as a receiver, he set to work, filled the pot with sea water, put an ounce of soap therein to assist in purifying it, and placed it on the fire. When the pot began to boil, the steam passed through the pipe into the cask, where it was condensed into water, minus the saline particles, which, not being evaporable, were left behind in the pitch-pot. In less than an hour a quart of fresh water was thus obtained; which, though not very palatable, was sufficiently good to relieve the thirst of the ship's crew. Many ships are now regularly supplied with apparatus for distilling sea water; and on the African coasts and other unhealthy stations, where water is bad, the men of our navy drink no other water than that which is distilled from the sea.

The salts of the ocean have something to do with the creating of oceanic currents; which, in their turn, have a powerful influence on climates. They also retard evaporation to some extent, and have some effect in giving to the sea its beautiful blue colour.

The ocean covers about two-thirds of the entire surface of the Earth. Its depth has never been certainly ascertained; but from the numberless experiments and attempts that have been made, we are warranted in coming to the conclusion that it nowhere exceeds five miles in depth, probably does not quite equal that. Professor Wyville Thompson estimates the average depth of the sea at about two miles.

Of the three great oceans into which the sea is naturally divided -- the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Arctic -- the Atlantic is supposed to be the deepest. There are profundities in its bosom which have never yet been sounded, and probably never will be.

The difficulty of sounding great depths arises from the fact that, after a large quantity of line has been run out, the shock of the lead striking the bottom cannot be felt. Moreover, there is sufficient force in the deep-sea currents to sweep out the line after the lead has reached the bottom so that, with the ordinary sounding-lines in use among navigators, it is impossible to sound great depths. Scientific men have, therefore, taxed their brains to invent instruments for sounding the deep sea -- for touching the bottom in what sailors call "blue water." Some have tried it with a silk thread as a plumb-line, some with spun-yarn threads, and various other materials and contrivances. It has even been tried by exploding petards and ringing bells in the deep sea, when it was supposed that an echo or reverberation might be heard, and, from the known rate at which sound travels through water, the depth might thus be ascertained. Deep-sea leads have been constructed having a column of air in them, which, by compression, would show the aqueous pressure to which they had been subjected; but the trial proved to be more than the instrument could stand.

Captain Maury, of the American Navy -- whose interesting book has been already referred to -- invented an instrument for sounding the deep sea. Here is his own description of it: -- "To the lead was attached, upon the principle of the screw-propeller, a small piece of clock-work for registering the number of revolutions made by the little screw during the descent; and it having been ascertained by experiment in shoal water that the apparatus, in descending, would cause the propeller to make one revolution for every fathom of perpendicular descent, hands provided with the power of self-registering were attached to a dial, and the instrument was complete. It worked beautifully in moderate depths, but failed in blue water, from the difficulty of hauling it up if the line used were small, and from the difficulty of getting it down if the line used were large enough to give the requisite strength for hauling it up." One eccentric old sea captain proposed to sound the sea with a torpedo, or shell, which should explode the instant it touched the bottom. Another gentleman proposed to try it by the magnetic telegraph, and designed an instrument which should telegraph to the expectant measurers above how it was getting on in the depths below. But all these ingenious devices failed, and it is probable that the deepest parts of the ocean-bed still remained untouched by man.

At last an extremely simple and remarkably successful deep-sea sounding apparatus was invented by Mr Brooke, an American officer. It consisted of nothing more than thin twine for a sounding-line, and a cannon ball for a sinker. The twine was made for the purpose, fine but very strong, and was wound on a reel to the extent of ten thousand fathoms. The cannon ball, which was from thirty-two to sixty-eight pounds' weight, had a hole quite through it, into which was fixed a sliding rod, the end of which, covered with grease, projected several inches beyond the ball. By an ingenious and simple contrivance, the cannon ball was detached when it reached the bottom of the sea, and the light rod was drawn up with specimens of the bottom adhering to the grease.

With this instrument the Americans went to work with characteristic energy, and, by always using a line of the same size and make, and a sinker of the same shape and weight, they at last ascertained the law of descent. This was an important achievement, because, having become familiar with the precise rate of descent at all depths, they were enabled to tell very nearly when the ball ceased to carry out the line, and when it began to go out in obedience to the influence of deep-sea currents. The greatest depth reached by Brooke's sounding-line is said to have been a little under five miles in the North Atlantic.

The value of investigations of this kind does not appear at first sight, to unscientific men. But those who have paid even a little attention to the methods and processes by which grand discoveries have been made, and useful inventions have been perfected, can scarcely have failed to come to the conclusion that the search after TRUTH, pure and simple, of any kind, and of every kind, either with or without reference to a particular end, is one of the most useful as well as elevating pursuits in which man can engage.

All truth is worth knowing and labouring after. No one can tell to what useful results the discovery of even the smallest portion of truth may lead. Some of the most serviceable and remarkable inventions of modern times have been the result of discoveries of truths which at first seemed to have no bearing whatever on those inventions. When James Watt sat with busy reflective mind staring at a boiling kettle, and discovered the expansive power of steam, no one could have for a moment imagined that in the course of years the inventions founded on the truth then discovered would result in the systematic driving of a fleet of floating palaces all round the world at the rate of from twelve to fifteen or twenty miles an hour! Instances of a similar kind might be multiplied without end. In like manner, deep-sea sounding may lead to great, as yet unimagined, results. Although yet in its infancy, it has already resulted in the discovery of a comparatively shallow plateau or ridge in the North Atlantic Ocean, rising between Ireland and Newfoundland; a discovery which has been turned to practical account, inasmuch as the plateau has been chosen to be the bed of our electric telegraph between Europe and America. The first Atlantic cable was laid on it; and although that cable suffered many vicissitudes at first, as most contrivances do in their beginnings, communication between the two continents was successfully established. Soundings taken elsewhere showed that somewhat similar plateaus existed in other parts of the Atlantic, and now the whole of Western Europe is being bound more firmly, by additional cables, to the eastern seaboard of America.

This great and glorious achievement has been the result of the discovery of two truths, -- of a truth in science on the one hand, and a truth in regard to the structure of the bed of the sea on the other. The study of electricity and of deep-sea soundings was begun and carried on for the sake of the discovery of truth alone, and without the most distant reference to the Atlantic Telegraph, -- yet that telegraph has been one of the results of that study. Who can tell how many more shall follow? And even were no other result ever to follow, this one may prove to be of the most stupendous importance to the human race.

Another discovery that has been made by deep-sea sounding is, that the lowest depths of the ocean are always in a state of profound calm. Oceanic storms do not extend to the bottom. When the tempest is lashing the surface of the sea into a state of the most violent and tremendous agitation, the caverns of the deep are wrapped in perfect repose. This has been ascertained from the fact that in many places the bottom of the sea, as shown by the specimens brought up by Brooke's apparatus, and more recently by Professor Thompson's deep-sea dredge, is composed of exceedingly minute shells of marine insects. These shells, when examined by the microscope, are found to be unbroken and perfect, though so fragile that they must certainly have been broken to pieces had they ever been subjected to the influence of currents, or to the pulverising violence of waves. Hence the conclusion that the bottom of the sea is in a state of perpetual rest and placidity.

Indeed, when we think of it, we are led to conclude that this must necessarily be the case. There are, as we shall presently show, currents of vast size and enormous power constantly flowing through the ocean; and when we think of the tremendous power of running water to cut through the solid rock, as exemplified in the case of Niagara, and many other rivers, what would be the result of the action of currents in the sea, compared with which Niagara is but a tiny rivulet? Ocean currents, then, flow on a bed of still water, that protects the bottom of the sea from forces which, by calculation, we know would long ago have torn up the foundations of the deep, and would probably have destroyed the whole economy of nature, had not this beautiful arrangement been provided by the all-wise Creator.



Chapter Three.

Waves -- System In All Things -- Value Of Scientific Knowledge -- Illustrative Anecdote -- Height Of Waves -- Dr. Scoresby -- Size, Velocity, And Awful Power Of Waves -- Anecdotes Regarding Them -- Tides.

When a man stands on the deck of some tight-built ship, holding on to the weather bulwarks, and gazing with unphilosophic eye through the blinding spray at the fury of the tempest -- by which the billows are made to roll around him like liquid mountains, and the ship is tossed beneath him like a mere chip, the sport and plaything of the raging waters -- he is apt to think, should his thoughts turn in that direction at all, that all is unmitigated confusion; that the winds, which blew west yesterday and blow east to-day, -- shifting, it may be, with gusty squalls, now here, now there, in chaotic fury, -- are actuated by no laws, governed by no directing power.

Yet no thought could be more unphilosophical than this. Apart altogether from divine revelation, by which we are informed that "all deeps, fire, and hail, snow, and vapour, and stormy wind," are "fulfilling God's word" (which information we are bound to receive as a matter of faith if we be Christians, and as a matter of necessity if we be men of common sense, because it is mere absurdity to suppose that the "stormy winds," etcetera, are not fulfilling God's word -- or will), we now know, to a great extent from practical experience and scientific investigation, that the winds blow and the waters of the ocean flow in grand, regular, uninterrupted currents. Amongst these there are numberless eddies, which, perhaps, have tended to fill our minds with the idea of irregularity and confusion; but which, nevertheless, as well as the grand currents themselves, are subject to law, and are utterly devoid of caprice.

In regard to these matters there is much about which we are still in ignorance. But the investigations of late years -- especially those conducted under the superintendence of Captain Maury of the American Navy, and Doctors Carpenter and Thompson of England -- have shown that our atmosphere and our ocean act in accordance with a systematic arrangement, many facts regarding which have been discovered, and turned, in some cases, to practical account. See Note 1.

A very interesting instance of the practical use to which scientific inquiry can be turned, even in its beginnings, is given by Maury. After telling us of the existence and nature of a current in the ocean called the Gulf Stream, he gives the following account of the manner in which upon one occasion be made use of his theoretical knowledge.

In the month of December 1853, the fine steam-ship San Francisco sailed from New York with a regiment of United States troops on board, bound for California by way of Cape Horn. She was overtaken, while crossing the Gulf Stream, by a gale of wind, in which she was dreadfully crippled. Her decks were swept, and, by one single blow of those terrible seas that the storms raise in the Gulf Stream, more than in any other part of the Atlantic, one hundred and seventy-nine souls, officers and soldiers, were washed overboard and drowned.

The day after this disaster she was seen by one vessel, and again, the next day, December 26th, by another; but neither of them could render her any assistance.

When these two vessels arrived in the United States and reported what they had seen, the most painful apprehensions were entertained by friends for the safety of those on board the steamer. Vessels were sent out to search for and relieve her. But where should these vessels go? Where should they look?

An appeal was made to know what light the system of researches carried on at the National Observatory concerning winds and currents could throw upon the subject.

The materials they had been discussing were examined, and a chart was prepared to show the course of the Gulf Stream at that season of the year. Two revenue cutters were then appointed to proceed to sea in search of the steamer, and Maury was requested to "furnish them with instructions."

It will be observed here that the gentleman thus appealed to was at the time engaged in his study at Washington, utterly ignorant of all that had occurred within the previous few weeks on the stormy Atlantic, except through the reports brought thence by ships. These reports furnished him with meagre data to proceed upon -- simply that a crippled steamer had been seen in a certain latitude and longitude on a particular day.

But this information was sufficient for the practical man of science. Proceeding upon the supposition that the steamer had been completely disabled, he drew two lines on the chart to define the limits of her drift. This his previous knowledge of the flow of the Gulf Stream at all seasons of the year enabled him to do. Between these two lines, he said, the steamer, if she could neither steam nor sail after the gale, had drifted. And that she could neither steam nor sail he had good reason to suppose from the account of her brought in by the vessels above mentioned. A certain point was marked on the chart as being the spot where the searching vessels might expect to fall in with the wreck.

While these preparations were being made, two ships fell in with the wreck and relieved the crew. This, however, was not known at the time by the anxious friends on shore. The cutters sailed on their mission, and reached the indicated spot in the sea, where, of course, their assistance was now unnecessary. But when the vessels that had relieved the crew of the wreck arrived in harbour and reported where the wreck had been last seen, it was found to be within a few miles of the spot indicated by Maury!

Thus, upon very slight data, a man of science and observation was enabled, while seated in his study, to follow the drift of a wrecked vessel over the pathless deep, and to indicate to a rescue party, not only the exact course they ought to steer, but the precise spot where the wreck should be found.

The waves of the ocean are by no means so high as people imagine. Their appearance in the Atlantic or Pacific, when raised by a violent storm, is indeed very awful, and men have come to speak of them as being "mountains of water." But their sublime aspect and their tumultuous state of agitation have contributed much to deceive superficial observers as to their real height. Scientific men have measured the height of the waves.

Not many years ago a vessel, while crossing the Atlantic, was overtaken by a violent storm. The sea rose in its might; the good ship reeled under the combined influence of wind and waves. While the majority of the passengers sought refuge from the driving spray in the cabin, one eccentric old gentleman was seen skipping about the deck with unwonted activity -- now on the bulwarks, now on the quarter-deck, and anon in the rigging; utterly regardless of the drenching sea and the howling wind, and seeming as though he were a species of human stormy petrel. This was the celebrated Dr Scoresby; a man who had spent his youth and manhood in the whale-fishing; who, late in life, entered the Church, and, until the day of his death, took a special delight in directing the attention of sailors to Him whose word stilled the tempest and bade the angry waves be calm. Being an enthusiast in scientific research, Dr Scoresby was availing himself of the opportunity afforded by this storm to measure the waves! Others have made similar measurements, and the result goes to prove that waves seldom or never rise much more than ten feet above the sea-level. The corresponding depression sinks to the same depth, thus giving the entire height of the largest waves an elevation of somewhere between twenty and thirty feet. When it is considered that sometimes the waves of the sea (especially those off the Cape of Good Hope) are so broad that only a few of them occupy the space of a mile, and that they travel at the rate of about forty miles an hour, we may have some slight idea of the grandeur as well as the power of the ocean billows. The forms represented in our illustration are only wavelets on the backs of these monster waves.

Waves travel at a rate which increases in proportion to their size and the depth of water in which they are formed. Every one knows that on most lakes they are comparatively small and harmless. In some lakes, however, such as Lake Superior in North America, which is upwards of three hundred miles long, the waves are so formidable as to resemble those of the ocean, and they are capable of producing tremendous effects. But the waves of the sea, when roused to their greatest height, and travelling at their greatest speed, are terrible to behold. Their force is absolutely irresistible. Sometimes waves of more than usually gigantic proportions arise, and, after careering over the broad sea in unimpeded majesty, fall with crushing violence on some doomed shore. They rush onward, pass the usual barriers of the sea-beach, and do not retire until horrible devastation has been carried far into the land.

Maury gives the following anecdote from the notes of a Russian officer, which shows the awful power of such waves.

"On the 23rd of December 1854, at 9:45 a.m., the shocks of an earthquake were felt on board the Russian frigate Diana, as she lay at anchor in the harbour of Simoda, not far from Jeddo in Japan. In fifteen minutes afterwards (10 o'clock) a large wave was observed rolling into the harbour, and the water on the beach to be rapidly rising. The town, as seen from the frigate, appeared to be sinking. This wave was followed by another; and when the two receded, which was at fifteen minutes past ten, there was not a house, save an unfinished temple, left standing. These waves continued to come and go until half-past two p.m., during which time the frigate was thrown on her beam-ends five times; a piece of her keel, eighty-one feet long, was torn off; holes were knocked in her by striking on the bottom, and she was reduced to a wreck. In the course of five minutes the water in the harbour fell, it is said, from twenty-three to three feet, and the anchors of the ship were laid bare. There was a great loss of life; many houses were washed into the sea, and many junks carried up -- one two miles inland -- and dashed to pieces on the shore. The day was beautifully fine, and no warning was given of the approaching convulsion: the sea was perfectly smooth when its surface was broken by the first wave."

Monster waves of this kind occur at regular intervals, among the islands of the Pacific, once and sometimes twice in the year; and this without any additional influence of an earthquake, at least in the immediate neighbourhood of the islands, though it is quite possible that earthquakes in some remote part of the world may have something to do with these waves.

One such wave is described as breaking on one of these islands with tremendous violence. It appeared at first like a dark line, or low cloud, or fog-bank, on the sea-ward horizon. The day was fine though cloudy, and a gentle breeze was blowing; but the sea was not rougher, or the breaker on the coral reef that encircled the island higher, than usual. It was supposed to be an approaching thunder-storm; but the line gradually drew nearer without spreading upon the sky, as would have been the case had it been a thunder-cloud. Still nearer it came, and soon those on shore observed that it was moving swiftly towards the island; but there was no sound until it reached the smaller islands out at sea. As it passed these, a cloud of white foam encircled each and burst high into the air. This appearance was soon followed by a loud roar, and it became evident that the object was an enormous wave. When it approached the outer reef, its awful magnitude became more evident. It burst completely over the reef at all points, with a deep, continuous roar; yet, although part of its force was thus broken, on it came, as if with renewed might, and finally fell upon the beach with a crash that seemed to shake the solid earth; then, rushing impetuously up into the woods, it levelled the smaller trees and bushes in its headlong course; and, on retiring, left a scene of wreck and desolation that is quite indescribable.

"Storm-waves," as those unusually gigantic billows are called, are said to be the result of the removal of atmospheric pressure in certain parts of the ocean over which a storm is raging. This removal of pressure allows the portion thus relieved to be forced up high above the ordinary sea-level by those other parts that are not so relieved.

The devastating effects of these storm-waves is still further illustrated by the total destruction of Coringa, on the Coromandel Coast, in 1789. During a hurricane, in December of that year, at the moment when a high tide was at its highest point, and the north-west wind was blowing with fury, accumulating the waters at the head of the bay, three monstrous waves came rolling in from the sea upon the devoted town, following each other at a short distance. The horror-stricken inhabitants had scarcely time to note the fact of their approach, when the first wave, sweeping everything in its passage, carried several feet of water into the town. The second swept still further in its destructive course, inundating all the low country. The third, rushing onward in irresistible fury, overwhelmed everything, submerging the town and twenty thousand of its inhabitants. Vessels at anchor at the mouth of the river were carried inland; and the sea on retiring left heaps of sand and mud, which rendered it a hopeless task either to search for the dead or for buried property.

We have spoken of waves "travelling" at such and such a rate, but they do not in reality travel at all. It is the undulation, or, so to speak, the motion of a wave, that travels; in the same manner that a wave passes from one end of a carpet to the other end when it is shaken. The water remains stationary, excepting the spray and foam on the surface, and is only possessed of a rising and sinking motion. This undulatory motion, or impulse, is transmitted from each particle of water to its neighbouring particle, until it reaches the last drop of water on the shore. But when a wave reaches shallow water it has no longer room to sink to its proper depth; hence the water composing it acquires actual motion, and rushes to the land with more or less of the tremendous violence that has been already described.

Waves are caused by wind, which first ruffles the surface of the sea into ripples, and then, acting with ever-increasing power on the little surfaces thus raised, blows them up into waves, and finally into great billows. Sometimes, however, winds burst upon the calm ocean with such sudden violence that for a time the waves cannot lift their heads. The instant they do so, they are cast down and scattered in foam, and the ocean in a few minutes presents the appearance of a cauldron of boiling milk! Such squalls are extremely dangerous to mariners, and vessels exposed to them are often thrown on their beam-ends, even though all sail has been previously taken in. Generally speaking, however, the immediate effect of wind passing either lightly or furiously over the sea is to raise its surface into waves. But these waves, however large they may be, do not affect the waters of the ocean more than a few yards below its surface. The water below their influence is comparatively calm, being affected only by ocean currents.

The tides of the sea -- as the two great flowings and ebbings of the water every twenty-four hours are called -- are caused principally by the attractive influence of the moon, which, to a small extent, lifts the waters of the ocean towards it, as it passes over them, and thus causes a high wave. This wave, or current, when it swells up on the land, forms high tide. When the moon's influence has completely passed away, it is low tide. The moon raises this wave wherever it passes; not only in the ocean directly under it, but, strange to say, it causes a similar wave on the opposite side of the globe. Thus there are two waves always following the moon, and hence the two high tides in the twenty-four hours. This second wave has been accounted for in the following way: The cohesion of particles of water is easily overcome. The moon, in passing over the sea, separates the particles by her attractive power, and draws the surface of the sea away from the solid globe. But the moon also attracts the earth itself, and draws it away from the water on its opposite side thus causing the high wave there, as represented in the diagram, figure 1.

The sun has also a slight influence on the tides, but not to such an extent as the moon. When the two luminaries exert their combined influence in the same direction, they produce the phenomenon of a very high or spring-tide, as in figure 2, where the tide at a and b has risen extremely high, while at c and d it has fallen correspondingly low. When they act in opposition to each other, as at the moon's quarter, there occurs a very low or neap-tide. In figure 3 the moon has raised high tide at a and b, but the sun has counteracted its influence to some extent at c and d, thus producing neap-tides, which neither rise so high nor fall so low as do other tides. Tides attain various elevations in different parts of the world, partly owing to local influences. In the Bristol Channel the tide rises to nearly sixty feet, while in the Mediterranean it is extremely small, owing to the landlocked nature of that sea preventing the tidal wave from having its full effect. Up some gulfs and estuaries the tides sweep with the violence of a torrent, and any one caught by them on the shore would be overtaken and drowned before he could gain the dry land. In the open sea they rise and fall to an elevation of little more than three or four feet.

The value of the tides is unspeakable. They sweep from our shores pollution of every kind, purify our rivers and estuaries, and are productive of freshness and health all round the world.

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The gentlemen here referred to are agreed as to the fact of systematic arrangement of currents, though they differ in regard to some of the causes thereof and other matters.



Chapter Four.

The Gulf Stream -- Its Nature -- Cause -- Illustration -- Effect Of Small Powers United -- Adventures Of A Particle Of Water -- Effect Of Gulf Stream On Climate -- Its Course -- Influence On Navigation -- Sargasso Sea -- Scientific Efforts Of Present Day -- Wind And Current Charts -- Effects On Commerce --  Cause Of Storms -- Influence Of Gulf Stream On Marine Animals.

Of the varied motions of the sea, the most important, perhaps, as well as the most wonderful, is the Gulf Stream. This mighty current has been likened by Maury to a "river in the ocean. In the severest droughts it never fails, and in the mightiest floods it never overflows. Its banks and its bottom are of cold water, while its current is of warm. It takes its rise in the Gulf of Mexico (hence its name), and empties into the arctic seas. Its current is more rapid than the Mississippi or the Amazon, and its volume more than a thousand times greater."

This great current is of the most beautiful indigo-blue colour as far out as the Carolina coasts; and its waters are so distinctly separated from those of the sea, that the line of demarcation may be traced by the eye. Its influences on the currents of the sea, and on the climates and the navigation of the world, are so great and important, that we think a somewhat particular account of it cannot fail to interest the reader.

The waters of the Gulf Stream are salter than those of the sea; which fact accounts for its deeper blue colour, it being well known that salt has the effect of intensifying the blue of deep water.

The cause of the Gulf Stream has long been a subject of conjecture and dispute among philosophers. Some have maintained that the Mississippi river caused it; but this theory is upset by the fact that the stream is salt -- salter even than the sea -- while the river is fresh. Besides, the volume of water emptied into the Gulf of Mexico by that river is not equal to the three thousandth part of that which issues from it in the form of the Gulf Stream.

Scientific men are still disagreed on this point. They all, indeed, seem to hold the opinion that difference of temperature has to do with the origination of the stream; but while some, such as Captain Maury, hold that this is the chief cause, others, such as Professor Thompson, believe the trade-winds to be the most important agent in the matter. We venture to incline to the opinion that not only the Gulf Stream, but all the constant currents of the sea are due chiefly to difference of temperature and saltness. These conditions alter the specific gravity of the waters of the ocean in some places more than in others; hence the equilibrium is destroyed, and currents commence to flow as a natural result, seeking to restore that equilibrium. But as the disturbing agents are always at work, so the currents are of necessity constant. Other currents there are in the sea, but they are the result of winds and various local causes; they are therefore temporary and partial, while the great currents of the ocean are permanent, and are, comparatively, little affected by the winds. Every one knows that when a pot is put on the fire to boil, the water contained in it, as soon as it begins to get heated, commences to circulate. The heated water rises to the top, the cold descends. When heated more than that which has ascended, it in turn rises to the surface; and so there is a regular current established in the pot, which continues to flow as long as the heating process goes on. This same principle of temperature, then, is one of the causes of the Gulf Stream. The torrid zone is the furnace where the waters of the ocean are heated. But in this process of heating, evaporation goes on to a large extent; hence the waters become salter than those elsewhere. Here is another agent called into action. The hot salt waters of the torrid zone at once rush off to distribute their superabundant caloric and salt to the seas of the frigid zones; where the ice around the poles has kept the waters cold, and the absence of great heat, and, to a large extent, of evaporation, has kept them comparatively fresh. In fact, the waters of the sea require to be stirred, because numerous agents are at work day and night, from pole to pole, altering their specific gravity and deranging, so to speak, the mixture. This stirring is secured by the unalterable laws which the Creator has fixed for the carrying on of the processes of nature. The currents of the sea may be said to be the result of this process of stirring its waters.

It is curious and interesting to note the apparently insignificant instruments which God has seen fit to use in the carrying out of his plans. The smallest coral insect that builds its little cell in the southern seas exercises an influence in the production of the Gulf Stream. It has been said, with some degree of truth, that one such insect is capable of setting in motion the entire ocean! The coral insect has, in common with many other marine creatures, been gifted with the power of extracting from sea water the lime which it contains, in order to build its cell. The lime thus extracted leaves a minute particle of water necessarily destitute of that substance. Before that particle can be restored to its original condition of equality, every other particle of water in the ocean must part with a share of its superabundant lime! The thing must be done. That bereaved particle cannot rest without its lime. It forthwith commences to travel for the purpose of laying its brother-particles under contribution; and it travels far and wide -- round and round the world. Myriads upon myriads of coral insects are perpetually engaged in thus robbing the sea water of its lime; shells are formed in a similar manner: so that our particle soon finds itself in company with innumerable other particles of water in a like destitute condition. It rises to the surface. Here the sun, as if to compensate it for the loss of its lime, bestows upon it an unusual amount of heat; and the surrounding particles, not to be outdone, make it almost unlimited presents of salt. Full to overflow with the gifts of its new companions, it hastens to bestow of its superabundance on less favoured particles; joins the great army of the ocean's currents; enters, perchance, the Gulf of Mexico, where it is turned back, and hastens along with the Gulf Stream, with all its natural warmth of character, to ameliorate the climate of Great Britain and the western shores of Europe. Having accomplished this benevolent work, it passes on, with some of its heat and vigour still remaining, to the arctic seas -- where it is finally robbed of all its heat and nearly all its salt, and frozen into an icicle -- there for many a long day to exert a chilling influence on the waters and the atmosphere around it. Being melted at last by the hot sun of the short arctic summer, it hurries back with the cold currents of the north to the genial regions of the equator, in search of its lost caloric and salt, taking in a full cargo of lime, etcetera, as it passes the mouths of rivers. Arrived at its old starting-point, our wanderer receives once more heat and salt to the full, parts with its lime, and at once hastens off on a new voyage of usefulness -- to give out of its superabundance in exchange for the superabundance of others: thus quietly teaching man the lesson that the true principles of commerce were carried out in the depths of the sea ages before he discovered them and carried them into practice on its surface.

Perchance another fate awaits this adventurous particle of water. Mayhap, before it reaches the cold regions of the north, it is evaporated into the clouds, and descends upon the earth in fresh and refreshing rain or dew. Having fertilised the fields, it flows back to its parent ocean, laden with a superabundant cargo of earthy substances, which it soon parts with in exchange for salt. And thus on it goes, round and round the world; down in the ocean's depths, up in the cloudy sky, deep in the springs of earth; ever moving, ever active, never lost, and always fulfilling the end for which it was created.

All ocean currents are composed of water in one or other of the conditions just described; -- the hot and salt waters of the equator, flowing north to be cooled and freshened; the cold and fresh waters of the north, flowing south to be heated and salted. The Gulf Stream is simply the stream of equatorial hot water that flows towards the pole through the Atlantic. Its fountain-head is the region of the equator, not the Gulf of Mexico; but it is carried, by the conformation of the land, into that gulf and deflected by it, and from it out into the ocean in the direction of Europe. This stream in the Atlantic is well defined, owing to the comparative narrowness of that sea.

The Gulf Stream, then, is like a river of oil in the ocean, -- it preserves its distinctive character for more than three thousand miles. It flows towards the polar regions, and the waters of those regions flow in counter-currents towards the equator, because of the fixed law that water must seek its equilibrium as well as its level, thus keeping up a continuous circulation of the hot waters towards the north and the cold towards the south. There are similar currents in the Pacific, but they are neither so large nor so regular as those of the Atlantic, owing to the wide formation of the basin of the former sea.

The effect of the Gulf Stream on climate is very great. The dreary fur-trading establishment of York Factory, on the shores of Hudson's Bay, is surrounded by a climate of the most rigorous character -- the thermometer seldom rising up so high as zero during many months, and often ranging down so low as 50 degrees below zero, sometimes even lower, while the winter is seven or eight months long: the lakes and rivers are covered with ice upwards of six feet thick, and the salt sea itself is frozen. Yet this region lies in the same latitude with Scotland, York Factory being on the parallel of 57 degrees north, which passes close to Aberdeen! The difference in temperature between the two places is owing very much, if not entirely, to the influence of the Gulf Stream.

Starting from its caldron in the Gulf of Mexico, it carries a freight of caloric towards the North Atlantic. Owing partly to the diurnal motion of the Earth on its axis, its flow trends towards the east; hence its warm waters embrace our favoured coasts, and ameliorate our climate, while the eastern sea-board of North America is left, in winter, to the rigour of unmitigated frost.

But besides the powerful influence of this current on climate, it exerts a very considerable influence on navigation. In former times, when men regarded the ocean as a great watery waste -- utterly ignorant of the exquisite order and harmonious action of all the varied substances and conditions which prevail in the sea, just as much as on the land -- they committed themselves to the deep as to a blind chance, and took the storms and calms they encountered as their inevitable fate, which they had no means of evading. Ascertaining, as well as they could from the imperfect charts of those days, the position of their desired haven, they steered straight for it through fair weather and foul, regarding interruptions and delays as mere unavoidable matters of course.

But when men began to study the causes and effects of the operation of those elements in the midst of which they dwelt, they soon perceived that order reigned where before they had imagined that confusion revelled; and that, by adapting their operations to the ascertained laws of Providence, they could, even upon the seemingly unstable sea, avoid dangers and delays of many kinds, and oftentimes place themselves in highly favourable circumstances. Navigators no longer dash recklessly into the Gulf Stream, and try to stem its tide, as they did of yore; but, as circumstances require, they either take advantage of the counter-currents which skirt along it, or avail themselves of the warm climate which it creates even in the midst of winter. There is a certain spot in the Atlantic known by the name of the Sargasso Sea, which is neither more nor less than a huge ocean-eddy, in which immense quantities of sea-weed collect. The weed floats so thickly on the surface as to give to the sea the appearance of solid land; and ships find extreme difficulty in getting through this region, which is rendered still further unnavigable by the prevalence of long-continued calms. This Sargasso Sea is of considerable extent, and lies off the west coast of Africa, a little to the north of the Cape Verd Islands.

In former years, ships used to get entangled in this weedy region for weeks together, unable to proceed on their voyage. The great Columbus fell in with it on his voyage to America, and his followers, thinking they had reached the end of the world, were filled with consternation. This Sargasso Sea lies in the same spot at the present day, but men now know its extent and position. Instead of steering straight for port, they proceed a considerable distance out of their way, and, by avoiding this calm region, accomplish their voyages with much greater speed.

The ocean currents have been, by repeated and long-continued investigation, ascertained and mapped out; so also have the currents of the atmosphere, so that, now-a-days, by taking advantage of some of these currents and avoiding others, voyages are performed, not only in much shorter time, but with much greater precision and certainty. As it was with ocean currents long ago, so was it with atmospheric. Navigators merely put to sea, steered as near as possible on their direct course, and took advantage of such winds as chanced to blow. Now they know whither to steer in order to meet with such winds and currents as will convey them in the shortest space of time to the end of their voyage. The knowledge necessary to this has not been gained by the gigantic effort of one mind, nor by the accidental collocation of the results of the investigations of many ordinary minds. But a few master-minds have succeeded in gathering within their own grasp the myriad facts collected by thousands of naval men, of all countries, in their various voyages; and, by a careful comparison and philosophical investigation of these facts, they have ascertained and systematised truths which were before unknown, and have constructed wind and current charts, by the use of which voyages are wonderfully shortened, commercial enterprises greatly facilitated, and the general good and comfort of nations materially advanced.

The truth of this has of late been proved by incontestable facts. For instance, one year particular note was taken of the arrival of all the vessels at the port of San Francisco, in California; and it was found that of 124 vessels from the Atlantic coast of the United States, 70 were possessed of Maury's wind and current charts. The average passage of these 70 vessels, on that long voyage round Cape Horn, was 135 days; while the average of those that sailed without the charts (that is, trusted to their own unaided wisdom and experience) was 146 days. Between England and Australia the average length of the voyage out used, very recently, to be 124 days. With the aid of these charts it has now been reduced to 97 days on the average.

The saving to commerce thus achieved is much greater than one would suppose. At the risk of becoming tedious to uninquiring readers, we will make a brief extract from Hunt's "Merchants' Magazine" of 1854, as given in a foot-note in Maury's "Physical Geography of the Sea."

"Now, let us make a calculation of the annual saving to the commerce of the United States effected by these charts and sailing directions. According to Mr Maury, the average freight from the United States to Rio Janeiro is 17.7 cents per ton per day; to Australia, 20 cents; to California, also about 20 cents. The mean of this is a little over 19 cents per ton per day; but, to be within the mark, we will take it at 15, and include all the ports of South America, China, and the East Indies.

"The sailing directions have shortened the passage to California 30 days; to Australia, 20; to Rio Janeiro, 10. The mean of this is 20; but we will take it at 15, and also include the above-named ports of South America, China, and the East Indies.

"We estimate the tonnage of the United States engaged in trade with these places at 1,000,000 tons per annum.

"With these data, we see that there has been effected a saving for each one of these tons, of 15 cents per day for a period of 15 days, which will give an aggregate of 2,250,000 dollars (468,750 pounds) saved per annum. This is on the outward voyage alone, and the tonnage trading with all other parts of the world is also left out of the calculation. Take these into consideration, and also the fact that there is a vast amount of foreign tonnage trading between these places and the United States, and it will be seen that the annual sum saved will swell to an enormous amount."

Before the existence of the Gulf Stream was ascertained, vessels were frequently drifted far out of their course in cloudy or foggy weather, without the fact being known, until the clearing away of the mists enabled the navigators to ascertain their position by solar observation. Now, not only the existence, but the exact limits and action of this stream are known and mapped; so that the current, which was formerly a hindrance to navigation, is now made to be a help to it. The line of demarcation between the warm waters of the Gulf Stream and the cold waters of the sea is so sharp and distinct, that by the use of the thermometer the precise minute of a ship's leaving or entering it can be ascertained. And by the simple application of the thermometer to the Gulf Stream the average passage from England to America has been reduced from upwards of eight weeks to little more than four!

But this wonderful current is useful to navigators in more ways than one. Its waters, being warm, carry a mild climate along with them through the ocean even in the depth of winter, and thus afford a region of shelter to vessels when attempting to make the Atlantic coast of North America, which, at that season is swept by furious storms and chilled by bitter frosts. The Atlantic coasts of the United States are considered to be the most stormy in the world during winter, and the difficulty of making them used to be much greater in former days than now. The number of wrecks that take place off the shores of New England in mid-Winter is frightful. All down that coast flows one of the great cold currents from the north. The combined influence of the cold atmosphere above it, and the warm atmosphere over the Gulf Stream, far out at sea, produces terrific gales. The month's average of wrecks off that coast has been as high as three a day. In making the coast, vessels are met frequently by snow-storms, which clothe the rigging with ice, rendering it unmanageable, and chill the seaman's frame, so that he cannot manage his ship or face the howling blast. Formerly, when unable to make the coast, owing to the fury of these bitter westerly gales, he knew of no place of refuge short of the West Indies, whither he was often compelled to run, and there await the coming of genial spring ere he again attempted to complete his voyage. Now, however, the region of the Gulf Stream is sought as a refuge. When the stiffened ropes refuse to work, and the ship can no longer make head against the storm, she is put about and steered for the Gulf Stream. In a few hours she reaches its edge, and almost in a moment afterwards she passes from the midst of winter into a sea of sunnier heat! "Now," as Maury beautifully expresses it, "the ice disappears from her apparel; the sailor bathes his limbs in tepid waters. Feeling himself invigorated and refreshed with the genial warmth about him, he realises out there at sea the fable of Antaeus and his mother Earth. He rises up and attempts to make his port again, and is again, perhaps, as rudely met and beat back from the north-west; but each time that he is driven off from the contest, he comes forth from this stream, like the ancient son of Neptune, stronger and stronger, until, after many days, his freshened strength prevails, and he at last triumphs, and enters his haven in safety -- though in this contest he sometimes falls to rise no more, for it is terrible."

The power of ocean currents in drifting vessels out of their course, and in sweeping away great bodies of ice, is very great; although, from the fact that there is no land to enable the eye to mark the flow, such drifts are not perceptible. One of the most celebrated drifts of modern times, and the most astonishing on account of its extent, was that of the Fox in Baffin's Bay in the year 1857, a somewhat detailed account of which will be found in a succeeding chapter.

The Gulf Stream is the cause of many of the most furious storms. The fiercest gales sweep along with it, and it is supposed that the spring and summer fogs of Newfoundland are caused by the immense volumes of warm water poured by it into the cold seas of that region. We are told that Sir Philip Brooke found the temperature of the sea on each side of this stream to be at the freezing-point, while that of its waters was 80 degrees. From this it may be easily seen how great are the disturbing influences around and above it; for, as the warm and moist atmosphere over it ascends in virtue of its lightness, the cold air outside rushes in violently to supply its place, thus creating storms.

The warm waters of this stream do not, it is believed, anywhere extend to the bottom of the sea. It has been ascertained, by means of the deep-sea thermometer, that they rest upon, or rather flow over, the cold waters which are hastening from the north in search of those elements which, in their wanderings, they have lost. As cold water is one of the best non-conductors of heat, the Gulf Stream is thus prevented from losing its caloric on its way across the Atlantic to ameliorate the climates of the western coasts of Europe, and moderate the bitterness of the northern seas. Were it otherwise, and this great stream flowed over the crust of the Earth, so much of its heat would be extracted, that the climates of France and our own islands would probably resemble that of Canada. Our fields would be covered, for two, three, or four months, with deep snow; our rivers would be frozen nearly to the bottom; our land traffic would perhaps be carried on by means of sledges and carioles; our houses would require to be fitted with double window-frames and heated with iron stoves and our garments would have to be made of the thickest woollens and the warmest furs.

The presence and the unchanging regularity of these great hot and cold currents in the ocean is indicated very clearly by the living inhabitants of the deep. These, as certainly as the creatures of the land, are under the influence of climate; so much so, that many of them never quit their native region in the sea. All the beautiful and delicate marine creatures and productions which dwell in the warm waters of the south are utterly absent from those shores which are laved by the cold currents that descend from the north; while, owing to the influence of the Gulf Stream, we find many of those lovely and singular creatures upon our comparatively northern shores. Of late years, as every one knows, we have all over the land been gathering these marine gems, and studying their peculiar habits with deep interest in that miniature ocean the aquarium. In the same parallel on the other side of the Atlantic none of these little lovers of heat are to be found.

On the other hand, the whale, delighting as it does to lave its huge warm-blooded body in iced water, is never found to enter the Gulf Stream. Thus these fish, to some extent, define its position. Other fish there are which seem to resemble man in their ability to change their climate at will but, like him also, they are apt in so doing to lose their health, or, at least, to get somewhat out of condition. Some kinds of fish, when caught in the waters off Virginia and the Carolinas, are excellent for the table; but the same species, when taken off the warm coral banks of the Bahamas, are scarcely worth eating. In fact, we see no reason for doubting that when these fish find their health giving way in the warm regions of the south, they seek to reinvigorate themselves by change of water; and, quitting for a time the beauteous coral groves, spend a few of the sunnier months of each year in gambolling in the cool regions of the north, or, what is much the same thing, in those cool currents that flow from the north in clearly defined channels.

Besides its other useful and manifold purposes, the Gulf Stream would seem to be one of the great purveyors of food to the whales. Sea-nettles, or medusae, are well known to constitute the principal food of that species of whale which is termed the right whale. Navigators have frequently observed large quantities of these medusae floating along with the Gulf Stream; and one sea captain in particular fell in with an extraordinarily large quantity of them, of a very peculiar species, off the coast of Florida. As we have said, no whales ever enter the warm waters of the Gulf Stream; therefore, at that time at least, the leviathan could not avail himself of this rich provision. The captain referred to was bound for England. On his return voyage he fell in with the same mass of medusae off the Western Islands, and was three or four days in sailing through them. Now, the Western Islands is a great place of resort for the whale, and thither had the Gulf Stream been commissioned to convey immense quantities of its peculiar food.

We might enlarge endlessly on this great ocean current, but enough, we think, has been said to show that the sea, instead of being an ocean of unchanging drops, driven about at random by the power of stormy winds, is a mighty flood flowing in an appointed course -- steady, regular, and systematic in its motions, varied and wonderful in its actions, benign and sweet in its influences, as it sweeps mound and round the world, fulfilling the will of its great Creator.



Chapter Five.

The Atmospheric Ocean -- Order In Its Flow -- Offices Of The Atmosphere --  Dangers Lessened By Science -- Currents Of Atmosphere -- Cause Of Wind -- Two Great Currents -- Disturbing Influences -- Calms -- Variable Winds -- Causes Thereof -- Local Causes Of Disturbance -- Gulf Stream -- Influence -- The Winds Mapped Out -- A Supposed Case.

Fish are not the only creatures that live in this ocean. The human inhabitants of Earth, dwell at the bottom of an ocean of air, which encircles the globe. Fish, however, have the advantage of us, inasmuch as they can float and dart about in their ocean, while we, like the crabs, can only crawl about at the bottom of ours.

This atmospheric ocean is so closely connected with the sea, and exercises upon it so constant, universal, and important an influence, that to omit, in a work of this kind, very special reference to the winds, would be almost as egregious an oversight as to ignore the waves.

Wind, or atmospheric air in motion, is the cause of storms, of waves, of water-transport through the sky, and of an incalculable amount of varied phenomena on land and sea. Without this great agent no visible motion would ever take place in the sea. Its great currents, indeed, might flow on (though even that is questionable), but its surface would never present any other aspect than that of an unruffled sheet of clear glass. The air, then, becomes in this place an appropriate subject of consideration. The Voice of Ocean has something very emphatic to say about the atmosphere.

In regard to its nature, it is sufficient to say that atmospheric air is composed of two gases -- oxygen and nitrogen. Like the sea, the atmosphere is an ocean which flows, not in chaotic confusion, but in regular, appointed courses; acting in obedience to the fixed, unvarying laws of the Almighty, and having currents, counter-currents, and eddies also, just like the watery ocean, which exercise a specific and salutary influence where they exist.

The offices of the atmosphere are thus quaintly enumerated by Maury: -- 

"The atmosphere is an envelope or covering for the distribution of light and heat over the Earth; it is a sewer into which, with every breath we draw, we cast vast quantities of dead animal matter; it is a laboratory for purification, in which that matter is recompounded, and wrought again into wholesome and healthful shapes; it is a machine for pumping up all the rivers from the sea, and for conveying the water from the ocean to their sources in the mountains. It is an inexhaustible magazine, marvellously stored; and upon the proper working of this machine depends the well-being of every plant and animal that inhabits the Earth."

An element whose operations are so manifold and so important could not fail to engage the study of philosophic men in all ages; but so difficult has been that study that little progress was made until very recently, when men, acting in unison in all parts of the world, have, by collating their observations, become acquainted with some of those laws which govern the atmosphere, and direct its courses and velocities.

In early ages very little indeed was known about the wind beyond the palpable facts of its existence, its varied condition, and its tremendous power; and men's observations in regard to it did not extend much beyond the noting of those peculiar and obvious aspects of the sky which experience taught them to regard as evidences of approaching storm. But, although such aspects of the heavens were, and always will be, pretty safe and correct indicators of the Weather, they are by no means infallible; and in some regions and under certain conditions they are wanting altogether.

When the sea captain observes a lowering aspect of the sky, with, it may be, a dark line above the distant edge of the sea, he knows -- however calm and unruffled may be the ocean around him -- that wind may be expected; and, calling the crew, he orders sail to be taken in, and preparation made for the approaching breeze. But there are times when no such warning is given, when the atmospheric is perfectly still, the sea calm as glass, and the vessel floats motionless with her sails hanging idly from the yards, as if she were:

A painted ship upon a painted Ocean.

Suddenly, and before preparation can be made to withstand it, the hurricane bursts in appalling fury over the sea: the sails are blown to ribbons; the masts, perhaps, broken down; and frequently the vessel itself overwhelmed and sent to the bottom. Many a gallant ship, which has left the harbour ably commanded and well manned, and never more been heard of, has doubtless gone down in sudden storms such as those we have referred to.

But the inventions of science have now very much lessened the danger of these storms. The barometer, by the sudden fall of its column of mercury, tells, as plainly and certainly as if it spoke with an audible voice, that a storm is approaching, even though all nature should appear to contradict the fact by its calm and serene aspect; so that the crew thus warned have time to furl the sails, fasten down the hatches, and otherwise prepare to face the impending danger.

The atmosphere flows in a grand harmonious system of currents and counter-currents, with their corresponding eddies, just like the ocean; and the grand final results of its varied action are to equalise in some degree the temperatures of the world, to carry off and distribute moisture where it is required, to sweep away noxious vapours, and generally to ventilate the Earth and gladden the heart of man.

The primary cause of all wind is the combined action of heat and cold. If the world were heated with perfect equality all round, there would be, as far at least as heat is concerned, a perfect and permanent stagnation of the atmosphere; and this would speedily result in the destruction of every living thing. But by the varied and beautiful arrangements which the Almighty has made in nature He has secured a regular flow of atmospheric currents, which will continue unalterably to move as long as the present economy of things exists. The intense and constant action of the sun's rays in the torrid zone produces great heat, while the less powerful and frequently interrupted influence of his rays in the frigid zones induces extreme cold. Hence we have in one region heated air, in another cool air. Now, the effect of heat upon air is to expand it, make it light, and cause it to rise. The moment it does so, the cold air rushes in to supply its place; and this rushing in of the cold air is what we call wind.

It may surprise many people to be told that there are only two great and never-ceasing courses of the winds of this world -- namely, north and south. They flow perpetually from the equator to the poles, and from the poles to the equator. All the irregularities and interruptions that we observe are mere temporary and partial deflections from this grand course. The heated air at the equator rises continually and flows in an upper current towards the pole, getting gradually cooled on its way north. That from the pole flows in an under current towards the equator, getting gradually heated on its way south. We speak only of the Northern Hemisphere, for the sake of simplifying explanation, -- the action of the great wind-current in the Southern Hemisphere is precisely similar.

But our broad simple statement about the upper current from the equator, and the under current from the pole, requires a slight modification, which we thought it best not to mingle with the statement itself. The heated air from the equator does indeed commence to flow in an upper current, and the cooled air from the pole in an under current; but, as the upper currents of air are speedily cooled by exposure to space, and the under currents are heated by contact with the earth's surface, they constantly change places -- the lower current becoming the upper, and vice versa. But they do not change direction. The Equatorial Current ascends, rushes north to a point about latitude 30 degrees, where, being sufficiently cooled, it swoops down, and continues its Northward rush along the earth. At another point the Polar Current quits the earth, and soaring up, in consequence of its recently acquired heat, becomes the upper current. This change in the two currents takes place twice in their course.

Of course, the effect of these changes is to produce north winds in one latitude and south winds in another, according to the particular wind (equatorial or polar) that happens to be in contact with the earth. At the points where these two currents cross, in changing places, we necessarily have calms, or conflicting and variable winds.

Here, then, we have the first of the constant disturbing causes, and of apparent irregularities, in the winds. The Earth, as every one knows, whirls rapidly on its axis from west to east. At the equator the whirl is so rapid that the atmosphere does not at once follow the Earth's motion. It lags behind, and thus induces an easterly tendency to the winds, so that a north wind becomes a north-east, and a south wind a south-east. Here we have another constant cause of variation from the northerly and southerly flow. We thus account for an easterly tendency to the winds, but whence their westerly flow? It is simply explained thus:

The motion of the Earth is greatest at the equator. It diminishes gradually towards the poles, where there is no motion at all. The atmosphere partakes of the Earth's motion when in contact with it; and when thrown upwards by heat, as at the equator, it keeps up the motion for some time, as it meets with no resistance there. Bearing this in mind, let us now follow a gush of warm atmosphere from the equator. It rushes up, and, turning north and south, seeks the poles. We follow the northern division. When it left the Earth it had acquired a very strong motion towards the east, -- not so great as that of the Earth itself, but great enough to be equivalent to a furious gale from west to east. If we suppose this air to redescend whence it rose, it would, on reaching the equator, find the Earth going too fast for it. It would lag a little, and become a gentle easterly breeze. But now, throw aside this supposition; -- our breeze rushes north; at latitude 30 degrees it has got cooled, and swoops down upon the Earth; but the Earth at this latitude is moving much slower than at the equator; the wind, however, has lost little or none of its easterly velocity. On reaching the Earth it rushes east much faster than the Earth itself, and thus becomes a westerly gale.

There are, however, many other agents at work, which modify and disturb what we may call the legitimate flow of the wind; and these agents are diverse in different places, so that the atmosphere is turned out of a straight course, and is caused to deflect, to halt, and to turn round: sometimes sweeping low as if in haste; at other times pausing, as if in uncertainty; and often whirling round, as if in mad confusion. To the observer, who sees only the partial effects around his own person, all this commotion seems but the disorderly action of blind chance; but to the eye of Him who sees the end from the beginning, we may certainly conclude that naught is seen but order and perfect harmony. And to the eye of Science there now begins to appear, in what was formerly an atmospheric chaos, an evidence of design and system, which is not, indeed, absolutely clear, but which is nevertheless abundantly perceptible to minds that cannot hope in this life to see otherwise than "through a glass, darkly."

The causes which modify the action of the winds are, as we have said, various. Local causes produce local currents. A clear sky in one region allows the sun's rays to pour upon, let us say, the ocean, producing great heat; the result of which is evaporation. Aqueous vapour is very light, therefore it rises; and in doing so the aqueous particles carry the air up with them, and the wind necessarily rushes in below to supply its place. The falling of heavy rain, in certain conditions of the atmosphere, has the effect of raising wind. Electricity has also, in all probability, something to do with the creation of motion in the atmosphere. Now, as these are all local causes, they produce local -- or what, in regard to the whole atmosphere, may be termed irregular -- effects. And as these causes or agents are in ceaseless operation at all times, so their disturbing influence is endless; and hence the apparent irregularity in the winds.

But these causes are themselves, not less than their results, dependent on other causes or laws, the workings of which are steady and unvarying; and the little irregularities that appear to us in the form of fluctuating and changing winds and calms may be compared to the varying ripples and shifting eddies of a river, whose surface is affected by the comparatively trifling influences of wind, rain, and drought, but whose grand onward course is never for a single moment interrupted.

Among these disturbing influences, the Gulf Stream is a very important one. It is constantly sending up large volumes of steam, which, rising into the air, induce a flow of wind from both sides towards its centre. And many of the storms that arise in other parts of the Atlantic make for this stream, and follow its course.

So much has been ascertained by scientific investigation of the winds, that we can now distinctly map out the great belts or currents which pass right round the world. We can tell in which parallels winds with easting, and in which those with westing, in them, will be most frequently found; and by directing our course to such places, we can to a certain extent count upon profiting by the winds that will be most suitable. Before the facts of atmospheric circulation were known, mariners sailed by chance. If they happened to get into the belt of wind that suited them, their voyages were favourable; if they got into the wrong region, their voyages were unfavourable, -- that was all. But they had no idea that there was any possibility of turning the tables, and, by a careful investigation of the works of the Creator, coming at last to such knowledge as would enable them to reduce winds and waves, in a great degree, to a state of slavery, instead of themselves being at their mercy.

The world may be said to be encircled by a succession of belts of wind, which blow not always in the same direction, but almost invariably with the same routine of variations. A vessel sailing from north to south encounters these belts in succession. To mariners of old, these varying winds seemed to blow in utter confusion. To men of the present time, their varied action is counted on with some degree of certainty. The reason why men were so long in discovering the nature of atmospheric circulation was, that they were not sufficiently alive to the immense value of united effort. They learned wisdom chiefly from personal experience -- each man for himself; and in the great majority of cases, stores of knowledge, that would have been of the utmost importance to mankind, were buried with the individuals who had laid them up. Moreover, the life of an individual was too short, and his experience too limited, to enable him to discover any of the grand laws of Nature; and as there was no gathering together of information from all quarters, and all sorts of men, and all seasons (as there is now), the knowledge acquired by individuals was almost always lost to the world. Thus men were ever learning, but never arriving at a knowledge of the truth.

May we not here remark, that this evil was owing to another evil --  namely, man's ignorance of, or indifference to, the duty of what we may term human communication? As surely as gravitation is an appointed law of God, so surely is it an appointed duty that men shall communicate their individual knowledge to each other, in order that the general knowledge of the species may advance and just in proportion to the fidelity with which men obey this duty -- the care and ability with which they collate and systematise and investigate their knowledge -- will be the result of their efforts.

In order to make the above remarks more clear as regards atmospheric phenomena, let us suppose the case of a sailor who makes the same voyage every year, but not precisely at the same time each year (and it must be remembered that the rigid punctuality at starting which now holds good did not exist in former times). In his first voyage he had to cross, say, four of the wind-belts. While crossing belt number one, he experiences south-west winds chiefly, and, being an observant man, notes the fact. In belt number two he encounters westerly winds. In number three he is in a region of variable winds and calms. In this region the winds blow all round the compass, averaging about three months from each quarter. But our sailor does not know that; he does not stay there all the year to make notes; he passes on, having recorded his experience. In crossing belt number four, he finds the prevailing winds to be easterly.

Next year he sets forth again but merchants are not always punctual. The lading cannot be completed in time, or adverse winds render the setting sail unadvisable. At length, after a month or six weeks' delay, he proceeds on his voyage, and finds belt number one perhaps much the same as last year. He congratulates himself on his good fortune, and notes his observations; but in belt number two, the wind is somewhat modified, owing to its being later in the season, -- it is rather against him. In number three it is right in his teeth, whereas last year it was quite in his favour. In number four, which we will suppose is the trade-wind belt (of which more hereafter), he finds the wind still easterly. Here, then, is the groundwork of confusion in our sailor's mind. He has not the remotest idea that in belt number one the wind blows chiefly, but not always, in one particular direction; that in number four it blows invariably in one way; and that in number three it is regularly irregular. In fact, he does not know that such belts exist at all, and his opportunities of observing are not sufficiently frequent or prolonged to enable him to ascertain anything with certainty.

Now, when we remember that in this imperfect experience of his he is still further misled by his frequently encountering local vicissitudes -- such as storms and calms resulting from local and temporary causes -- we see how confusion becomes worse confounded. No doubt he does gather some few crumbs of knowledge; but he is called on, perhaps, to change his scene of action. Another ship is given to him, another route entered on, and he ceases altogether to prosecute his inquiries in the old region. Or old age comes on; and even although he may have been beginning to have a few faint glimmerings as to laws and systems in his mind, he has not the power to make much of these. He dies; his knowledge is, to a very large extent, lost, and his log-books disappear, as all such books do, nobody knows or cares where.

Now this state of things has been changing during the last few years. Log-books are collected in thousands. The experiences of many men, in reference to the same spots in the same years, months, and even hours, are gathered, collated, and compared; and the result is, that although there are conflicting elements and contradictory appearances, order has been discovered in the midst of apparent confusion, and scientific men have been enabled to pierce through the chaos of littlenesses by which the world's vision has been hitherto obscured, and to lay bare many of those grand progressions of nature which move unvaryingly with stately step through space and time, as the river, with all its minor eddies and counter-currents, flows with unvarying regularity to the ocean.



Chapter Six.

Trade-Winds -- Storms -- Their Effects -- Monsoons -- Their Value -- Land And Sea Breezes -- Experiments -- Hurricanes -- Those Of 1801 -- Rotatory Storms -- Their Terrible Effects -- China Seas -- Hurricane In 1837 -- Whirlwinds -- Weight Of Atmosphere -- Value Of Atmospheric Circulation -- Height Of Atmosphere.

Before proceeding to speak of the power and the dreadful effects of wind, it is necessary to say a word or two about the trade-winds.

It is supposed that the "trades" derived their name from the fact of their being favourable to navigation, and, therefore, to trade. They consist of two belts of wind, one on each side of the equator, which blow always in the same direction.

In the last chapter it was explained that the heated atmosphere at the equator rises, and that the cooler atmosphere from the poles rushes in to supply its place. That which rushes from the south pole is, of course, a south wind, that from the north pole a north wind; but, owing to the Earth's motion on its axis from west to east, the one becomes a north-east, the other a south-east wind. These are the north-east and the South-east "trades." They blow regularly -- sometimes gently, sometimes fiercely -- all the year round. Between the two is a belt of calms and changeable breezes, varying from 150 to 500 miles broad --  according to the time of the year -- where there are frequent and violent squalls, of very short duration, accompanied with heavy rains. This region is called by seamen the "doldrums," and considerable trouble and difficulty do ships experience in crossing it.

It has already been explained that about latitude 30 degrees, the upper current of wind from the south descends. At the same point the upper current from the north also descends. They cut through each other, and the point where these two cut each other is the northern limit of the north-east trade-winds. The same explanation holds in regard to the southern limit of the south-east trades.

In the accompanying diagram the arrows within the circle point out the direction of the north-east and the south-east "trades" between the tropics of cancer and capricorn, and also the counter currents to the north and south of these, while the arrows around the circle show how counter currents meet and rise, or descend, and produce the calm belts.

We have hitherto enlarged chiefly on the grand currents of the atmosphere, and on those modifying causes and effects which are perpetual. Let us now turn to the consideration of those winds which are produced by local causes, and the effects of which are partial.

And here we are induced to revert to the Gulf Stream, which has been already referred to as a local disturber of the regular flow of the atmosphere. This immense body of heated water, passing through cold regions of the sea, has the effect of causing the most violent storms. The hurricanes of the West Indies are among the most violent in the world. We have read of one so violent that it "forced the Gulf Stream back to its sources, and piled up the water in the Gulf to the height of thirty feet. A vessel named the Ledbnry Snow attempted to ride it out. When it abated, she found herself high up on the dry land, having let go her anchor among the tree-tops of Elliott's quay! The Florida quays were inundated many feet; and it is said the scene presented in the Gulf Stream was never surpassed in awful sublimity on the ocean. The water thus dammed up rushed out with frightful velocity against the fury of the gale, producing a sea that beggared description."

The monsoons of the Indian Ocean are among the most striking and regular of the locally-caused winds. Before touching on their causes, let us glance at their effects. They blow for nearly six months in one direction, and for the other six in the opposite direction. At the period of their changing, terrific gales are frequent -- gales such as we, in our temperate regions, never dream of.

What is termed the rainy season in India is the result of the south-west monsoon, which for four months in the year deluges the regions within its influence with rain.

The commencement of the south-west monsoon is described as being sublime and awful beyond description. Before it comes, the whole country is pining under the influence of long-continued drought and heat; the ground is parched and rent; scarcely a blade of verdure is to be seen except in the beds of rivers, where the last pools of water seem about to evaporate, and leave the land under the dominion of perpetual sterility. Man and beast pant for fresh air and cool water; but no cool breeze comes. A blast, as if from the mouth of a furnace, greets the burning cheek; no blessed drops descend; the sky is clear as a mirror, without a single cloud to mitigate the intensity of the sun's withering rays. At last, on some happy morning, small clouds are seen on the horizon. They may be no bigger than a man's hand, but they are blessed harbingers of rain. To those who know not what is coming, there seems at first no improvement on the previous sultry calms. There is a sense of suffocating heat in the atmosphere; a thin haze creeps over the sky, but it scarcely affects the broad glare of the sun.

At length the sky begins to change. The horizon becomes black. Great masses of dark clouds rise out of the sea. Fitful gusts of wind begin to blow, and as suddenly to cease; and these signs of coming tempest keep dallying with each other, as if to tantalise the expectant creation. The lower part of the sky becomes deep red, the gathering clouds spread over the heavens, and a deep gloom is cast upon the earth and sea.

And now the storm breaks forth. The violent gusts swell into a continuous, furious gale. Rain falls, not in drops, but in broad sheets. The black sea is crested with white foam, which is quickly swept up and mingled with the waters above; while those below heave up their billows, and rage and roar in unison with the tempest. On the land everything seems about to be uprooted and hurled to destruction. The tall straight cocoa-nut trees are bent over till they almost lie along the ground; the sand and dry earth are whirled up in eddying clouds, and everything movable is torn up and swept away.

To add to the dire uproar, thunder now peals from the skies in loud, continuous roars, and in sharp angry crashes, while lightning plays about in broad sheets all over the sky, the one following so close on the other as to give the impression of perpetual flashes and an unintermitting roar; the whole scene presenting an aspect so awful, that sinful man might well suppose the season of the Earth's probation had passed away, and that the Almighty were about to hurl complete destruction upon his offending creatures.

But far other intentions are in the breast of Him who rides upon the storm. His object is to restore, not to destroy -- to gladden, not to terrify. This tempestuous weather lasts for some days, but at the end of that time the change that comes over the face of nature seems little short of miraculous. In the words of Mr Elphinstone, who describes from personal observation -- "The whole earth is covered with a sudden but luxuriant verdure, the rivers are full and tranquil, the air is pure and delicious, and the sky is varied and embellished with clouds.

"The effect of this change is visible on all the animal creation, and can only be imagined in Europe by supposing the depth of a dreary winter to start at once into all the freshness and brilliancy of spring. From that time the rain falls at intervals for about a month, when it comes on again with great violence; and in July the rains are at their height. During the third month they rather diminish, but are still heavy. In September they gradually abate, and are often suspended till near the end of the month, when they depart amid thunders and tempests, as they came."

Such are the effects of the monsoons upon land and sea. Of course the terrific gales that usher them in and out could not be expected to pass without doing a good deal of damage, especially to shipping. But this is more than compensated by the facilities which they afford to navigation.

In many parts of the world, especially in the Indian Ocean, merchants calculate with certainty on these periodical winds. They despatch their ships with, say, the north-east monsoon, transact business in distant lands, and receive them back, laden with foreign produce, by the south-west monsoon. If there were no monsoons, the voyage from Canton to England could not be accomplished in nearly so short a time as it is at present.

And now as to the cause of monsoons. They are, for the most part, deflected trade-winds. And they owe their deflection to the presence of large continents. If there were no land near the equator, the trade-winds would always blow in the same manner right round the world; but the great continents, with their intensely-heated surfaces, cause local disturbance of the trade-winds. When a trade-wind is turned out of its course, it is regarded as a monsoon. For instance, the summer sun, beating on the interior plains of Asia, creates such intense heat in the atmosphere that it is more than sufficient to neutralise the forces which cause the trade-winds to blow. They are, accordingly, arrested and turned back. The great general law of the trades is in this region temporarily suspended, and the monsoons are created.

It is thus that the heated plains of Africa and Central America produce the monsoons of the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Gulf of Mexico.

We think it unnecessary to explain minutely the causes that produce variation in the monsoons. Every intelligent reader will readily conceive how the change of seasons and varied configuration as well as unequal arrangement of land and water, will reverse, alter, and modify the direction and strength of the monsoons.

Land and sea breezes are the next species of wind to which we would direct attention. They occur in tropical countries, and owe their existence to the fact that the land is much more easily affected by sudden changes of temperature than the sea. Thus, the land in warm regions is much heated by the sun's rays during the day; the atmosphere over it becomes also heated, in virtue of which it rises: the cool atmosphere over the sea rushes in to supply its place, and forms the sea breeze: which occurs only during the day.

At night the converse of this takes place. Land heats and cools rapidly; water heats and cools slowly. After the sun sets, the cooling of the land goes on faster than that of the sea. In a short time the atmosphere over the land becomes cooler than that over the sea; it descends and flows off out to sea; thus forming the land breeze. It occurs only at night, and when the change from one to the other is taking place there is always a short period of calm. Land and sea breezes are of the greatest use in refreshing those regions which, without them, would be almost, if not altogether, uninhabitable.

In "The Tempest," an interesting work on the origin and phenomena of wind, published by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, a curious and simple experiment is described, whereby the existence of upper and under currents of air and the action of land and sea breezes may be clearly seen and understood. We quote the passage: -- 

"The existence of the upper and under currents of air which mark the phenomena of the trade-winds, and of land and sea breezes, may be beautifully illustrated in two adjoining rooms, in one of which a good fire is burning, while in the other there is none. If the door between the two rooms be thrown open, the cold air will enter the heated room in a strong current, or, in other words, as a violent wind. At the same time the heated air of the warm room ascends and passes the contrary way into the cold room, at the upper part of the same doorway; while in the middle of this opening, exactly between the two currents, the air appears to have little or no motion. The best way to show this experiment is to introduce the flame of a candle into the doorway between a hot and a cold room. If the flame be held near the bottom of the doorway, where the air is most dense, it will be strongly drawn towards the heated room; and if held near the top of the door it will be drawn towards the cold room with somewhat less force; while midway between the top and bottom the flame will be scarcely disturbed.

"There is also another pretty experiment which illustrates well the theory of land and sea breezes. Take a large dish, fill it with cold water, and in the middle of this put a water-plate or a saucer filled with warm water. The first will represent the ocean, and the latter an island made hot by the rays of the sun, and rarefying the air above it. Take a lighted wax candle and blow it out; and, if the air of the room be still, on applying it successively to every side of the saucer, the smoke will be seen moving towards the saucer and rising over it, thus indicating the course of the air from sea to land. On reversing the experiment, by filling the saucer with cold water (to represent the island at night) and the dish with warm water, the land breeze will be shown by holding the smoking wick over the edge of the saucer; the smoke will then be wafted to the warmer air over the dish."

We have just tried the first of these experiments, with complete success. We would, however, recommend a piece of twisted brown paper, lighted and blown out, instead of a wax candle, because it gives out more smoke and is probably more obtainable on short notice. The experiment of the doorway, moreover, does not require that there should lie two rooms with a door between. We have found that the door of our study, which opens into a cold passage, serves the purpose admirably.

Were we treating chiefly of the atmosphere in this work, it would be necessary that we should enlarge on all the varieties of winds, with their causes, effects, and numerous modifications. But our main subject is the Ocean. The atmosphere, although it could not with justice have been altogether passed over, must hold a secondary place here; therefore we will conclude our remarks on it with a brief reference to hurricanes.

It has been ascertained that most of the great storms that sweep with devastating fury over the land and sea are not, as was supposed, rectilinear in their motion, but circular. They are, in fact, enormous whirlwinds, sometimes upwards of one hundred and fifty miles in diameter; and they not only whirl round their own centres, but advance steadily forward through space.

In the year 1831, a memorable and dreadful series of storms passed over some of the India Islands, and caused terrible havoc, especially in the island of Barbadoes. The peculiarity of these hurricanes was that they ravaged the different islands at different dates, and were therefore supposed to be different storms. Such, however, was not the case. It was one mighty cyclone, or circular storm, -- a gigantic whirlwind, -- which traversed that region at the rate of about sixteen miles an hour. It was not its progressive, but its rotatory motion, that constituted its terrible power. On the 10th of August it reached Barbadoes; on the 11th, the islands of Saint Vincent and Saint Lucia; on the 12th it touched the southern coast of Porto Rico; on the 13th it swept over part of Cuba; on the 14th it encountered Havanna; on the 17th it reached the northern shores of the Gulf of Mexico and travelled on to New Orleans, where it raged till the 18th. It thus, in six days, passed, as a whirlwind of destruction, over two thousand three hundred miles of land and sea. It was finally dissipated amid heavy rains.

The effect of a hurricane is well described by Washington Irving. "About mid-day," he says, "a furious gale sprang up from the east, driving before it dense volumes of cloud and vapour. Encountering another tempest from the west, it appeared as if a violent conflict ensued. The clouds were rent by incessant flashes, or rather streams, of lightning. At one time they were piled up high in the sky, at another they descended to the earth, filling the air with a baleful darkness, more impenetrable than the obscurity of midnight. Wherever the hurricane passed, whole tracts of forest were shivered and stripped of their leaves and branches; and trees of gigantic size, which resisted the blast, were torn up by the roots and hurled to a great distance. Groves were torn from the mountain-precipices, and vast masses of earth and rock precipitated into the valleys with terrific noise, choking the course of the rivers.

"The fearful sounds in the air and on the earth, the pealing thunder, the vivid lightning, the howling of the wind, the crash of falling trees and rocks, filled every one with affright, and many thought that the end of the world was at hand. Some fled to caverns for safety, for their frail houses were blown down, and the air was filled with the trunks and branches of trees, and even with fragments of rocks, carried along by the fury of the tempest. When the hurricane reached the harbour, it whirled the ships round as they lay at anchor, snapped their cables, and sunk three of them to the bottom with all who were on board. Others were driven about, dashed against each other, and tossed mere wrecks upon the shore by the swelling surges of the sea, which in some places rolled for three or four miles upon the land. This tempest lasted for three hours."

The China seas are the most frequently visited by severe tempests, or typhoons; yet of all vessels, the Chinese junks, as they are called, seem to be least adapted by their build for encountering such storms.

A terrible hurricane burst upon the China seas in the month of January 1837, as we learn from the "United Service Journal" of that year. An English vessel was exposed to it. The sea, rising in mountains around and over the ship's sides, hurled her rapidly on her passage homeward, when suddenly a wreck was discovered to the westward. The order to shorten sail was given, and promptly obeyed; and when they neared the wreck they found her to be a Chinese junk without mast or rudder -- a helpless log on the breast of that boiling sea.

There were many Chinamen on deck vehemently imploring assistance. The exhibition of their joy on beholding the approach of the stranger was of the wildest and most extravagant nature; but it was doomed to be suddenly turned to despair, as the violence of the storm drove the ship past the wreck. It became necessary to put her on the other tack, a manoeuvre which the poor creatures construed into abandonment, and the air rang with the most agonising shrieks of misery. But hope was again raised, when a boat was lowered and a rope thrown on board for the purpose of towing the junk to the ship. This intention was frustrated by the windlass breaking. At sight of this one man, in a paroxysm of despair, jumped overboard after the rope; but he missed it. Being a good swimmer, he tried to reach the boat; but his feeble power could avail him nothing in the midst of such raging elements: he speedily sank to rise no more.

Another rope, however, was secured to the junk, and by means of it the rest of the crew (eighteen in number) were saved. Their gratitude was boundless. They almost worshipped the officers, the crew, and the vessel, prostrating themselves and kissing the feet of the former, and the very planks of the latter.

Well-built ships, however, are not always able to withstand the violence of rotatory storms. Instances occur in which the tightest built and best manned ships are destroyed as suddenly as the clumsiest of ill-managed junks. Not many years ago, a vessel was proceeding prosperously on her voyage, when signs of a coming tempest induced the wary captain to reduce, and, finally, to take in all sail. But his precautions were in vain. The storm burst on the devoted ship, and in a few minutes the masts went over the side, and the hull lay a total wreck upon the sea.

These hurricanes or cyclones, although in reality whirlwinds, are so large that man's eye cannot measure them, and it is only by scientific investigation that we have arrived at the knowledge of the fact. The whirlwind, properly so called, is a much smaller body of atmosphere. Sometimes we see miniature whirlwinds, even in our own temperate land, passing along a road in autumn, lifting the leaves and dust into the air and carrying them along in the form of a rotatory pillar. In other regions they exert a power quite equal to the tempest, though in a more limited space, overturning houses, uprooting trees, cutting a track twenty or thirty yards wide through the dense forest as thoroughly as if a thousand woodmen had been at work there for many years.

When whirlwinds pass from the land to the sea they create waterspouts; of which we shall have something to say in another chapter. Meanwhile, we think it may be interesting to give the following miscellaneous information regarding the atmosphere, gathered from the work of Dr Buist, who devoted much earnest study to the subject of atmospheric phenomena.

"The weight of the atmosphere is equal to that of a solid globe of lead sixty miles in diameter. Its principal elements are oxygen and nitrogen gases, with a vast quantity of water suspended in them in the shape of vapour; and, commingled with these, a quantity of carbon in the shape of fixed air, sufficient to restore from its mass many-fold the coal that now exists in the world. Water is not compressible or elastic; it may be solidified into ice or vaporised into steam: but the air is elastic and compressible. It may be condensed to any extent by pressure, or expanded to an infinite degree of tenuity by pressure being removed from it. It is not liable to undergo any changes in constitution beyond these, by any of the ordinary influences by which it is affected."

If the heating and cooling process -- which we have described as being carried on between the equator and the poles -- were to cease, we should have a furious hurricane rushing perpetually round the globe at the rate of one thousand miles an hour, -- ten times the speed of the most violent tornado that has ever carried devastation over the surface of the earth.

The air, heated and dried as it sweeps over the arid surface of the soil, drinks up by day myriads of tons of moisture from the sea, -- so much, indeed, that, were none restored to it, the surface of the ocean would be depressed eight or ten feet annually.

We do not certainly know the height of the atmosphere. It is said that its upper surface cannot lie nearer to us than fifty, and can scarcely be further off than five hundred, miles. "It surrounds us on all sides, yet we cannot see it; it presses on us with a weight of fifteen pounds on every square inch of the surface of our bodies -- in other words, we are at all times sustaining a load of between seventy and one hundred tons of it on our persons -- yet we do not feel it! Softer than the finest down, more impalpable than the lightest gossamer, it leaves the cobweb undisturbed, and, at times, scarcely stirs the most delicate flower that feeds on the dew it supplies; yet it bears the fleets of nations on its wings round the world, and crushes the most refractory substances with its weight. It bends the rays of the sun from their path to give us the aurora of the morning and the twilight of evening. It disperses and refracts their various tints to beautify the approach and the retreat of the orb of day. But for the atmosphere, sunshine would burst on us in a moment and fail us in the twinkling of an eye, removing us in an instant from midnight darkness to the blaze of noon."

We have written a good deal on this subject, yet the thousandth part has not been told of even the grand and more obvious operations of the atmosphere, much less the actions and results of its minor and invisible processes. Were we to descend with philosophers into the minuter laboratories of the world, and consider the permeating, ramifying, subtle part the atmosphere plays in the innumerable transformations that are perpetually going on around and within us, we should be constrained to feel more deeply than we have ever yet felt, that the works of the Creator are indeed wonderful beyond all expression or conception.



Chapter Seven.

Waterspouts -- Causes Of -- Appearance -- Electricity -- Experiments -- Artificial Waterspouts -- Showers Of Fish -- Mr. Ellis On Waterspouts In The South Seas.

We turn back now from the atmospheric to the aqueous ocean. Yet so intimate is the connection between the two, that we shall find it impossible to avoid occasional reference to the former.

Our present subject, waterspouts, obliges us to recur for a little to the atmosphere, which we dismissed, or attempted to dismiss, in the last chapter.

There is no doubt that waterspouts are to a great extent, if not altogether, due to the presence of electricity in the air. When the clouds have been raging for some time in the skies of tropical regions, rendering the darkness bright, and the air tremulous with their dread artillery, they seem to grow unusually thirsty; the ordinary means of water-supply through the atmosphere do not appear to be sufficient for the demand, or war-tax in the shape of water-spouts, that is levied on nature. The clouds therefore descend to the sea, and, putting down their dark tongues, lick up the water thirstily in the form of waterspouts.

These whirling pillars of water frequently appear in groups of several at a time. They are of various heights, sometimes ranging up to seven hundred yards, with a thickness of fifty yards, and are very dangerous to ships that happen to come within their influence.

That they are caused by electricity has been proved by experiment --  miniature waterspouts have been produced by artificial means; and as Dr Bonzano of New York gives particular directions how the thing ought to be done, we quote his words for the benefit of those who happen to possess electrical machines.

"From the conductor of an electrical machine suspend, by a wire or chain, a small metallic ball (one of wood covered with tinfoil); and under the ball place a rather wide metallic basin, containing some oil of turpentine, at the distance of about three-quarters of an inch. If the handle of the machine be now turned slowly, the liquid in the basin will begin to move in different directions and form whirlpools. As the electricity on the conductor accumulates, the troubled liquid will elevate itself in the centre, and at last become attached to the ball. Draw off the electricity from the conductor, to let the liquid resume its position; a portion of the turpentine remains attached to the ball. Turn the handle again very slowly, and observe now the few drops adhering to the ball assume a conical shape, with the apex downward; while the liquid under it assumes also a conical shape, the apex upward, until both meet. As the liquid does not accumulate on the ball, there must necessarily be as great a current downward as upward, giving the column of liquid a rapid circular motion, which continues until the electricity from the conductor is nearly all discharged silently, or until it is discharged by a spark descending into the liquid. The same phenomena take place with oil or water. Using the latter liquid, the ball must be brought much nearer, or a much greater quantity of electricity is necessary to raise it.

"If, in this experiment, we let the ball swing to and fro, the little waterspout will travel over its immature sea, carrying its whirlpools along with it. When it breaks up, a portion of the liquid -- and with it anything it may contain -- remains attached to the ball. The fish, seeds, leaves, etcetera, that have fallen to the earth in rain-squalls, may have owed their elevation to the clouds to the same cause that attaches a few drops of the liquid, with its particles of impurities, to the ball."

There can be no doubt whatever that fish are carried up in waterspouts, because the descent of those creatures from the skies in rain is a well-established fact; and if they did not get there in waterspouts --  which, when we consider it, seems most natural -- then we are driven to the conclusion that their native region is the sky, which is by no means so natural or so probable. Many travellers have recorded the fact that small fish have descended in rain. In a letter written not long ago by a gentleman in Singapore we have the following account of a shower of fish: -- 

"We experienced a shock of earthquake here on the 16th February last. Its duration was about two minutes. Although it caused no damage, its undulatory motion was sufficiently strong to affect certain persons with a sensation akin to sea-sickness. It was followed by rain in torrents, on the 20th, 21st, and 22nd. On the latter day especially, we were, for half an hour, surrounded with water to a considerable depth. We could not see three yards before us. When the sun came out again, I saw a number of Malays and Chinese filling their baskets with fish contained in the pools formed by the rain.

"They told me the fish had 'fallen from heaven,' and three days later, when the pools were all dried up, there were still many dead fish lying about. As they lay in my court-yard, which is surrounded by a wall, they could not have been brought in by the overflowing of a torrent; indeed, there is none of any considerable size in the neighbourhood.

"The space covered by these fish might be about fifty acres, comprising the eastern part of the town. They were very lively, and seemed to be in good health."

The writer of the above suggests, with some degree of hesitation, that these fish were sucked up by waterspouts. We think that there need be no hesitation in the matter!

The appearance usually presented by a waterspout is that of a column of aqueous vapour reaching from the sea to the clouds, sometimes straight, more frequently a little bent, and thicker above and below than in the centre of the column.

Mr Ellis, the missionary, in his "Polynesian Researches," mentions having, with a companion, met and narrowly escaped being overwhelmed by several waterspouts, when passing on one occasion in an open boat between two islands about thirty miles apart. On the passage they were overtaken by a sudden and violent squall, which lasted several hours; and, in order to avoid being sunk, they tied their masts, oars, and sails in a bundle, and attaching a rope to them, and to the boat, cast them into the sea. Thus they lay, as it were, at anchor in the lee of this extemporised breakwater. It was but a feeble barrier, however, against so wild a storm, and the native boatmen were so overcome by fear, that they sat down in the bottom of the boat, and covered their eyes with their hands.

After a time the rain diminished, the sky began to clear, and the boat's crew to revive, when suddenly one of the men uttered a cry of consternation, and pointed to an object towards which all eyes were instantly turned. They beheld a large cylindrical waterspout, extending, like a massive column, from the ocean to the dark and impending clouds. It was not far distant, and seemed to move slowly towards the boat.

Had Mr Ellis had any doubt as to the danger of a waterspout, the extreme terror exhibited by the natives on this occasion must have removed it; for it was not probable that, just after escaping from the most imminent peril, they would fail back into a much more violent state of terror, unless former experience had given them too good reason to dread the presence of the object they now saw before them.

The roughness of the sea forbade their attempting to hoist a sail in order to avoid the waterspout. They were compelled, therefore, to summon all the resolution they possessed, to enable them calmly to await its approach, and put their trust in the arm of Jehovah.

The helm was in the hands of a seaman whose steadiness could be depended on. The natives were down in the bottom of the boat; they had given way to despair.

Two other waterspouts now came into view, and subsequently a third, if not more, so that they felt as if completely surrounded by them. Some were well defined, extending in an unbroken line from the sea to the sky, like pillars resting on the ocean as their basis, and supporting the clouds; others, assuming the shape of a funnel or inverted cone attached to the clouds, extended their sharp points to the ocean below. From the distinctness with which they were seen, it was judged that the furthest could not have been many miles distant. In some they imagined they could trace the spiral motion of the water as it was drawn up to the clouds, which were every moment being augmented in their portentous darkness. The sense of personal danger, Mr Ellis confesses, and the certainty of instant destruction if brought within their vortex, prevented a very careful observation of their appearance and accompanying phenomena.

The storm continued all day, and at intervals the party in the boat beheld, through the driving clouds and rain, one or other of those towering waterspouts; which, however, did not come nearer to them.

It is interesting to read the record left by a Christian missionary of his conflicting feelings on that terrible occasion. Mr Ellis believed that all hope of escape was over, and his mind went through that ordeal which must be the experience of every one who sees the steady approach of speedy death. He says that during those hours when he sat awaiting his doom, the thought of death itself did not make a deep impression. "The struggle, the gasp, as the wearied arm should attempt to resist the impetuous waves; the straining vision, that should linger on the last ray of retiring light, as the deepening veil of water would gradually conceal it for ever; and the rolling billows heaving over the sinking and dying body, which, perhaps ere life should be extinct, might become the prey of voracious inhabitants of the deep;" -- these things caused scarcely a thought, compared with the immediate prospect of the disembodied spirit being ushered into the presence of its Maker; the account to be rendered, and the awful and unalterable destiny that would await it there. "These momentous objects," he says, "absorbed all the powers of the mind, and produced an intensity of feeling, which, for a long time, rendered me almost insensible to the storm, or the liquid columns which threatened our destruction."

It was now that the missionary could look back with deepest gratitude upon that mercy which had first brought him to a knowledge of the Saviour. "Him and Him alone," he adds, "I found to be a refuge, a rock in the storm of contending feelings, on which my soul could cast the anchor of its hope for pardon and acceptance before God... I could not but think how awful would have been my state, had I in that hour been ignorant of Christ, or had I neglected or despised the offers of his mercy. Our prayers were offered to Him who is a present help in every time of danger, for ourselves and those who sailed with us; and under these and similar exercises several hours passed away."

Those prayers were answered, for the waterspouts gradually disappeared, and the boat got safe to land.

In speaking of another waterspout, seen on a subsequent voyage, Mr Ellis tells us that it was well defined, -- an unbroken column from the sea to the clouds, which on this occasion were neither dense nor lowering. Around the outside of the liquid cylinder was a kind of thick mist; and within, a substance resembling steam, ascending apparently with a spiral motion. The water at its base was considerably agitated with a whirling motion; while the spray which was thrown off from the circle formed by the lower part of the column, rose several feet above the level of the sea. It passed about a mile astern of the ship.

Occasionally, when passing nearer to a ship than was deemed safe, a waterspout has been dissipated by a cannon-shot, as represented in our engraving.

Such are the usual appearances and actions of waterspouts. They are not, however, properly named, being simply whirlwinds at sea, instead of whirlwinds on land. Professor Oersted suggests the name "storm-pillar," as being a more appropriate term.

It does not follow that a large ship would inevitably be destroyed if brought within the vortex of a waterspout; but it is certain that she would run the risk of being dismasted, and perhaps thrown on her beam-ends. Navigators have not had sufficient experience of the power of waterspouts to pronounce authoritatively on that point, -- and it is to be hoped they never will.

Captain Beechy, in his narrative of a voyage to the Pacific, describes one into which his ship actually entered, and from which he received extremely rough handling before he was set free. But this might not have been a very large waterspout; and it is not absolutely certain whether he was quite within its vortex, or was merely brushed by the skirts of its outer garment.

Certain it is that waterspouts vary in size and in power; for we read of them passing from the sea to the land, and there rooting up trees, unroofing and overturning houses, dismounting cannon, emptying fish ponds, half emptying harbours, and otherwise exhibiting a degree of force that would undoubtedly sink the largest vessel that ever was built, if brought thoroughly to bear upon it.

The rate of motion in waterspouts varies. Sometimes they revolve slowly, sometimes with the utmost rapidity. They often produce violent noise, as, indeed, might be expected; and they are generally accompanied by thunder and lightning, though not invariably so, for they are sometimes observed when the heavens are clear and the sea calm.



Chapter Eight.

The Arctic Seas -- Their Character, Scenery, And Atmospherical Illusions.

There is a tendency on the part of most writers on the subject of Polar Regions -- especially compilers -- to dwell disproportionately on the gloomy side of the picture; insomuch that readers are led, not to over-estimate the grand and the terrible aspects of the polar oceans, but to under-estimate the sweet and the beautiful influences that at certain periods reign there.

We quarrel not with authors for dwelling on the tremendous and the awful. Too much cannot be said on these points; but while they do not by any means paint the dark side of their picture too black, they fail to touch in the lights with sufficient brilliancy. We have had some personal experience of the arctic regions, and have found it extremely difficult to get many persons -- even educated men and women -- to understand that there is a summer there, though a short one; that in many places it is an uncommonly hot and excessively brilliant summer; and that the sun, as if to make amends for its prolonged absence in winter, shines all night as well as all day, blazing on the crystal icebergs and pure snow (which never disappear from those seas) with a degree of splendour that renders the far north transcendently beautiful and pre-eminently attractive.

We admit freely that the prevailing character of arctic seas, during the greater part of the year, is dark, gloomy, forbidding. But this is the very reason why their brief but cheering smiles should be brought prominently into the foreground, and, if they cannot in justice be dwelt on long, at least be touched upon with emphasis.

Why, in some of our cyclopaedia accounts of the realms of "thick-ribbed ice," so much prominence is given to "the horrors and wide desolation of the scene," and so much graphic power is expended in working up the reader's imagination to a conception of the dreadful dangers and the appalling terrors that await the madman who should dare to venture within the arctic circle, that persons who have not been there might well be tempted to shrink in affright from the very contemplation of a region in which there does not appear to be one redeeming quality.

We repeat, that we do not think the one side of the picture has been too darkly painted, -- but the other side has been painted too slightly.

At the same time, we would caution our readers against jumping to the opposite extreme. The dark side of the picture is in reality out of all proportion to the light. And we do not hesitate to state our confirmed opinion, that the arctic regions are more interesting to read about than pleasant to dwell in.

Having, then, defended the lights, let us commence our investigations with the shadows.

Those oceans lying within the arctic circle exhibit phenomena so grand, so wonderful, and so varied, that they claim distinct and separate treatment from the ocean as a whole. Here the extreme cold acts with such power, and produces such extraordinary results, that it is difficult to find words or similes by which to convey a just conception of nature's aspects to the general reader.

During nearly two-thirds of the year the arctic regions are under the absolute dominion of winter; and for many weeks of that bitter season they are shrouded with the mantle of a dark, sunless night. The entire ocean is locked in the embrace of a covering of ice many feet thick, so that its liquid aspect is thoroughly removed; and, owing to ice-masses scattered over its surface, together with mounds of drifted snow, it bears a much stronger resemblance to the land than to the sea. Gales of wind sometimes sweep over those frozen plains in bitter fury, hurling the snow into the air in vast eddying masses, and threatening destruction to any living creature that may chance to be exposed to them -- not so much from their violence, however, as from the intense cold of the atmosphere which is put in motion. But in regard to gales, although there are no lack of them, they are neither so fierce nor so frequent as are those of the torrid zone.

It might be supposed that in such a climate animal life could scarcely exist; but such is not the case. The inhabitants of part of the arctic regions, named Esquimaux (more correctly Eskimos, with the accent on the last syllable), are a stout, hardy, healthy race and the polar bears, foxes, wolves, seals, musk-oxen, walruses, etcetera, that dwell there, seem to enjoy their existence just as much as do the animals of more favoured and warmer climes.

During the short but hot summer of the arctic regions, the immense masses of ice formed in winter are by no means cleared away. A great part of the heat of early summer (there is no season there that merits the name of spring) is spent in breaking up the solid crust of ice on the sea, a large proportion of which is carried south by the currents that flow to the equator, and melted long before they reach the temperate zones. But a considerable quantity of broken ice-masses get locked in narrow places or stranded on shallows; and although they undergo the process of melting the whole summer, they are not much diminished ere the returning frost stops the process and locks them in the new ice of a succeeding winter.

Thus there is no period of the year in which large quantities of ice may not be seen floating about in the arctic seas.

This fact it is that enables us to speak appropriately of the scenery of the Arctic Ocean. And assuredly this scenery of the ice is exceedingly and strikingly beautiful. The imagination cannot conceive the dazzling effect of a bright summer day in those regions, when the ocean is clear as glass, and ice-humps and ice-mountains of every shape and size are glittering in the sun's rays with intense brilliancy, while the delicate whiteness of these floating islands, and the magical atmospheric illusions by which they are frequently surrounded, render the scene pre-eminently fairy-like.

All the navigators who have penetrated into the arctic seas speak with enthusiasm of the splendour of floating ice-masses. They take the most curious and fantastic shapes; sometimes appearing like great cities of white marble, with domes and towers and spires in profusion; sometimes looming huge and grand like fortresses, and many of them with their summits overhanging so much as to suggest the idea that they are about to fall. This indeed, they often do, adding to the grandeur of the scene, and not a little to the danger, should ships chance to be in the neighbourhood.

The atmospheric illusions, before mentioned, are the result of different temperatures existing within a few miles of each other, and which are caused by the presence of large bodies of ice. The effect of this is to cause the ice-masses on the horizon to appear as if floating in the air, and to distort them into all sorts of shapes, even turning them upside down, and thus affording to an innovative mind a most ample and attractive field wherein to expatiate.

To ascertain the causes of facts and effects so curious must be interesting to all who have inquiring minds. We will, therefore, attempt to describe and account for arctic phenomena in the following chapters as simply as may be.



Chapter Nine.

Formation Of Ice -- Dangers Of Disrupting Ice -- Anecdote -- Drifting Ice --  Drift Of The "Fox" -- "Nipping" Anecdote -- Loss Of The "Breadalbane."

It is well known that when fresh water becomes so cold that its temperature is 32 degrees of Fahrenheit's scale, it loses its liquid form and becomes ice. A somewhat lower temperature than this is necessary to freeze salt water; the reason being, that greater force is required to expel the salt which the sea holds in solution, -- which salt is always more or less expelled in the process of freezing.

Ice commences to form in the shape of needles, which shoot out at angles from each other. In smooth water, under the influence of intense cold, the process is rapid, and a thin cake soon covers the water, and increases in thickness hour by hour. But when the sea is agitated the process is retarded, and the fine needles are broken up into what arctic navigators call sludge. This, however, soon begins to cake, and is broken by the swell into small cakes; which, as they thicken, again unite, and are again broken up into larger masses. These masses, by rubbing against each other, have their edges slightly rounded up, and in this form receive the name of pancake ice.

When a quantity of ice covers the ocean in a wide level sheet of considerable extent, it is called an ice-field. Fields of this kind are often seen by navigators hundreds of miles in extent, and nearly thirty feet thick. Ice of such thickness, however, only shows five or six feet above water. When fields are broken by heavy ocean-swells, the edges are violently forced up, and fall in debris on the surface; thus hummocks or mounds are formed.

When field-ice breaks up under the influence of an ocean-swell, caused by a storm, the results are terrific.

An exceedingly graphic account of an incident of this kind is given by Dr Brown, in his "History of the Propagation of Christianity." He writes: -- 

"The missionaries met a sledge with Esquimaux, turning in from the sea, who threw out some hints that it might be as well for them to return. After some time, their own Esquimaux hinted that there was a ground-swell under the ice. It was then scarcely perceptible, except on lying down and applying the ear close to the ice, when a hollow, disagreeable, grating sound was heard ascending from the abyss. As the motion of the sea under the ice had grown more perceptible, they became alarmed, and began to think it prudent to keep close to the shore. The ice also had fissures in many places, some of which formed chasms of one or two feet; but as these are not uncommon in ice even in its best state, and the dogs easily leap over them, they are frightful only to strangers.

"As the wind rose to a storm, the swell had now increased so much that its effects on the ice were extraordinary, and really alarming. The sledges, instead of gliding smoothly along as on an even surface, sometimes ran with violence after the dogs, and sometimes seemed with difficulty to ascend a rising hill. Noises, too, like the report of cannon, were now distinctly heard in many directions, from the bursting of the ice at a distance. Alarmed at these frightful phenomena, our travellers drove with all haste towards the shore; and, as they approached it, the prospect before them was tremendous. The ice having burst loose from the rocks, was tossed to and fro, and broken in a thousand pieces against the precipices with a dreadful noise; which, added to the raging of the sea, the roaring of the wind, and the driving of the snow, so overpowered them as almost completely to deprive them of the use of their eyes and ears.

"To make the land was now the only resource that remained, but it was with the utmost difficulty that the frightened dogs could be driven forward; and as the whole body of the ice frequently sank below the summits of the rocks, and then rose above them, the only time for landing was the moment it gained the level of the coast -- a circumstance which rendered the attempt extremely nice and hazardous.

"Both sledges, however, succeeded in gaining the shore, and were drawn up off the beach, though not without great difficulty. Scarcely had they reached it, when that part of the ice from which they had just escaped burst asunder, and the water, rushing up from beneath, instantly precipitated it into the ocean. In a moment, as if by a signal, the whole mass of ice for several miles along the coast, and extending as far as the eye could reach, began to break up, and to be overwhelmed by the waves. The spectacle was awfully grand. The immense fields of ice rising out of the ocean clashing against each other, and then plunging into the deep with a violence which no language can describe, and with a noise like the discharge of a thousand cannon, was a sight which must have filled the most unreflecting mind with feelings of solemnity.

"The Brethren were overwhelmed with amazement at their miraculous escape, and even the Esquimaux expressed gratitude to God for their deliverance."

Such is the terrible aspect in which field-ice is seen when broken up and converted into smaller masses or floes. When these lie closely together the mass is called pack-ice; in which shape it usually drifts away with the southern currents, and, separating as it travels south, is met with in loose floating masses, of every fantastic form. There is always, as we have said, a large quantity of floe and pack-ice in the polar seas, which becomes incorporated with the new ice of the succeeding winter; and not infrequently whale and discovery ships get frozen into the pack, and remain there as firmly embedded as if they lay high and dry on land. When the pack is thus re-frozen, it usually remains stationary; but there are occasions and circumstances in which the entire body of a pack drifts slowly southward even during the whole year; showing clearly that oceanic circulation is by no means arrested by the icy hand of the hyperborean winter.

A very remarkable drift of this kind is recorded by Captain McClintock of the Fox, which is worthy of being noticed here, as illustrative of the subject we are now considering and also as showing in a remarkable manner the awful dangers to which navigators may be exposed by the disruption of the pack in spring, and the wonderful, almost miraculous, manner in which they are delivered from imminent destruction.

In attempting to cross Baffin's Bay, by penetrating what is called the "middle ice," the Fox was beset, and finally frozen in for the winter; and here, although their voyage may be said to have just commenced, they were destined to spend many months in helpless inactivity and comparative peril and privation. Their little vessel lay in the centre of a field of ice of immense extent; so large, indeed, that they could not venture to undertake a journey to ascertain its limits. Yet this field slowly and steadily descended Baffin's Bay during the whole winter, and passed over no fewer than 1385 statute miles in the space of 242 days, during which period the Fox was firmly embedded in it!

It is with difficulty the mind can form any adequate conception of the position of those voyagers; -- unable to move from their icy bed, yet constantly drifting over miles and miles of ocean; uncertain as to the where or the when of their deliverance from the pack; exposed to the terrible dangers of disrupting ice, and surrounded by the depressing gloom of the long arctic night.

At length deliverance came; but it came surrounded by terrors. In February, McClintock writes thus: "Daylight reveals to us evidences of vast ice-movements having taken place during the dark months, when we fancied all was still and quiet; and we now see how greatly we have been favoured, what innumerable chances of destruction we have unconsciously escaped. A few days ago, the ice suddenly cracked within ten yards of the ship, and gave her such a smart shock that every one rushed on deck with astonishing alacrity. One of these sudden disruptions occurred between me and the ship, when I was returning from the iceberg. The sun was just setting as I found myself cut off... At length I reached a place where the jagged edges of the floes met; so crossed, and got safely on board."

Again, in March, he says, "Last night the ice closed, shutting up our lane; but its opposite sides continued for several hours to move vast each other, rubbing off all projections, crushing and forcing out of the water masses four feet thick. Although one hundred and twenty yards distant, this pressure shook the ship and cracked the intervening ice."

Soon after that, a heavy gale burst upon them from the south-east, encircling them with snow-drift so dense that they could neither hear nor see what was going on twenty yards off. At night the ship became suddenly detached from her wintry bed, and heeled over to the storm, inducing them to believe that the whole pack had been broken in, and was pressing against them. This was not the case. A large mass of ice had protected them; but at a distance of about fifty yards, ice of four and a half feet thick had been crushed to atoms. Soon after, the protecting mass yielded, and the Fox received a nip which lifted her stern about a foot, while occasional groaning from her sturdy little hull replied to the wild surgings of the ice without.

But all this was as nothing compared with the scene of desperate turmoil and confusion which took place when the ice finally broke up, and a gale raised a fearful swell; so that the Fox found herself surrounded by huge masses, which tossed and ground against each other furiously, and any two of which pieces could have crushed in her sides as if she had been made of walnut shell. Gradually the pack opened out, and the vessel, by aid of wind and steam, was mercifully delivered from her dangerous position.

Before passing from the subject of risk to navigators to the consideration of other forms and aspects of polar ice, let us take a glance at an effectual case of nipping. There have been many partial and severe nips, the descriptions of which are all more or less graphic; but few ships have come so suddenly to the end of their career as did the Breadalbane, a small vessel that was used as a transport ship to the expedition in search of Sir John Franklin in 1852. One who was on board when it occurred thus describes it: -- 

Sunday, August 21st. -- About ten minutes past four, the ice passing the ship awoke me, and the door of my cabin, from the pressure, opened. I hurriedly put on my clothes, and on getting on deck found some hands on the ice endeavouring to save the boats; but the latter were instantly crushed to pieces. They little thought, when using their efforts to save the boats, that the ship was in so perilous a situation.

I went forward to hail the Phoenix (another ship that was fortunately near) for men to save the boats; and whilst doing so, the ropes by which we were secured parted, and a heavy nip took us, making every timber creak, and the ship tremble all over. I looked in the main hold, and saw the beams giving way. I hailed those on the ice, and told them of our critical situation, they not for one moment suspecting it. I then rushed to my cabin, hauled out my portmanteau on deck, and roared like a bull to those in their beds to jump out and save their lives. The startling effect on them might be more easily imagined than described. On reaching the deck, those on the ice called out to me to jump over the side, that the ship was going over. I left my portmanteau, and jumped over the side on the loose ice, and with difficulty, and with the assistance of those on the ice, succeeded in getting on the unbroken part, with the loss of the slippers I had on when quitting the vessel, with wet feet, etcetera. The cold was little thought of at the exciting moment -- life, not property, being the object to be saved.

"After being on the ice about five minutes, the timbers, etcetera, in the ship cracking up as matches would in the hand, it eased for a short time; and I, with some others, returned to the ship, with the view of saving some of our effects.

"Captain Inglefield now came running towards the ship, and ordered me to see if the ice was through it. On looking down into the hold, I saw all the beams, etcetera, falling about in a manner that would have been certain death to me had I ventured down there. But there was no occasion for that (I mean to ascertain the fact of the ice being through), it being too evident that the ship could not last many minutes. I then sounded the well, and found five feet in the hold; and, whilst in the act of sounding, a heavier nip than before pressed out the starboard bow, and the ice was forced right into the forecastle. Every one then abandoned the ship, with what few clothes they saved -- some with only what they had on. The ship now began to sink fast, and from the time her bowsprit touched the ice until her mast-heads were out of sight, did not occupy above one minute and a half!

"It was a very sad and unceremonious way of being turned out of our ship. From the time the first nip took her, until her disappearance, did not occupy more than fifteen minutes."

Such is the account of the fate of the Breadalbane. While we read it, we cannot help feeling that many arctic ships must have perished in a similar manner. It is wonderful, nevertheless, how many of those that dare the dangers of the ice survive the conflict. Undoubtedly this is owing, to a large extent, to the fact that ships' bottoms are rounded; so that when a severe nip takes place, there is a tendency in the ice to slip under their rounded bottoms, and squeeze the vessels up out of the water. Were it not for this, few ships that have gone to those seas would ever have returned.

A catastrophe such as that which befell the Breadalbane shows the immense power of field-ice. Hundreds of somewhat similar incidents might be cited to illustrate this power; but we content ourselves with the selection of one instance, which exhibits it in a remarkable manner, and at the same time shows the way in which heavy vessels are sometimes forced out of the water.

In the year 1836, Captain Back commanded the Terror, which was sent out to make geographical discoveries in the polar regions, and spent the winter of that year in the ice. Few ships have undergone severer tests than did the Terror on that voyage. The severest treatment she experienced was in the spring, when the disruption of the winter ice began to take place. The evening of the 7th of March was specially fraught with danger. We quote the gallant commander's graphic account: -- 

"Ominous rushing sounds were heard far off to the north-east and north-west. These gradually drew nearer as the flood made its way, either under the compact bodies that withstood the shock, or along the cracks and openings -- gaining in these latter a furious velocity, to which everything seemed to yield.

"It happened that there were several of these around the ship; and when they opened on us like so many conduits pouring their contents to a common centre, the concussion was absolutely appalling, rending the lining and bulkheads in every part, loosening some shores and stanchions, so that the slightest effort would have thrown them down, and compressing others with such force as to make the turpentine ooze out of their extremities. One fir plank, placed horizontally between the beams and the shores actually glittered with globules. At the same time the pressure was going on from the larboard side, where the three heaviest parts of the ruin of the floe remained, cracked here and there, but yet adhering in firm and solid bodies. These, of course, were irresistible; and after much groaning, splitting, and cracking, accompanied by sounds like the explosion of cannon, the ship rose fore and aft, and heeled over about ten degrees to starboard."

Again, on the 11th, Back says: "At this time she showed symptoms of suffering in the hull, which was evidently undergoing a severe ordeal. Inexplicable noises, in which the sharp sounds of splitting and the harsher ones of grinding were most distinct, came in quick succession, and then again stopped suddenly, leaving all so still that not even a breath was heard.

"In an instant the ship was felt to rise under our feet, and the roaring and rushing commenced with a deafening din alongside, abeam and astern, at one and the same instant. Alongside, the grinding masses held the ship tight as in a vice; while the overwhelming pressure of the entire body, advancing from the west, so wedged the stern and starboard quarter, that the greatest apprehensions were entertained for the stern-post and framework abaft.

"Some idea of the power exerted on this occasion may be gathered from this: -- At the moment which I am now describing, the fore-part of the ship was literally buried as high as the flukes of the anchors in a dock of perpendicular walls of ice; so that, in that part, she might well have been thought immovable. Still, such was the force applied to her abaft, that after much cracking and perceptible yielding of the beams, which seemed to curve upwards, she actually rose by sheer pressure above the dock forward; and then, with sudden jerks, did the same abaft. During these convulsions, many of the carpenters and others stationed below were violently thrown down on the deck, as people are in an earthquake. It was a moment of intense suspense.

"On the 16th, another rush drove irresistibly on the larboard quarter and stern, and forcing the ship ahead, raised her on the ice. A chaotic ruin followed... The ship was careened fully four streaks, and sprang a leak as before. Scarcely were ten minutes left us for the expression of our astonishment that anything of human build could outlive such assaults, when another equally violent rush succeeded; and in its way toward the starboard quarter threw up a rolling wave thirty feet high, crowned by a blue square mass of many tons, resembling the entire side of a house, which, after hanging for some time in doubtful poise on the ridge, at length fell with a crash into the hollow, in which, as in a cavern, the after-part of the ship seemed embedded. It was, indeed, an awful crisis, rendered more frightful from the mistiness of the night and dimness of the moon.

"The poor ship cracked and trembled violently, and no one could say that the next minute would not be her last -- and, indeed, his own too, for with her our means of safety would probably perish."

It is unnecessary to give additional instances of this kind, in order to show the terrible power of field-ice. Indeed, it requires little in the way of illumination to prove that masses of solid matter, many thousands of tons in weight, can, when in motion, utterly destroy the most powerful engines of human construction.

We shall now turn our attention to another, and a very prominent form, in which arctic ice presents itself -- namely, that of icebergs.



Chapter Ten.

Icebergs -- Their Appearance And Forms -- Their Cause -- Glaciers -- Their Nature And Origin -- Anecdote Of Scoresby -- Risk Among Icebergs -- Mcclure's Experience.

There are not only ice-fields, ice-floes, etcetera, in the polar seas, but there are ice-mountains, or bergs.

It was long a matter of uncertainty as to where and how those immense mountains, that are met with occasionally at sea, were formed. We are now in a position to tell definitely where they originate, and how they are produced. They are not masses of frozen sea water. Their birth-place is in the valleys of the far north, and they are formed by the accumulation of the snows and ice of ages. This is a somewhat general way of stating the matter; but our subsequent explanations will, we trust, make our meaning abundantly clear.

Icebergs are found floating in great numbers in the arctic seas. They drift southward each spring with the general body of polar ice, and frequently travel pretty far south in the Atlantic before the heat of the water and atmosphere united accomplishes their dissolution. They sometimes travel as far south as Florida with the southerly current that flows along that coast; but the warm waters of the Gulf Stream, together with its northerly flow, form an impassable barrier between these ice-mountains and Europe.

Icebergs assume every variety of form, and almost every size. They sometimes resemble castles, sometimes churches with glittering spires, and sometimes the peaked and jagged mountains of Norway. They are also frequently seen in the form of immense misshapen and top-heavy masses.

In size they vary from one hundred to seven or eight hundred feet in height. One iceberg, seen by Ross in Baffin's Bay, was above two miles in length, nearly the same in width, and fifty feet high. But in stating this, we have not given the reader any idea of its vast proportions; for it is well known that all icebergs, or masses of ice, have a much greater proportion of their bulk under than above water -- in other words, they sink very deep. The relative proportion that sinks depends on the nature of the ice. Of some kinds, there is usually ten times as much below as there is above water; of other kinds, there may be eight or five parts below. In all cases there is much more below than above so that a mountain of a hundred feet high -- if afloat -- may be safely calculated to be a mass of ice not far short of a thousand feet thick.

As these bergs float southward with the currents, they melt very rapidly. The heat of the sun and the action of the waves gradually round off the sharp angles and topple down the spires that characterised them in the land of their birth. The process of dissolution, too, is carried on internally; for rain and melted water on the surface percolates through the mass, rendering it porous. As the waves cut away the base, the centre of gravity is thrown out, and the whole berg turns over with a terrible crash. Sometimes loud reports like cannon-shots are heard, and the huge mountain splits asunder; while, not unfrequently, the whole berg falls into a heap of chaotic ruins, and floats away in a mass of smaller pieces which disappear gradually in their parent sea.

The formation of icebergs has, as we have said, puzzled mankind for many years. Their existence has long been known: for, even before men dared to venture their lives in the polar regions, navigators, in crossing the Atlantic Ocean, frequently met with these marble-like mountains; and, what is worse, sometimes ran at full speed against them, and were sunk with all on board. Bergs are frequently enveloped in dense fogs, caused by the cold atmosphere by which they are surrounded condensing the moisture of the warmer atmosphere which they encounter on their voyage southward; hence they are exceedingly dangerous to navigation. But now to speak of their formation.

Many of the great valleys of the far north are completely filled up with solid ice. Observe, we do not say that they are merely covered over with ice; they are absolutely filled up with it from top to bottom. Those ice-masses are known by the name of glaciers; and they are found in most of the elevated regions of the Earth, -- on the Alps and the mountains of Norway, for instance, -- but they exist in greater abundance about the poles than elsewhere.

Glaciers never melt. They have existed for unknown ages, probably since the world began; and they will, in all likelihood, continue to exist until the world comes to an end, -- at least until the present economy of the world terminates. They began with the first fall of snow, and as falls of snow during the long winters of the polar regions are frequent and heavy, the accumulated masses are many feet deep, especially in places where drifts are gathered -- sometimes fifteen, twenty, thirty, and even forty feet deep. The summer sun could not melt such drifts entirely. New snow was added each winter, until the valleys of the far north were filled up; and so they remain filled up to this day.

In order to understand the nature of glaciers clearly, let us turn back to those remote ages that rolled over this Earth long before man was created. Let us in spirit leap back to the time when no living creature existed, even before the great mastodon began to leave his huge foot-prints on the sands of time.

We have reached one of the large valleys of the arctic regions. It is solemn, grand, and still. No merry birds, no prowling creatures, are there to disturb the universal calm. The Creator has not yet formed the living creatures and pronounced them "very good." It is the world's first winter. As we look upward to the sky, we observe the first white snow-flakes falling gently to the ground. They reach it, and, for the first time, that valley is covered with a garment of virgin snow. The valley is upwards of two miles broad. It rises from the sea, and goes far back into the mountains, perhaps to the extent of ten or twelve miles. The mountains that flank it are five or six thousand feet high. We have seen such valleys in Norway, within the arctic circle. Before that first winter has passed, many and many a fall of snow has thickened and pressed down that first coat; and many a furious storm has caught up the snow from the mountain-tops and swept it into the valley, adding to and piling up the mass, and packing it firmly down.

Spring arrives. The short but warm arctic summer bursts upon that vale, melting the surface of the snow; and the water thus produced sinks through the mass, converting it into a sort of thick slush -- half snow, half water, -- not liquid, yet not solid; just solid enough to lie there apparently without motion; yet just liquid enough to creep by slow, absolutely imperceptible degrees, down the valley. The snow in all the mountain gorges is similarly affected: it creeps (it cannot be said to flow) out and joins that in the vale. But we cannot perceive any of the motion of which we are writing. The mass of snow seems to be as still and motionless as the rocks on which we stand; nay, if we choose we may walk on its hard surface almost without leaving the slightest print of our foot. But if we throw a large stone on the surface of the snow and mark the spot, and return again after many days, we shall find that the stone has descended the valley a short distance. We shall also observe that the snow has now a variety of markings on its surface; which might lead us to fancy, had we not known better, that it had once been a river, which, while raging down to the sea with all its curling rapids and whirling eddies, had been arrested in all instant by the ice-king and frozen solid, -- in fact, it has all the graceful lines and forms of fluidity, with all the steady, motionless aspect of solidity. It really moves, this vast body of snow; but, like the hour hand of a watch, its motion cannot be recognised, though we should observe it with prolonged, unflagging attention. We have called it a vast body of snow, but this is only comparatively speaking. It will be vaster yet before we have done with it. At present it is but a thick semi-fluid covering, lying at the bottom of this ancient arctic vale.

The brief summer ends. Much of the winter snow has been melted and returned to the sea; but much, very much more, is still lying deep upon the ground. The world's second winter comes. The first frost effectually puts a stop to all the melting and moving that we have been describing. The snow-river no longer moves -- it is arrested. The water no longer percolates through the snow -- it is frozen. The mass is no longer semi-fluid -- it is solid ice; and the first step in the process of a glacier's formation is begun.

Thereafter this process is continued from year to year, each winter adding largely to its bulk, each summer deducting slightly therefrom. The growing mass of ice ascends the mountain-sides, swallows the rocks and shrubs and trees in its progress, until its body becomes a thousand feet thick: the extreme summits of the mountain-peaks alone tower above the snowy waste, and the mass at the bottom is now, by the pressure of superincumbent masses, pure ice, hard and clear as crystal.

When the great glacier grows old it still maintains its stealthy downward motion during every summer. It has reached the shore, and has been pushed, like a huge white tongue, out into the sea.

"But what has all this to do with icebergs?" it may be inquired. Much, very much. It is common enough, in commenting on a child, to speak of the parent. The glacier is the mother of the iceberg.

When, in the world's early morning, the embryo glacier reached the sea, its thin edges were easily broken off by the waves; but as it increased and still further encroached, these edges became thicker and thicker, until at last a wall of pure ice, several hundred feet high, presented its glittering front to the ocean. It was hard and massive; the sun of summer had little effect on its frigid face, and it seemed to bid defiance to the sea itself. But things often are not what they seem. Each billow sapped its foundation; it soon began to overhang its base. At length the cohesion of the mass was not sufficient to sustain its weight. A rending, accompanied by sounds like heaven's artillery, took place; the crystal mountain bowed its brow and fell with thunderous crash upon the water; then, rocking slowly under the impulse of its dread plunge, the first iceberg floated off to sea!

It is right to remark here that this explanation is, to some extent, disputed -- at least there is a difference of opinion as to the manner in which the iceberg leaves its parent glacier. There is no dispute as to its origin. This difference will be explained shortly in a quotation from Dr Kane's work; meanwhile, in support of the present theory, let us listen to the words of one who saw with his own eyes something similar to what has been described. Dr Scoresby, than whom a better man never explored the arctic seas, says: -- 

"In July 1818, I was particularly fortunate in witnessing one of the grandest effects which these polar glaciers ever present. A strong north-westerly swell, having for some hours been beating on the shore, had loosened a number of fragments attached to the iceberg, and various heaps of broken ice denoted recent shoots of the seaward edge. As we advanced towards it, with a view of proceeding close to its base, I observed a few little pieces fall from the top; and while my eye was fixed upon the place, an immense column, probably fifty feet square, and one hundred and fifty feet high, began to leave the parent ice at the top, and, leaning majestically forward, with an accelerated velocity fell, with an awful crash, into the sea.

"The water into which it plunged was converted into an appearance of vapour or smoke, like that from a furious cannonading. The noise was equal to that of thunder, which it nearly resembled. The column which fell was nearly square, and in magnitude resembled a church. It broke into thousands of pieces. This circumstance was a happy caution, for we might inadvertently have gone to the very base of the icy cliff from whence masses of considerable magnitude were continually breaking!"

Now, this incident suggests the probability, that, had the face of the glacier projected into deep water, the mass which broke off might have fallen into the sea without being broken to pieces, and might have floated away as a berg. We confess, however, to be partial to the view expressed by some writers, that the great glaciers continue year by year to thrust their thick tongues out to sea, until the projecting masses reach water sufficiently deep to float them, when they are quietly cracked off from their parent and carried away without any fall or plunge. The following remarks by Dr Kane will make this more clear. Writing of the iceberg, he says:

"So far from falling into the sea, broken by its weight from the parent glacier, it rises from the sea. The process is at once gradual and comparatively quiet. The idea of icebergs being discharged, so universal among systematic writers, and so recently admitted by myself, seems to me at variance with the regulated and progressive action of nature. Developed by such a process, the thousands of bergs which throng these seas should keep the air and water in perpetual commotion --  one fearful succession of explosive detonations and propagated waves. But it is only the lesser masses falling into deep waters which could justify the popular opinion. The enormous masses of the Great Glacier [of Greenland] are propelled step by step, and year by year, until, reaching water capable of supporting them, they are floated off, to be lost in the temperatures of other regions...

"The height of the ice-wall at the nearest point was about three hundred feet, measured from the water's edge; and the unbroken right line of its diminishing perspective showed that this might be regarded as its constant measurement. It seemed, in fact, a great icy table-land, abutting with a clean precipice against the sea. This is, indeed, characteristic of all those arctic glaciers which issue from central reservoirs, or mers de glace, upon the fords or bays, and is strikingly in contrast with the dependent or hanging glacier of the ravines."

Elsewhere the same writer speaks of this glacier as a line of cliff, rising in a solid glassy wall to a height of three hundred feet above the water-level, and with an unfathomable depth below it; and its curved face, sixty miles in length, from Cape Agassiz to Cape Forbes, vanished into unknown space at not more than a single day's rail-road travel from the pole. The interior with which it communicated, and from which it issued, was an unsurveyed mer de glace, or sea of ice, of apparently boundless dimensions; and from one part of this great cliff he saw long lines of huge bergs floating slowly away.

Here, we think, is ice enough and of sufficient dimensions to account for the largest bergs that were ever beheld.

It will be at once seen, then, that icebergs, though found floating in the sea, are not necessarily of the sea. They are composed entirely of fresh water, and arctic ships can at any time procure a plentiful supply of good soft drinkable water from the pools that are formed in the hollows of the bergs.

The risk of approaching icebergs in the arctic regions is not so great as when they are found floating further south; because when in their native regions they are comparatively tough, whereas on their southern journeys they become more or less disintegrated -- in fact, the blow of an axe is sometimes sufficient to cause a rent, which in its turn will induce other rents and failings asunder, so that the whole mass runs the risk of being entirely broken up. Hence the danger of ships, in certain circumstances, venturing to anchor to them. Nevertheless this is a common practice -- sometimes a necessity -- among discovery ships and whalers. It is a convenient practice too; for many a vessel has been saved from absolute destruction by getting under the lee of a good sound iceberg, where she has lain as safely, for the time being, as if in a harbour.

When Captain McClure was endeavouring to make the north-west passage in 1851, he was saved, from what appeared to be at least very probable destruction, by a small iceberg. On the 17th of September he writes:

"There were several heavy floes in the vicinity. One, full six miles in length, passed at the rate of two knots, crushing everything that impeded its progress, and grazed our starboard-bow. Fortunately there was but young ice upon the opposite side, which yielded to the pressure; had it otherwise occurred, the vessel must inevitably have been cut asunder. In the afternoon we secured to a moderately-sized iceberg, drawing eight fathoms, which appeared to offer a fair refuge, and from which we never afterwards parted."

To this lump of ice the ship clung with the tenacity of a bosom friend, and followed it, literally, through thick and thin! There is something almost ludicrous, as well as striking, in McClure's account of their connection with this bit of ice. It conveyed them to their furthest north-east position, and back round the Princess Royal Islands -- passed the largest within five hundred yards -- returned along the coast of Prince Albert's Land -- and finally froze in at latitude 70 degrees 50 minutes north, longitude 117 degrees 55 minutes west, on the 30th September; during which circumnavigation they received many severe "nips," and were frequently driven close to the shore, from which their dear friend the iceberg, small though he was, kept them off.

Icebergs assume almost every conceivable form, and are seen of every size -- sometimes, also, in great numbers. Scoresby mentions one occasion on which he was surrounded by bergs to the number of several hundreds.

Now, all this ice that we have been speaking of, besides being, in a secondary way, a passive agent in the affairs of man (chiefly in barring his progress northward), is one of the most potent agents in the economy of nature. It is the means by which the world is kept cool enough for man and beast to dwell in. The polar regions -- north and south -- are, as it were, the world's refrigerators; tempering the heated air of the south, and, in connection with the torrid zone, spreading throughout the Earth those beneficial influences which gladden the sphere of man's temporal existence.



Chapter Eleven.

Ice An Agent In Transporting Boulders -- How This Comes About -- Dr. Kane's Observations -- Long Night In Winter And Long Day In Summer -- Extreme Darkness -- Influence On Dogs -- Intense Cold -- Effect On The Sea.

There are many things in this world which, up to within a few years back, have been to men a source of surprise and mystery.

Some of these problems have been solved by recent travellers, and not a few of them are referable to polar oceans and ice.

In many parts of our coasts we find very striking and enormously large boulder-stones lying on the beach, perfectly isolated, and their edges rounded away like pebbles, as if they had been rolled on some antediluvian beach strewn with Titanic stones. These boulders are frequently found upon the loose sands of the sea-shore, far removed from any rocks or mountains from which they might be supposed to have been broken; and, more than that, totally different in their nature from the geological formations of the districts in which they are found. "Whence came these?" has been the question of the inquisitive of all ages, "and how came they there?"

There may, for aught we know to the contrary, be more than one answer to these questions; but there is at least one which is quite satisfactory as to how and whence at least some of them have come. Ice was the means of conveying these boulders to their present positions.

It has been said that once upon a time a large part of this country was under the dominion of ice, even as the polar regions and some of the mountains and valleys of Norway are at the present day; that the boulders we see in elevated places were conveyed thither by glacier action; and that when the glacial period passed away, they were left there on the hill-sides -- sometimes almost on the mountain-tops. But this is not the question we are considering just now. We are now inquiring into the origin of those huge boulders that are found upon our coasts and on the coasts of other lands -- boulders which could not have rolled down from the hills, for there are no hills at all near many of them; and those hills that are near some of them are of different geological formation.

This question will be answered at once, and one of the phenomena of arctic ice and oceanic agency will be exhibited, by reference to the recent discoveries of the celebrated arctic voyager, Dr Kane of the American Navy.

While wintering far beyond the head of Baffin's Bay, and beyond the most northerly point, in that direction, that had at that time been reached by any previous traveller, Dr Kane made many interesting observations and discoveries. He seems to have penetrated deep into the heart of Nature's northern secrets. Among other things, he ascertained the manner in which boulders are transported from their northern home.

The slow, creeping movement of glaciers, to which we have already referred, is one means whereby large boulders are formed. At the lower edge of one of the glaciers of Norway we saw boulders, thirty or forty feet in diameter, which had been rolled and forced, probably for ages, down the valley by the glacier, and thrust out on the sea-beach, where they lay with their angles and corners rubbed off and their surfaces rounded and smoothed as completely as those of the pebbles by which they were surrounded.

Had these boulders been formed in the arctic regions, they might have been thrust out upon the thick solid crust of the frozen sea, which in time would have been broken off and floated away; thus rafting the boulders to other shores. The formation of boulders, and their positions, are facts that we have seen. Their being carried out to sea by ice-rafts is a fact that Dr Kane has seen and recorded. On the wild rocky shores where his ship was set fast, there was a belt of ice lining the margin of the sea, which he termed the "ice-belt," or the "ice-foot." This belt never melted completely, and was usually fast to the shore. In fact it was that portion of the sea-ice which was left behind each spring when the general body of ice was broken up and swept away. Referring to this, he writes:

"The spot at which we landed I have called Cape James Kent. It was a lofty headland, and the land-ice which hugged its base was covered with rocks from the cliffs above. As I looked over this ice-belt, losing itself in the far distance, and covered with its millions of tons of rubbish, greenstones, limestones, chlorite, slates, rounded and angular, massive and ground to powder, its importance as a geological agent, in the transportation of drift, struck me with great force.

"Its whole substance was studded with these varied contributions from the shore; and further to the south, upon the now frozen waters of Marshall Bay, I could recognise raft after raft from the last year's ice-belt which had been caught by the winter, each one laden with its heavy freight of foreign material.

"The water torrents and thaws of summer unite with the tides in disengaging the ice-belt from the coast; but it is not uncommon for large bergs to drive against it and carry away the growths of many years. I have found masses that had been detached in this way, floating many miles out at sea -- long, symmetrical tables, two hundred feet long by eighty broad, covered with large angular rocks and boulders, and seemingly impregnated throughout with detrited matter. These rafts in Marshall Bay were so numerous, that could they have melted as I saw them, the bottom of the sea would have presented a more curious study for the geologist than the boulder-covered lines of our middle latitudes. One boulder in particular had had its origin in a valley where rounded fragments of water-washed greenstone had been poured out by the torrents and frozen into the coast-ice of the belt. The attrition of subsequent matter had truncated the great egg-shaped rock, and worn its sides into a striated face, whose scratches still indicated the line of water-flow."

So, then, when we next meet with a huge isolated boulder on any of our flat beaches, we may gaze at it with additional interest, when we reflect that, perchance, it was carried thither by the ocean, countless ages ago, from the arctic regions, on a gigantic raft of ice; after having been, at a still more remote period, torn from its cliffs by some mighty glacier and slowly rolled and rounded, for hundreds of years perhaps down the scarred slopes of its native valley.

The primary cause of the intense and prolonged cold of the arctic regions is the shortness of the time during which they are under the influence of the sun's rays. For a few months in summer the sun shines brightly, but, owing to the position of the globe, obliquely on the poles. During part of that period it shines at mid-night as well as at mid-day. Put during the greater part of the year its beams throw but a feeble light there, and for several months in winter there is absolutely no day at all -- nothing but one long dismal night of darkness, that seems as if the bright orb of day had vanished from the heavens for ever.

The length of this prolonged day in summer, and this dreary night in winter, depends, of course, upon latitude. The length of both increases as we approach the poles. The long daylight in summer is exceedingly delightful. We once saw the sun describe an almost unbroken circle in the sky for many days and nights, and had we been a few degrees further north we should have seen it describe an entire circle. As it was, it only disappeared for twenty minutes. It set about midnight, and in twenty minutes it rose again so that there was no night, not even twilight, but a bright, beautiful blazing day, for several weeks together.

Dr Kane describes the midnight sun thus: "On our road we were favoured with a gorgeous spectacle, which hardly any excitement of peril could have made us overlook. The midnight sun came out over the northern crest of the great berg, our late 'fast friend,' kindling variously-coloured fires on every part of its surface, and making the ice around us one great resplendency of gem-work -- blazing carbuncles and rubies, and molten gold."

Very different indeed is the aspect of the winter night. Let the same authority speak, for he had great experience thereof.

On December 15th he writes: "We have lost the last vestige of our mid-day twilight. We cannot see print, and hardly paper. The fingers cannot be counted a foot front the eyes. Noonday and midnight are alike; and, except a vague glimmer on the sky, that seems to define the hill-outlines to the south, we have nothing to tell us that this arctic world of ours has a sun. In one week more we shall reach the midnight of the year...

"The influence of this long intense darkness was most depressing. Even our dogs, although the greater number of them were natives of the arctic circle, were unable to withstand it. Most of them died from an anomalous form of disease, to which I am satisfied, the absence of light contributed as much as extreme cold." Quoting from his journal he says: "I am so afflicted with the insomnia of this eternal night, that I rise at any time between midnight and noon. I went on deck this morning at five o'clock. It was absolutely dark; the cold not permitting a swinging lamp, there was not a glimmer came to me through the ice-crusted window-panes of the cabin. While I was feeling my way, half puzzled as to the best method of steering clear of whatever might be before me, two of my Newfoundland dogs put their cold noses against my hand, and instantly commenced the most exuberant antics of satisfaction. It then occurred to me how very dreary and forlorn must these poor animals be, at atmospheres 10 degrees above zero in-doors and 50 degrees below zero without -- living in darkness, howling at an accidental light, as if it reminded them of the moon -- and with nothing, either of instinct or sensation, to tell them of the passing hours, or to explain the long lost daylight. They shall see the lantern more frequently."

Yet this state of midnight darkness is not altogether unmitigated. There are a few ameliorating influences at work, the nature of some of which we will treat of in the next chapter. Among others, the moon frequently shines there with great brilliancy in winter. Dr Kane says that in October the moon had reached her greatest northern declination: "She is a glorious object. Sweeping around the heavens, at the lowest part of her curve she is still 14 degrees above the horizon. For eight days she has been making her circuit with nearly unvarying brightness. It is one of those sparkling nights that bring back the memory of sleigh-bells and songs and glad communings of hearts in lands that are far away."

But despite all the varied and transient beauties of the northern skies in winter, the long arctic night is undoubtedly depressing in the extreme. In these regions men speak of being able to read the thermometer on the 7th of November at noonday "without a light," as being matter for gratulation. The darkness still before them at that time would be of about three months' duration, and even then they would only get back to a species of twilight.

The cold experienced by these navigators of the northern seas is terribly intense. Their thermometers have frequently indicated a temperature as low as 75 degrees below zero, or 107 degrees of frost, on Fahrenheit's scale. The thermometers of arctic explorers are always filled with spirits of wine, as quicksilver freezes at about 40 degrees below zero, and is therefore unsuitable. It would be frozen, indeed, the greater part of the winter.

Dr Kane says: "At such temperatures chloric ether became solid, and carefully prepared chloroform exhibited a granular pellicle on its surface. Spirits of naphtha froze at 54 degrees below zero, and oil of sassafras at 49 degrees. The oil of winter-green was in a flocculent state at 56 degrees, and solid at 63 degrees.

"The exhalations from the surface of the body invested the exposed or partially clad parts with a wreath of vapour. The air had a perceptible pungency upon inspiration, but I could not perceive the painful sensation which has been spoken of by some Siberian travellers. When breathed for any length of time, it imparted a sensation of dryness to the air-passages. I noticed that, as it were involuntarily, we all breathed guardedly, with compressed lips."

Now, strange to say, this extremely low temperature does not affect the ocean to any great depth. Just below the ice, in cold such as the above, the sea was found to be 29 degrees above zero. No doubt, deeper down, the temperature was still warmer. We have heard it said, that when men chance to fall into the water in cold regions, in the depth of winter, it feels at first rather warm and agreeable! On scrambling out again, however, their condition is not enviable; for in a few minutes the keen frost causes their garments to become as hard as boards.

Much light has been thrown on the fact of the existence of under and upper currents in the sea, by the phenomena of the arctic regions, and some of the questions to which these currents give rise are so interesting that we shall treat of them in a new chapter.



Chapter Twelve.

Question Of An Open Sea Round The Poles -- Upper And Under Currents Of The Ocean -- Cause Thereof -- Habits Of The Whale As Bearing On The Question --  Dr. Kane's Discovery Of An Open Sea In The Far North -- Notes On The Expedition -- A Bear-Hunt.

It was long and very naturally supposed that the impenetrable ice of the arctic regions extended to, and, as it were, sealed up the pole. But from time to time philosophic observers of Nature's laws began to hint their opinion that there is an open ocean around the pole; and of late years this opinion has all but been converted into a firm belief.

Maury remarks, that like air -- like the body -- the ocean must have a system of circulation for its waters. And an attentive study of the currents of the sea, and a close examination of the laws which govern the movements of the waters in their channels of circulation through the ocean, will lead us irresistibly to the conclusion that always, in summer and winter, there must be, somewhere within the arctic circle, a large body of open water.

There is an under-current setting from the Atlantic, northward through Davis' Straits, into the Arctic Ocean, and a surface-current setting out.

The fact is proved beyond a doubt by the observations of arctic explorers, who have seen immense icebergs drifting rapidly northward against a strong current. This apparent anomaly could only be accounted for by the fact that a powerful undercurrent carried them northward; and as at least seven times more of these bergs must have been under than above water, we can easily understand how the under-current, acting on the larger mass of each berg, had power to carry it against the surface-current.

This under-current is warm, while the upper-current is cold. Now we know that according to Nature's laws, heated water, like heated air, rises to the surface, and cold water sinks to the bottom. How, then, comes this warm current to be underneath the cold, as soundings have proved it to be? It is owing to the fact that the under-current is much salter, and therefore heavier (despite its warmth), than the surface-current; which latter, being mingled with the drainage and ice-masses of the arctic regions, is comparatively fresh, and therefore light as well as cold.

The hot and salt waters of the tropics are carried north by the Gulf Stream. There are here two counteracting agents at work. Heat inclines the Gulf Stream to rise; saltness inclines it to sink. During the first part of its journey, as we know, its great heat prevails over the other influence, and it flows as a surface-current. But, at a certain point in its northward route, it meets with the cold, brackish, ice-bearing currents that flow out of the arctic basin. Having lost much of its heat (though still possessing a great deal more than the arctic currents), the saltness of the Gulf Stream prevails; it dips below the polar waters, and thenceforth continues its course as an under-current, salt, and comparatively warm.

To state the matter briefly: The hot water, which ought to keep on the surface because of its heat, is sunk by its superabundant salt; and the cold water, which ought to sink because of its cold, is buoyed on the surface because of its want of salt.

Now arises the question -- what becomes of the great quantity of salt that is thus being carried perpetually into the polar basin? Manifestly it must be carried out again by the surface-current, otherwise the polar basin would of necessity become a basin of salt. The under-current must, therefore, rise to the surface somewhere near the pole, with its temperature necessarily only a little, if at all, below the freezing-point -- which, be it observed, is a warm temperature for such regions. Here, then, where the warm waters from the south rise to the surface, it is supposed this open Arctic Ocean must exist.

So much for theory. Now for facts that have been observed, and that tend, more or less, to corroborate this proposition of an open polar sea. The habits of the whale have gone far to prove it. The log-books of whalers have for many years been carefully examined and compared by scientific men. These investigations have led to the discovery "that the tropical regions of the ocean are to the 'right' whale as a sea of fire, through which he cannot pass, and into which he never enters." It has also been ascertained that the same kind of whale which is found off the shores of Greenland, in Baffin's Bay, etcetera, is found in the North Pacific, and about Behring's Straits; and that the 'right' whale of the southern hemisphere is a different animal from that of the northern. How, then, came the Greenland whales to pass from the Greenland seas to the Pacific? Not by the Capes Horn or Good Hope; the "sea of fire" precluded that. Clearly there was ground here for concluding that they did so through the (supposed) open sea lying beyond, or rather within, the frozen ocean.

It is true the objection might be made, that the same kind of whale which exists in the North Pacific exists also in the North Atlantic, although they never cross over to see each other. But another discovery has met this objection.

It is the custom among whalers to have their harpoons marked with date and name of ship, and Dr Scoresby, in his work on arctic voyages mentions several instances of whales having been taken near Behring's Straits, with harpoons in them bearing the stamp of ships that were known to cruise in the Greenland seas; and the dates on the harpoons were so recent as to preclude the supposition that the said whales had, after being struck, made a voyage round the capes above mentioned, -- even were such a voyage possible to them. All this does not, indeed, absolutely prove the existence of an open arctic sea, but it does, we think, prove the existence of at least an occasionally open sea there, for it is well known that whales cannot travel such immense distances under ice.

But the most conclusive evidence that we have in regard to this subject is the fact, that one of the members of Dr Kane's expedition, while in search of Sir John Franklin, did actually, on foot, reach what we have every reason to believe was this open sea; but not being able to get their ship into it, the party had no means of exploring it, or extending their investigations. The account of this discovery is so interesting, and withal so romantic, that we extract a few paragraphs relating to it from Kane's work.

After spending the dreary winter in the ice-locked and unexplored channels beyond the head of Baffin's Bay, Kane found his little ship still hopelessly beset in the month of June; he therefore resolved to send out a sledge-party under Morton, one of his best men, to explore the channel to the north of their position. After twelve days' travelling they came to the base of the "Great Glacier," where Morton left his party, and, in company with an Esquimaux named Hans, set out with a dog-sledge to prosecute the journey of exploration.

They walked on the sea-ice in a line parallel with the glacier, and proceeded twenty-eight miles that day, although the snow was knee-deep and soft. At the place where they encamped a crack enabled them to measure the ice. It was seven feet five inches thick! And this in June. We may mention here, in passing, that Dr Kane never got his vessel out of that frozen strait, which seems to be bound by perpetual ice. He and his party escaped with their lives; but the vessel that bore them thither is probably still embedded in that ice.

Next day Morton and Hans came to a region of icebergs, which had arrested a previous sledging-party of the same expedition. "These [icebergs] were generally very high, evidently newly separated from the glacier. Their surfaces were fresh and glassy, and not like those generally met with in Baffin's Bay, -- less worn, and bluer, and looking in all respects like the face of the Great Glacier. Many were rectangular, some of them regular squares, a quarter of a mile each way; others more than a mile long."

To pass amidst these bergs was a matter of labour, difficulty, and danger. Sometimes the sides of them came so close together, that the men could scarcely squeeze between them, and they were obliged to search for other passages; in doing which, the variation of their compass confused them. At other times, "a tolerably wide passage would appear between two bergs, which they would gladly follow; then a narrower one; then no opening in front, but one to the side. Following that a little distance, a blank ice-cliff would close the way altogether, and they were forced to retrace their steps and begin again."

Thus they puzzled their way through, "like a blind man in the streets of a strange city;" but more difficulties awaited them beyond. After advancing many miles they were arrested by broad rents in the ice, and were obliged to diverge frequently far out of their course, or to bridge the chasms over by cutting down the ice hummocks and filling them up with loose ice, until the dogs were able to haul the provision-sledge over.

Advancing thus for several days, and encamping on the snow at night, they at last came to a spot where the ice was dangerous. "It was weak and rotten, and the dogs began to tremble." Proceeding at a brisk rate, they had got upon unsafe ice before they were aware of it. Their course was at the time nearly up the middle of the channel; but as soon as possible they turned, and by a backward circuit reached the shore. The dogs, as their fashion is, at first lay down and refused to proceed, trembling violently. The only way to induce the terrified, obstinate brutes to get on, was for Hans to go to a white-looking spot, where the ice was thicker, the soft stuff looking dark; then calling the dogs coaxingly by name, they would crawl to him on their bellies. So they retreated from place to place, until they reached the firm ice they had quitted. A half mile brought them to comparatively safe ice, a mile more to good ice again.

In the midst of this danger they had, during the liftings of the fog, sighted open water. Soon after they saw it plainly. So many long and dreary months had these men passed since they were gladdened by the sight of open water, that they could scarcely believe their eyes; and Morton declared, that but for the birds which were seen flying about it in great numbers, he would not have believed it.

They made for the land-ice as fast as possible, and quickly gained it; but the sea-ice had cracked off and sunk so much, that the land-ice presented a wall along the whole coast of about eight or nine feet high. It was quite perpendicular, in some places overhanging, so that it was a matter of the greatest difficulty they managed to throw up the provisions, clamber up themselves, and haul the dogs and sledge up afterwards. This accomplished, however, they were safe, and could advance with confidence. But this mass of land-ice became narrower as they proceeded, till at last it dwindled to a mere narrow ledge, clinging to the high, perpendicular cliffs, and looking as if at any moment it might crumble off and fall with them into the open water between it and the floating sea-ice.

The sea here was very deep and clear. They could see the bottom quite plainly, although a stone they cast in, the size of a man's head, took twenty-eight seconds to reach it.

Being now afraid of the ice-ledge, they attempted to find a path along the face of the cliff; but failing in this, Morton determined to leave part of the provisions in "cache," and proceed with a lighter load. The cape round which they were travelling, and on the other side of which lay the open water, was extremely bold, and the ice-ledge at the end of it was barely three feet wide; so they were obliged to unloose the dogs, and drive them forward alone, then tilted the sledge on one runner, and thus pushed it past the worst place.

Here the ice on the sea was partly broken up, and a strong tide was running from the southward. The night before it had been running from the north. As they advanced, the channel became still more open, and after passing the cape they saw nothing but open water, with innumerable wild sea-birds of every description flying overhead, or disporting in the pools. Let it by observed here, however, that this was the open water of a strait or channel, -- not the great Arctic Sea, about the probable existence of which we have been writing. Upon the ice-masses near them numerous seals were seen basking.

One thing that struck them much here was, that although strong north winds, amounting to a gale at times, had been blowing for several days, no ice had been brought down from the north into the channel, along the shore of which they travelled. Thick, damp fogs prevailed, preventing them from seeing far in advance at any time.

At last they came to a place where the broken ice of the shore rendered passage for the sledge impossible. They therefore tied the dogs, intending to push forward a short way alone. But they had not been sufficiently careful to secure them; for the poor animals, supposing themselves deserted, no doubt, succeeded in breaking their lines, and rejoined the two men in about an hour after. This, as it turned out, was rather a fortunate circumstance.

Preparatory to quitting their sledge, the men had loaded themselves with eight pounds of pemmican and two of biscuit, besides the artificial horizon, sextant, and compass, a rifle, and a boathook. They had not been an hour gone when, as above stated, four of the dogs overtook them. An hour afterwards they came upon a polar bear with her cub.

The fight that followed, although somewhat foreign to our subject, is so graphically described by Dr Kane, that we think it quite unnecessary to apologise for inserting it here.

"The bear instantly took to flight; but the little one being unable to keep pace with her, she turned back, and, putting her head under its haunches, threw it some distance. The cub safe for the moment, she would then wheel round and face the dogs, so as to give it a chance to run away; but it always stopped, just as it alighted, till she came up and threw it ahead again; it seemed to expect her aid, and would not go on without it. Sometimes the mother would run a few yards ahead, as if to coax the young one up to her, and when the dogs came up she would turn and drive them back then, as they dodged her blows, she would rejoin the cub and push on, sometimes putting her head under it, sometimes catching it in her mouth by the nape of the neck.

"For a time she managed her retreat with great celerity, leaving the two men far in the rear. They had engaged her on the land-ice; but she led the dogs in-shore, up a small stony valley which opened into the interior. After she had gone a mile and a half, her pace slackened, and, the little one being jaded, she soon came to a halt.

"The men were then only half a mile behind, and running at full speed. They soon came up to where the dogs were holding her at bay. The fight was now a desperate one. The mother never went more than two yards ahead, constantly looking at the cub. When the dogs came near her, she would sit upon her haunches, and take the little one between her hind-legs, fighting the dogs with her paws, and roaring so that she could have been heard a mile off. Never was an animal more distressed. She would stretch her neck and snap at the nearest dog with her shining teeth, whirling her paws like the arms of a windmill. If she missed her aim, not daring to pursue one dog lest the others should harm the cub, she would give a great roar of baffled rage, and go on pawing and snapping, and facing the ring, grinning at them with her mouth stretched wide.

"When the men came up the little one was perhaps rested, for it was able to turn round with its dam, no matter how quick she moved, so as to keep always in front of her belly. The five dogs were all the time frisking about her actively, tormenting her like so many gad-flies. Indeed they made it difficult to take an aim at her without killing them. But Hans, lying on his elbow, took a quiet aim, and shot her through the head. She dropped and rolled over dead, without moving a muscle.

"The dogs sprang towards her at once; but the cub jumped upon her body and reared up, for the first time growling hoarsely. They seemed quite afraid of the little creature, she fought so actively, and made so much noise; and, while tearing mouthfuls of hair from the dead mother, they would spring aside the minute the cub turned towards them. The men drove the dogs off for a time, but were obliged to shoot the cub at last, as she would not quit the body.

"Hans fired into her head. It did not reach the brain, though it knocked her down; but she was still able to climb on her mother's body, and try to defend it, her mouth bleeding like a gutter-spout. They were obliged to despatch her with stones."

After skinning the old one they gashed its body, and the dogs fed upon it ravenously. The little one they cached for themselves against their return.

This little fight quite knocked up Hans the Esquimaux; Morton therefore advanced alone, in the hope of being able to get beyond a huge cape that lay before him. On reaching it, the grand sight of an apparently boundless ocean of open water met his eye. Only "four or five small pieces" of ice were seen on the glancing waves of this hitherto unknown sea. "Viewed from the cliffs," writes Dr Kane, "and taking thirty-six miles as the mean radius open to reliable survey, this sea had a justly-estimated extent of more than 4000 square miles."

Here, then, in all probability, is the great Arctic Ocean that has been supposed to exist in a perpetually fluid state round the pole, encircled by a ring of ice that has hitherto presented an impenetrable barrier to all the adventurers of ancient and modern times. There were several facts connected with this discovery that go far to prove that this ocean is perpetually open.

Further south, where Dr Kane's brig lay in ice that seemed never to melt, there were few signs of animal life -- only a seal or two now and then; but here, on the margin of this far northern sea, were myriads of water-fowl of various kinds.

"The Brent goose," writes the Doctor, "had not been seen before since entering Smith's Strait. It is well known to the polar traveller as a migratory bird of the American continent. Like the others of the same family, it feeds upon vegetable matter, generally on marine plants, with their adherent molluscan life. It is rarely or never seen in the interior; and from its habits may be regarded as singularly indicative of open water. The flocks of this bird, easily distinguished by their wedge-shaped line of flight, now crossed the water obliquely, and disappeared over the land to the north-east.

"The rocks on shore were crowded with sea-swallows, birds whose habits require open water; and they were already breeding. The gulls were represented by no less than four species. The kittiwakes -- reminding Morton of 'old times in Baffin's Bay' -- were again stealing fish from the water (probably the small whiting), and their grim cousins, the burgomasters, enjoying the dinner thus provided at so little cost to themselves. It was a picture of life all round.

"Here, for the first time, Morton noticed the arctic petrel, -- a fact which shows the accuracy of his observation, though he had not been aware of its importance. This bird had not been met with since we left the north water of the English whalers, more than two hundred miles south of the position on which he stood. Its food is essentially marine; and it is seldom seen in numbers, except in the highways of open water frequented by the whale and the larger representatives of ocean life. They were in numbers flitting and hovering over the crests of the waves, like their relatives of kinder climates, -- the Cape of Good Hope pigeons, Mother Carey's chickens, and the petrels everywhere else.

"It must have been an imposing sight, as Morton stood at this termination of his journey, looking out upon the great waste of waters before him. Not a speck of ice could be seen. There, from a height of 480 feet, which commanded a horizon of almost forty miles, his ears were gladdened with the novel music of dashing waves; and a surf, breaking in among the rocks at his feet, stayed his further progress."

Strong presumptive evidence, all this, that there is an ocean of open water round the pole, and a milder climate there than exists nearer to the arctic circle. Had the short barrier of ice that intervened between the brig and that mysterious sea been removed, as, perchance, it is sometimes removed by a hot summer, Dr Kane might have been the first to reach the North Pole. This, however, is reserved for some other navigator. The gallant Kane now lies in an early grave but some of his enterprising comrades have returned to those regions, bent on solving this problem; and it is possible that, even while we now write, their adventurous keel may be ploughing the waters of the hitherto untraversed and mysterious polar sea.



Chapter Thirteen.

Miscellaneous Phenomena Of The Polar Seas And Regions -- The Aurora Borealis -- Ice-Blink -- Optical Illusions -- Anecdote Of Scoresby -- Haloes --  Coronae -- Mock Suns -- Refraction -- Frosts.

Owing to the intensity of the cold in the arctic regions, there are, as we may readily believe, many singular appearances connected with the ocean and the atmosphere, which are worthy of special notice.

Chief, perhaps, among the phenomena of those regions is the Aurora Borealis.

Ever mindful of the welfare of the creatures whom he has formed, the Almighty has appointed a light to mitigate the darkness of the polar regions when the sun, in its appointed course, withdraws for a season.

What the aurora borealis is no one knows, although many have hazarded opinions regarding it.

What it is like is known even to ourselves, though the faint indications of it which sometimes seen in our own heavens are not to be compared to the brilliancy of the spectacle that is occasionally presented in the northern skies.

The most ordinary aspect of the aurora is that of a band of pale-green light extending irregularly over part of the sky, and marked by wavy motions, as well as by varying brightness. Sometimes one part of this band becomes more bright than another part. Sometimes the whole seems to move gently, like the undulations of a flag in a light breeze; at other times more vigorous action takes place, and pointed tongues of light shoot vividly up into the zenith. This sometimes takes place so frequently, and the tongues are so long and numerous, that the aurora has been popularly termed the "northern streamers."

Although pale-green is the most frequent colour, the aurora borealis has often been observed with blue and red hues; and the sky has been seen suffused with an intense crimson colour by it.

Captains Parry and Lyon saw these northern lights in full splendour during their residence in the arctic regions. They tell us that "the aurora had a tendency to form an irregular arch, which, in calm weather, was very often distinct, though its upper boundary was seldom well defined; but whenever the air was agitated, showers of rays spread in every direction with the rapidity of lightning, but always appearing to move to and from a fixed point, somewhat like a ribbon held in the hand and shaken with an undulatory motion. No rule, however, could be traced in the movement of those lighter parcels called the 'merry dancers,' which flew about perpetually towards every quarter; becoming in stormy weather more rapid in their motions, and sharing all the wildness of the blast. They gave an indescribable air of magic to the whole scene, and made it not wonderful that, by the untaught Indian, they should be viewed as 'the spirits of his fathers roaming through the land of souls.'"

We are told by some that the aurora borealis is accompanied by a loud hissing and crackling sound and Captain Lyon says that the sudden glare and rapid bursts of those wondrous showers of fire make it difficult to believe that their movements are wholly without sound. Yet such would seem to be the case, for the same authority tells us that he stood on the ice for hours listening intently and could hear nothing. He was thoroughly convinced that no sound proceeds from the aurora, and most intelligent voyagers support him in this opinion.

That the aurora dims the lustre of the stars seen through it, is a fact which was ascertained clearly by the same gentleman; and that it moves in a region beyond the clouds is also evident from the fact that when the latter covered the sky the aurora disappeared.

But some of the most singular appearances of the sea and sky in the polar regions are presented in summer. During that season the perpetual presence of the sun and the large tracts of ice floating about on the sea exert their opposing influences so as to produce the most astonishing results.

One part of the sea being covered with ice, produces a cold atmosphere; another part being free from ice, produces a warmer atmosphere. Refraction is the result of viewing objects through those different media, and very curious appearances follow. When Scoresby was in Greenland a singular atmospheric phenomenon occurred, whereby he became aware of the approach of his father's ship some time before it rose above the horizon. He had reached Greenland before his father, who followed him in the Fame. The following is his account of the circumstance:

"On my return to the ship, about eleven o'clock, the night was beautifully fine and the air quite mild. The atmosphere, in consequence of the warmth, being in a highly refractive state, a great many curious appearances were presented by the land and icebergs. The most extraordinary effect of this state of the atmosphere, however, was the distinct inverted image of a ship in the clear sky, over the middle of the large bay or inlet, the ship itself being entirely beyond the horizon. Appearances of this kind I have before noticed, but the peculiarities of this were the perfection of the image, and the great distance of the vessel that it represented. It was so extremely well defined, that, when examined with a telescope, I could distinguish every sail, the general 'rig of the ship,' and its peculiar character; insomuch that I confidently pronounced it to be my father's ship the Fame, which it afterwards proved to be, though, on comparing notes with my father, I found that our relative positions at the time gave our distance from one another very nearly thirty miles, being about seventeen miles beyond the horizon, and some leagues beyond the line of direct vision."

Scoresby was, perhaps, one of the most persevering and intelligent observers of nature that ever went to the polar seas. His various accounts of what he saw are most interesting. We cannot do better than quote his remarks upon ice-blink, that curious appearance of white light on the horizon, whereby voyagers are led to infer the presence of ice: -- 

"This appearance of the ice-blink," says he, "occurred on the 13th of June 1820, in latitude 76 degrees north. The sky aloft was covered with dense, uniform, hazy cloud, which indeed occupied the whole of the heavens, excepting a portion near the horizon, where it seemed to be repelled. The upper white blink referred to ice about six miles distant, being beyond the horizon; the narrow yellowish portions referred to floes and compact ice; the lowest yellow blink, which in brightness and colour resembled the moon, was the reflection of a field at the distance of thirty miles, to which, directed by the blink, we made way in the Baffin, through the channels of water represented in the sky by bluish-grey streaks. The field we found to be a sheet of ice 150 miles in circumference!"

Another very singular appearance observed occasionally in foggy weather is a series of bright circles, or coronae, surrounding the heads or persons of individuals in certain positions. We have, while standing at the mast-head of a vessel in Hudson's Straits, observed our own shadow thrown on the sea with a bright halo round it. The day was bright and hazy at the time. Referring to a particular case of this kind, Scoresby says:

"During the month of July 1820, the weather being often foggy, with a bright sun sometimes shining at the height of the day, some extraordinary coronae were observed from the mast-head. These occurred opposite to the sun, the centre of all the circles being in a line drawn from the sun through the eye of the observer. On one occasion four coloured luminous circles were observed. The exterior one might be twenty degrees in diameter. It exhibited all the colours of the spectrum. The next, a little within it, was of a whitish-grey colour; the third was only four or five degrees in diameter, and though it exhibited the colours of the spectrum, these colours were not very brilliant. The fourth was extremely beautiful and brilliant. The interior colour was yellow, then orange, red, violet, etcetera. The colours of the whole three coronae were, I think, in the same order, but of this I am not very certain. Indeed, on reflection, I suspect that the second circle must have been in the reverse order of the first; the first and the fourth being the same. The third was not coloured. In the midst of these beautiful coronae I observed my own shadow, the head surrounded by a glory. All the coronae were evidently produced by the fog; my shadow was impressed on the surface of the sea."

The cause of these phenomena is "the reflection of the sun's rays, decomposed by different refractions in minute globules of water, of which the mist, wherein the coronae occur, in a great measure appears to consist."

Mock suns, or parhelia, are common appearances in northern skies. Sometimes two of these mock suns are seen, one on each side of their great original, glowing so brightly that either of them, if we could suppose it to have shone in the sky alone, would have made a very respectable sun indeed! Even four of these "sun-dogs" -- as they are some times called -- have been seen surrounding the sun; one on each side of it, one directly above, and one immediately below, with a ring of light connecting them together, a streak of light passing horizontally and another passing perpendicularly between them, thus forming a luminous cross, in the centre of which was the sun itself. This magnificent spectacle is sometimes enhanced by a second circle of light enclosing the whole, and the edges of several outer circles springing in faint light therefrom until gradually lost, leaving the imagination to call up the idea of an endless series of glories extending over the whole sky.

Refraction frequently causes grotesque as well as wonderful and beautiful appearances. Ships are sometimes seen with their hulls flattened and their masts and sails drawn out to monstrous dimensions; or the hulls are heightened so as to appear like heavy castle walls, while the masts and sails are rendered ludicrously squat and disproportioned; and not only so, but ships are often seen with their images inverted over their own masts, so that to the observer it appears as if one ship were balancing another upside down -- mast-head to mast-head. Land and icebergs assume the same curious appearances -- peaks touching peaks, one set pointing upwards, the other set pointing down, while the broad bases are elevated in the air. At other times the whole mass of land and ice on the horizon is more or less broken up and scattered about as if in confusion, yet with a certain amount of regularity in the midst of it all, arising from the fact of every object being presented in duplicate, sometimes triplicate, and occasionally, though seldom, four-fold.

When sharp sudden frosts occur in those regions, the splendour of the scenery is still further enhanced by the formation of innumerable minute crystals which sparkle literally with as much lustrous beauty as the diamond. On one occasion Scoresby's ship was decorated with uncommon magnificence, and in a peculiarly interesting manner.

"In the course of the night," he writes, "the rigging of the ship was most splendidly decorated with a fringe of delicate crystals. The general form of these was that of a feather having half of the vane removed. Near the surface of the ropes was first a small direct line of very white particles, constituting the stem or shaft of the feather; and from each of these fibres, in another plane, proceeded a short delicate range of spiculae or rays, discoverable only by the help of a microscope, with which the elegant texture and systematic construction of the feather were completed. Many of these crystals, possessing a perfect arrangement of the different parts corresponding with the shaft, vane, and rachis of a feather, were upwards of an inch in length, and three-fourths of an inch in breadth. Some consisted of a single flake or feather, but many of them gave rise to other feathers, which sprang from the surface of the vane at the usual angle. There seemed to be no limit to the magnitude of these feathers, so long as the producing cause continued to operate, until their weight because so great, or the action of the wind so forcible, that they were broken off and fell in flakes to the deck of the ship."

It is impossible for the mind to conceive the effect of such a galaxy of curious, and bright, and eminently beautiful combinations as are sometimes displayed in the arctic regions. None of the fabulous conceptions of man, even though profoundly elaborated and brightly gilded with the coruscations of the most sparkling genius and fancy, ever produced so gorgeous a spectacle as may be witnessed there every summer day. Four or five suns in the blue sky, with lines and circles of light shooting from or circling round them! Ice in all its quaint, majestic, and shining forms, rendered still more quaint and grand by the influence of refraction; and, by the same power, ships sailing in the sky, sometimes, as if Nature's laws were abrogated, with their keels upwards, and their masts pointing to the sea! Walls of pure ice hundreds of feet high, many miles in extent, clear as crystal, and sending back the rays of heaven's luminaries in broad blazing beams; while the icebergs' pinnacles reflect them in sparkling points! White luminous fogs, like curtains of gauze, too thin to dim the general brightness, yet dense enough to invest the whole scene with a silver robe of mystery, and to refract the light and compel it to shine in great circles of prismatic colours! And everything -- from the nature of the materials of which the gay scenery is composed -- either white or blue, varying in all gradations from the fairest snow to the deepest azure, save where the rainbow's delicate hues are allowed to intermingle enough of pink, yellow, purple, orange, and green to relieve the eye and enable it more fully to appreciate the virgin drapery of the scene. All this, seen in detail -- seen frequently in rapid succession -- sometimes seen almost all at one moment, -- all this is absolutely beyond conception, and utterly beyond adequate description. Yet all this is seen at times in those realms of ice and snow, which are, as we have already said, too much represented as the "gloomy, forbidding, inhospitable polar regions."

There are two sides to every picture. We take leave of this particular branch of our sun with the remark, that if the shady side of the far north is dreadfully dark and dreary, its bright side is intensely brilliant and beautiful.



Chapter Fourteen.

Animal Life In The Sea -- Medusae -- Food Of The Whale -- Phosphoric Light --  Cause Thereof -- Luminosity Of The Ocean.

Reference has elsewhere been made in this volume to the immense amount of animal life that exists in the ocean, not only in the form of fish of all sizes, but in that of animalcules, which, although scarcely visible to the naked eye, are, in some cases, so innumerable as to give a distinct colouring to the water.

The Medusae, or, more familiarly, sea blubbers, are seen in the waters that lave our own shores. They are of various sizes, from that of a large plate to a pin-head. They are almost colourless, like clear jelly, and when carelessly observed, seem to be dead objects drifting with the tide; but a closer observation shows that they are possessed of life, though not of a particularly active kind, and that they swim by alternate contractions and expansions of their bodies. These creatures constitute a large part of the whale's food. Some of them are flat, some semi-globular, others are bell-shaped, while some have got little heads and small fins. Of these last it is said that each little creature has no fewer than three hundred and sixty thousand minute suckers on its head with which it seizes its prey. When we think of the exceeding smallness of the creatures thus preyed upon, and consider the fact that each little thing must obtain food by making war upon some creatures still smaller than itself, we are led almost in spite of ourselves into that mysteriously metaphysical question -- infinitesimal divisibility; which may be translated thus -- the endless division and subdivision of atoms. This subject has puzzled the heads of the profoundest philosophers of all ages; we will not, therefore, puzzle our readers with it any further.

Scoresby tells us that the colour of the Greenland Sea varies from ultramarine blue to olive-green, from the purest transparency to striking opacity; and that these colours are permanent, and do not depend on the state of the weather, but on the quality of the water. He observed that whales were found in much greater numbers in the green than in the blue water; and he found, on examining the former with the microscope, that its opacity and its colour were due to countless multitudes of those animalcules on which the whale feeds.

We need scarcely remark that it is utterly beyond the power of man to form anything approaching to a correct conception of the amount of life that is thus shown to exist in the ocean. Although it has pleased the Creator to limit our powers, yet it has also pleased him to leave the limit of those powers undefined. We may not, indeed, ever hope in this life to attain to perfect knowledge, nevertheless, by "searching" we may "find out wisdom;" and certain it is, that, although there undoubtedly must be a point of knowledge on any given subject which man cannot reach, there is in man a power incessantly to extend his knowledge and increase his powers of conception, by each successive effort that he makes in his course from the cradle to the grave.

Even although we were told the exact number of the little creatures that inhabit the sea, we could not, by any simple effort of the mind, however powerful, form a conception of what that number implied. We might shut ourselves up like the hermits of old, abstract our thoughts from all other things, and ponder the subject for weeks or months together, and at the termination of our effort we should be as wise as we were at its commencement, but no wiser. But by searching round the subject, and comparing lesser things with greater, although we should still fail to arrive at a full comprehension of the truth, we may advance our powers of conception very considerably beyond the point attained by our first effort; and which point, as we have said, could not be surmounted by a hair's breadth by the mere exertion of simple or abstract thought.

Dr Scoresby's remarks on the subject of animal life in the ocean, are so graphic and curious that we extract the passages verbatim from the admirable memoir of that gentleman, written by his nephew. He says:

"I procured a quantity of snow from a piece of ice that had been washed by the sea, and was greatly discoloured by the decomposition of some peculiar substance upon it. A little of this snow dissolved in a wine-glass appeared perfectly nebulous -- the water being found to contain a great number of semi-transparent spherical substances, with others resembling small portions of fine hair. On examining these substances with a compound microscope, I was enabled to make the following observations: -- 

"The semi-transparent globules appeared to consist of an animal of the medusa kind. It was from one-twentieth to one-thirtieth of an inch in diameter. Its surface was marked with twelve distinct patches, or nebulae, of dots of a brownish colour. These dots were disposed in pairs, four pairs or sixteen pairs alternately, composing one of the nebula. The body of the medusa was transparent. When the water containing these animals was heated, it emitted a very strong odour, in some respects resembling the smell of oysters when thrown on hot coals, but much more offensive.

"The fibrous or hair-like substances were more easily examined, being of a darker colour. They varied in length from a point to one-tenth of an inch; and when highly magnified, were found beautifully moniliform. Whether they were living animals, and possessed of locomotion, I could not ascertain. They possessed the property of decomposing light, and in some cases showed all the colours of the spectrum very distinctly.

"I afterwards examined the different qualities of sea water, and found these substances very abundant in that of an olive-green colour; and also occurring, but in lesser quantity, in the bluish-green water. The number of medusae in the olive-green water was found to be immense. They were about one-fourth of an inch asunder. In this proportion, a cubic inch of water must contain 64; a cubic foot 110,592; a cubic fathom 23,887,872; and a cubic mile about 23,888,000,000,000,000."

Of course we have, in the last two numbers, reached the utterly incomprehensible; but Dr Scoresby goes into comparisons which help us a little, at least to ascertain how hopelessly beyond our conceptions such numbers are.

"From soundings made in the situation where these animals were found, it is probable the sea is upwards of a mile in depth; but whether these substances occupy the whole depth is uncertain. Provided, however, the depth to which they extend be but two hundred and fifty fathoms, the above immense number of one species may occur in the space of two miles square. It may give a better conception of the amount of medusae in this extent, if we calculate the length of time that would be requisite, with a certain number of persons, for counting this number. Allowing that one person could count a million in seven days, which is barely possible, it would have required that eighty thousand persons should have started at the creation of the world to complete the enumeration at the present time!

"What a stupendous idea this gives of the immensity of creation, and of the bounty of Divine Providence in furnishing such a profusion of life in a region so remote from the habitations of men!

"The larger portion of these medusae, consisting of transparent substances of a lemon-yellow colour, and globular form, appeared to possess very little power of motion. Some of them were seen advancing by a slight waving motion, at the rate of a hundred and eightieth of an inch in a second; and others, spinning round with considerable celerity, gave great interest and liveliness to the examination. But the progressive motion of the most active, however distinct and rapid it might appear under a high magnifying power, was, in reality, extremely slow; for it did not exceed an inch in three minutes. At this rate they would require one hundred and fifty-one days to travel a nautical mile.

"The vastness of their numbers, and their exceeding minuteness, are circumstances, discovered in the examination of these animalcules, of uncommon interest. In a drop of water examined by a power of 28.224 (magnified superficies) there were fifty in number, on an average, in each square of the micrometer glass, of an eight hundred and fortieth of an inch; and as the drop occupied a circle on a plate of glass containing 529 of these squares, there must have been, in this single drop of water, taken out of the yellowish-green sea, in a place by no means the most discoloured, about 26,450 animalcules. Hence, reckoning sixty drops to a dram, there would be a number in a gallon of water exceeding, by one half the amount of the population of the whole globe! It gives a powerful conception of the minuteness and wonders of creation, when we think of more than twenty-six thousand animals living, obtaining subsistence, and moving perfectly at their ease, without annoyance to one another, in a single drop of water... A whale requires a sea, an ocean, to sport in. About one hundred and fifty millions of these animalcules would have abundant room in a tumbler of water!"

But besides furnishing food to the whale, and, no doubt, to many other of the inhabitants of the deep, those medusae are the cause of the phosphorescent light that sometimes glows on the ocean with resplendent brilliancy. We see this light oftentimes on our own coasts. It is usually of a pale bluish-white colour, more or less intense, apparently, according to the condition of the creatures by which it is emitted. It can only be seen at night. We have seen it on the west coast of Scotland, so bright that the steamer in which we sailed left behind her what appeared to be a broad highway of liquid fire.

At times it requires vigorous motion, such as takes place when an oar is dipped, a stone thrown, or paddle-wheels dashed into the water; but at other times, the mere motion of the ocean swell, even in calm weather, is sufficient to stir up the lambent light and cause the crest of every undulation to glitter as if tipped with burnished silver. In such circumstances we have seen the ends of the oars of a boat silvered with it when lifted out of the wave, and the drops which fell from them before being redipped resembled the most beautiful diamonds.

Mr P.H. Gosse, in his interesting work, "The Ocean," gives the following account of this luminosity of the sea, as witnessed by himself on one occasion:

"In a voyage to the Gulf of Mexico, I saw the water in those seas more splendidly luminous than I had ever observed before. It was indeed a magnificent sight, to stand on the fore-part of the vessel and watch her breasting the waves. The mass of water rolled from her bows as white as milk, studded with those innumerable sparkles of blue light. The nebulosity instantly separated into small masses, curdled like clouds of marbles, leaving the water between of its own clear blackness; the clouds soon subsided, but the sparks remained. Sometimes one of these points, of greater size and brilliancy than the rest, suddenly burst into a small cloud of superior whiteness to the mass, and be then lost in it. The curdling of the milky appearance into clouds and masses, and its quick subsidence, were what I had never before observed elsewhere."

Many scientific travellers have carefully examined this subject, and we believe that all agree in referring this beautiful appearance to the medusae. One gentleman drew a bucketful of water from the sea when it was in this condition, and found, on examining it in a dark place, that the little creatures "could be distinctly seen emitting a bright speck of light. Sometimes this was like a sudden flash, at others appearing like an oblong or round luminous point, which continued bright for a short time, like a lamp lit beneath the water and moving through it, still possessing its definite shape, and then suddenly disappearing. When the bucket was sharply struck on the outside, there would appear at once a great number of these luminous bodies, which retained their brilliant appearance for a few seconds, and then all was dark again. They evidently appeared to have it under their own will, giving out their light frequently, at various depths in the water, without any agitation being given to the bucket. At times might be seen minute but pretty bright specks of light, darting across a piece of water and then vanishing; the motion of the light being exactly that of the cyclops through the water. Upon removing a tumblerful from the bucket, and taking it to the light, a number of cyclops were accordingly found swimming and darting about in it."

We have given the above quotation at full length, because it proves, in an interesting manner, the fact that phosphorescence, or luminosity, of the sea is actually produced by multitudes of living creatures. We cannot pass from it, however, without expressing our difference of opinion in regard to the power of the medusae to emit their light "at will."

It seems much more probable that the light is the result of passion and action. When a man's feelings are strongly roused, whether pleasurably or otherwise, he usually starts into action under a sudden impulse, which sends the blood violently through his veins, causing his face to become flushed and red. This reddening is not the result of will. It is the unavoidable result of passionate impulse, and could not possibly be produced by an effort of the will.

It is well known that electric fluid permeates the bodies of all animals, more or less; and it is quite conceivable that under the influence of nervous impulse one creature should become luminous, while another only becomes red. Man leaps and sings for joy; and the result is, that the actions cause his countenance to glow with colour. The marine animalcule, experiencing a sudden influx of delight, darts hither and thither under the strong impulse of its exuberant glee; and the result is, that its little body gleams with light. Vigorous action is the direct cause of the emission of light in the one case, just as vigorous action is the direct cause of the suffusion of the countenance in the other. But in both cases the primary cause is passion -- at least so it seems to us.

No doubt fear as well as joy may create vigorous action, and produce the same result; but as we know that, as a general rule, there is much more of joy than of fear dwelling at all times in the hearts of God's creatures, we can well believe that the amount of luminosity produced in the sea by the latter passion is immeasurably smaller than that produced by the former. We are thus, therefore, set free to indulge in the pleasing reflection that when we behold that magnificent gleaming of the sea, which almost resembles liquid silver reflecting the stars of heaven, we are witnessing the frolicsome and joyous gambols of those myriads of little beings to whom the beneficent Creator has assigned the ocean as their dwelling-place.

The theory which we have ventured to propound in regard to vigorous impulse (whether of joy or fear) being the cause of eliciting luminosity, is supported in some degree by the remark in our last quotation, that when the bucket was sharply struck, there appeared at once a number of luminous bodies, which shone for a few seconds, and then disappeared. Undoubtedly the poor little things got a fright when their residence was sharply assailed in such an unusual manner; their energies were roused, and their light emitted. Then, as they gradually calmed down, their light disappeared.

We are further told that when a drop of sulphuric acid was put into a tumbler of water, "several bright flashes were seen." This, we venture to think, was somewhat similar to the putting of a few drops of brandy and water into the human stomach; the usual result of which is, as we all know, to produce several bright flashes of wit, if not of light, or of something at least meant to be remarkably luminous!

But this luminosity is not entirely confined to the minute creatures of the sea. Some fish have the power of emitting light. Some species of the shark emit a greenish light; and the sun-fish is said, when seen down in the sea on a dark night, to glow like a white-hot cannon-ball. Fish when dead and putrid frequently glow in the dark with a truly magnificent light, as can be proved by every one who will take the trouble to procure several kinds of fish, and keep them, for the purpose of proving the fact, in a dark closet.

Of all the minute inhabitants of the deep, that which is to our mind the most curious, both as to its nature and its stupendous works, is the coral insect. This creature is much too important to be dragged in at the tail of a chapter. We will, therefore, commence its history in a new one.



Chapter Fifteen.

Coral Insects And Coral Islands -- Polynesia -- Operations Of The Coral Insect -- Growth Of Coral Reefs.

Many of the large and beautiful islands that stud the Pacific Ocean, like emeralds in a field of blue, are artificial; that is to say, they were made by artists -- they were actually built by artisans!

These artisans are the coral insects; and as they not only affect the face of the sea by raising large islands above it, but also, in consequence of their labours, assist in causing the circulation of the ocean, we think they are justly entitled to very special attention.

The great archipelago called Polynesia covers an area of the Pacific nearly 5000 miles in length, and not far short of 2000 in breadth. Some of the islands of this group are of volcanic origin, and some are crystal; but by far the greater number are of coral formation -- the work of those curious little insects, which are so small that they inhabit a dwelling sometimes little larger than a pin-point.

The manner in which these islands are made is, to some extent, a matter of uncertainty. The most generally received opinion is, that the insects fasten round the summit of a submarine mountain, and build upwards until they reach the surface of the sea, where they die, and their labours cease. As, however, the sea is sometimes unfathomable close to those islands, it has been supposed that the submarine islands on which the corallines began to build have gradually subsided, and that, as they did so, the insects always built a little more, so as to keep the top of their structures on a level with the sea. Above the sea they cannot build. To be washed by the waves is essential to their existence.

We do not think this a very satisfactory theory, because it supposes a prolonged subsiding of these islands, and then an unaccountably sudden stoppage. For although the corallines might continue to build during the whole time of subsidence, it were utterly impossible that the coral island, with its luxuriant herbage, could be formed until that subsidence should have ceased. The manner in which the islands are formed makes this obvious.

When the coral reef, as it is called, reaches the surface, it advances no further. Soon the action of the waves breaks off the branches of the upper portions of coral, which are tossed upon the reef, and pulverised into fine sand. This goes on increasing until the island rises a little above the waves.

When this happens, birds alight there; sea-drift is carried thither; seeds are blown to it by the wind; and gradually a few green blades arise. From this little beginning it is easy to conceive the process by which at last a flourishing island springs up. At the same time, it is not easy to see how such islands could ever be formed on the supposition that the submarine rocks on which they were founded were perpetually subsiding.

But be that as it may, we have no difficulty in understanding the fact that the coral insect does build those islands. It possesses the power of secreting the lime held in solution by sea water, and depositing the same on the rocks below the waves. The coral rock is the edifice of the coralline. The insect itself is a soft and very minute worm, which, when washed by the waves, thrusts its head out of its tiny little door, and spreading abroad its numerous feelers, so that it resembles a beautiful little star, moves these about as if enjoying itself -- though, doubtless, it is actually engaged in the process of manufacturing its little atom of coral rock.

It is extremely interesting to think of the immense power of union thus exhibited. Singly, those little creatures could not produce a sufficient result to attract the attention of any creature save such as chanced to come in direct and close contact with its little cell. United, they have formed vast islands, which have become the abode of man, and which, in the aggregate, form no inconsiderable portion of the globe.

The consideration of this leads us to perceive that God has ordained that units cannot, separately, accomplish much; and that united effort, in order to be successful, requires the harmonious action of units. "A house divided against itself cannot stand." The innumerable and eminently beautiful isles of the Pacific had never stood where they now stand if the curious, and separately insignificant, little architects that reared them had not wrought unitedly upon a fixed and systematic plan -- each insect working its utmost from the hour of its birth until that of its death.

There are various kinds of coral insects, which form varied species of coral rock. Some kinds of coral assume the form of rounded masses; some are like a branching shrub; others are in layers, or thin plates; and some are shaped like the human brain, from which they derive their name -- brainstones. These different kinds differ also in colour, and thus present a beautiful appearance when seen at the bottom of clear and shallow water.

In regard to the rate at which the corallines build their cells there is some diversity of opinion -- some asserting that the process is imperceptible, while others state as positively that it is rapid. There can be no doubt that some localities and positions are more favourable to the growth of coral than others. Dr Allan, while at Madagascar, made several experiments to test this. He selected several masses of coral, each weighing about ten pounds, and of different species. These he placed three feet below the surface of the sea, and staked them in to prevent removal. In a little more than six months they were found to have risen nearly to the surface, and to have attached themselves to the solid rock.

There is also a case mentioned of a ship in the Persian Gulf which, in the course of twenty months, had her copper encased with living coral to the thickness of two feet.

On the other hand, it is asserted, and we doubt not with equal truth, that many reefs do not seem to increase in size in the course of many years.

When a coral reef has reached the surface, the formation of an island instantly begins; but it necessarily takes a long time ere this island becomes habitable by man. Among the first plants that raise their heads to the sea-breeze is the graceful cocoa-nut palm. This tree is exceedingly hardy, and is found growing on reefs which are so low that at a distance the trees seem to be standing on the surface of the water. Indeed many of them spring out of the pure white sand, and their roots are washed perpetually by the salt spray. Nevertheless, the fruit of such trees is sweet and good.

Coral islands of the kind we have just described seldom rise more than a few feet above the level of the sea; but most of them are clothed with luxuriant vegetation.

We might easily fill a volume on the subject of the ocean's inhabitants, small and great; but we think the few to which we have made reference is sufficient for the purpose of showing that one set of creatures accounts for that strange luminosity of the ocean which is seen at times in all marine parts of the globe, while another set accounts not only for the sudden appearance of coral islands in the sea where no such islands existed in days of old, but also, partly, for that circulation of the waters of the ocean which is absolutely necessary to the wellbeing of all the creatures on this earth.

There are other animals in the sea, besides medusae, which assist in giving luminosity to its waters; and there are other insects, besides corallines, which extract its lime, destroy its equilibrium, and assist in causing its perpetual motion; but the two species which we have described are the best types of the respective classes to which they belong.



Chapter Sixteen.

Volcanic Islands -- Opinions Of The Ancients -- "Atlantis" -- Instance Of The Formation Of A Volcanic Island -- Conclusion.

In the last chapter we described the manner in which a certain class of islands in the South Seas are formed; in the present we will make a few observations on another class, which have sprung up from the bottom of the sea, as if by magic, under the irresistible influence of fire.

There are volcanoes in the sea, as well as on the land; and these volcanoes have in former times up-heaved huge masses of land so as to form large islands, while in other cases they have caused islands formerly in existence to subside and disappear.

In the writings of the ancients we find reference made to an island which, if it ever did exist, now exists no longer. It was situated opposite the Straits of Gibraltar, was nearly two hundred miles in length, and was called "Atlantis" -- hence the name of the Atlantic Ocean. Many believe, and with some reason, we think, that this island was not altogether a myth, although much that is said of it is undoubtedly fabulous.

Plato tells us that it was a large island in the Western Ocean, situated before or opposite to the Straits of Gades; and that out of this island there was an easy passage into some others which lay near a large continent, exceeding in bigness all Europe and Asia. So far Plato may have told the truth, and from this passage it is conjectured that the existence of the continent of America was known to the ancients. But he goes on, immediately after, to draw upon his imagination, and to tell us that Neptune settled on this island, and that his posterity dwelt there for a period of nine thousand years in the midst of fertility and abundance. But, not content with their ample possessions and prolific soil, they went over to Africa and Europe, and even penetrated into Asia, bent on conquest.

Passing from this mixture of probable truth and undoubted fable, Plato then asserts that the island of Atlantis finally sank and disappeared. This may or may not be true, but there is more reason for our crediting the statement than many people would suppose. Certain it is that no such island exists at the present time, but it is believed by some that the Azores, which are volcanic in their formation, are the summits of the mountain ranges of the Atlantis of the ancients.

But the best evidence we have of the possible existence of such an island is the fact that in modern times an island has been seen to rise out of the sea, and, after a time, to disappear, under the influence of volcanic action.

This remarkable event is related by Captain Tillard, an officer of the British Navy, who saw it on the 12th of June 1811, when approaching the island of St. Michael. On this occasion smoke was seen to rise from the surface of the sea, and, soon after, showers of cinders to burst forth. We cannot do better than give the captain's own words, as follows:

"Imagine an immense body of smoke rising from the sea, the surface of which was marked by the silvery rippling of the waves. In a quiescent state it had the appearance of a circular cloud revolving on the water, like a horizontal wheel, in various and irregular involutions, expanding itself gradually on the lee side; when, suddenly, a column of the blackest cinders, ashes, and stones, would shoot up in the form of a spire, at an angle of from ten to twenty degrees from a perpendicular line, the angle of inclination being universally to windward. This was rapidly succeeded by a second, third, and fourth shower, each acquiring greater velocity, and overtopping the other, till they had attained an altitude as much above the level of our eye as the sea was below it.

"As the impetus with which the several columns were severally propelled diminished, and their ascending motion had nearly ceased, they broke into various branches resembling a group of pines. These again formed themselves into festoons of white feathery smoke, in the most fanciful manner imaginable, intermixed with the finest particles of falling ashes; which at one time assumed the appearance of innumerable plumes of black and white ostrich feathers surmounting each other; at another, that of the light wavy branches of a weeping willow.

"During these bursts the most vivid flashes of lightning continually issued from the densest part of the volcano; and the cloud of smoke now ascending to an altitude much above the highest point to which the ashes were projected, rolled off in large masses of fleecy clouds, gradually expanding themselves before the wind, in a direction nearly horizontal, and drawing up to them a quantity of water-spouts, which formed a most beautiful and striking addition to the general appearance of the scene."

Such is the description given of this submarine volcano in action; and the crater which was thrown up at the time was about twenty feet above the level of the sea. As Captain Tillard could not, however, delay his voyage to make further observations at that time, the action that subsequently took place is not known; but its results were seen shortly afterwards.

In about three weeks after the date of his passing the spot, Captain Tillard returned to it and found an island of about a mile in circumference, with a height of between two and three hundred feet at its highest point. There was no violent eruption going on, although the craters still emitted smoke. He therefore landed, and, on reaching the largest crater, found it to be full of boiling water, which overflowed and found its way to the ocean in a river of about six yards in width. This island, however, was not a permanent addition to the world's archipelago. It sank into the ocean again, and disappeared in October of the same year in which it rose.

In commencing this little book we set out with the intention of rambling hither and thither, among things that relate to the sea, without regard to order. We have carried out our intention; and now, at the close of our task, find that the more we listen to the Ocean's Voice, the more we find its tale to be interminable, though the reverse of uninteresting.

In these rambles we have sought to treat chiefly of those scientific facts relating to the sea and the atmospheric ocean, which are not so frequently made the subject of books for the young, as are the wild and daring deeds of man upon the surface of the mighty deep.

It is not sufficient that man should become acquainted with the doings of his fellows on the sea. This is but one branch of general knowledge, and a very secondary one compared with that infinitely higher branch which treats of the workings of the Almighty in the ocean; workings which render it what it is -- not merely a means of commercial enterprise for man and a home for fish, but also a great purifier and revivifier of the earth and sweetener of the atmosphere. God is the great first cause of all that is and that operates in the universe. It were an act of presumption to inquire into what we may term the first acts of the Almighty's power. But there is no presumption -- on the contrary there is propriety, as well as the highest gratification of which the human mind is capable -- in penetrating through the paths of knowledge up to that first series of second causes which circle like a glory round the fountain-head. We may not put the question, "How did God create all things out of nothing?" but, all things having been created, it is quite legitimate to inquire how the circles of their manifold operations are carried on, and in what respect the things that be do affect each other.

No book that has of late years issued from the press treats more eloquently and interestingly of such subjects of inquiry than that admirable work of Captain Maury of the United States Navy, entitled "The Physical Geography of the Sea." Much of the substance of what we have written has been culled from the pages of that fascinating volume. But we have merely plucked one or two leaves, as it were, and presented them to our readers in the hope that they may be tempted by their fragrance to pluck the flower. The mysteries of the atmospheric and aqueous oceans are here treated of fully, yet so agreeably, that one is frequently apt to fancy one is perusing the pages of romance.

In our own little book we have been compelled to skim lightly, and, in many places, to pass over subjects of great interest.

As for other subjects connected with the sea, of which we may not treat, they are innumerable. Of the sea-weeds that clothe the bottom of the deep with the rich profusion and glowing colours of the gardens of earth -- of the myriads of animalcules (besides those we have mentioned) that disport in its waters and fill the abyss with life and lambent fire -- of the great whales and other huge creatures that revel in its depths and lash its waters in their terrible might -- of these and a host of kindred subjects, our space forbids our saying more than that the Voice of Ocean has much to tell us in regard to them, and in regard to the provident care of their beneficent Creator.

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Successward, A Young Man's Book For Young Men

By

Edward W. Bok



I

A Correct Knowledge Of Himself


The first, the most essential, and the greatest element of success with a young man starting out to make a career is a correct knowledge of himself. He should, before he attempts anything, understand himself. He should study himself. He should be sure that, no matter whom else he may misunderstand, he has a correct knowledge of his own nature, his own character, and his own capabilities. And it is because so few young men have this knowledge of self that so many make disastrous failures, or fail in achieving what they set out for themselves at the beginning.

Every man in this world is created differently; no two are alike. Therefore, the nature, the thoughts, the character, the capacity of one man is utterly unlike that of another. What one man can understand another cannot. The success of one man indicates nothing to a second man. What one is capable of doing is beyond the power of another. Hence it is important that, first of all, a young man should look into himself, find out what has been given him, and come to a clear understanding of what he can do and what he cannot do.

It is one of the most pitiable sights imaginable to see, as one does so constantly, young men floundering and fluttering from one phase of life to another, unable to fasten upon any one, simply because a knowledge of themselves is absent. The result is that we see so many round men trying to fit themselves into square holes.

"But," some one will say, as asked a young fellow recently, "how in the world do you get at an understanding of yourself? How do you go about it?" No definite answer can be given to the question, any more than can a certain rule be laid down. An understanding of one's self is reached by different methods by different people, generally each method being personal to one's self. But this much can be said: every thought, every taste, every action, reveals ourselves to ourselves, and it is in the expression of these that we best learn our natures and our characters. We see ourselves with unmistakable accuracy, for example, in what we most enjoy in reading, in the people whose company pleases us most, in the things that interest us; and where our tastes and interest lead us we are generally truest to ourselves.

Some writer has said that most people find themselves out best while they are at play, upon the basis that a man shows his real side in the pleasures which he seeks and enjoys. This is true in a large measure. And the character of his pleasures will have both an indirect and a direct bearing upon the more practical side of his nature. If a young man visits an art gallery, for example, and finds that the pleasure he derives from the pictures takes the form of recreation to the mind, that he is delighted and interested in the canvases he sees so long as he is before them, but feels simply refreshed after he leaves the gallery, it is plain that his nature is not one suited to art as a vocation. He employs the picture as a means of recreation from some other study which has engrossed him most. If, on the other hand, his instincts lead him to an art gallery, and he studies rather than enjoys the pictures that he sees, is curious as to the methods of the artist, and goes away with his mind charged with the intention of getting further knowledge of what he has seen from books or other authorities, it is natural to assume that the art instinct is within him, and he should give it the fullest chance of development. But he should in every way feel, realize, and know that a love of art possesses him before he adopts it as a profession. And thus, in a way, a young man has an opportunity to study himself through his pleasures.

If, as a further example, a young man finds himself seeking the company of men older than himself, men of affairs of the world, is happiest when he can be in their company and hear them talk of business, chooses the reading of the lives of successful men as his literature, and leans toward the practical side of life, finding more real enjoyment amid the bustle of the mart than in the quiet of lane or park, the indications are that his nature points him to a business career rather than to a professional calling. If he feels this way, it is well for him to give his developing tastes full play, and follow where his instincts lead him. After a while what was at first a mere instinct or an unformed taste will develop and point him to something definite in the business world, and if he be true to himself he will sooner or later find himself in that particular position which he is best fitted to occupy and fill. His capacities will reveal themselves to him, and they will teach him his limitations. This knowledge need not thwart his ambitions, but I believe that ambition should always be just a trifle behind judgment, if possible, or, at all events, not in advance of it. Ambition is a splendid quality if properly guided and kept within check; it is a fatal possession when it is allowed too full development or sway. Like fire or water, it is a capital servant, but it makes a poor master.

I do not counsel, nor do I believe in, a blind following of one's self, particularly during the formative years of life. But I do believe most earnestly that every man is given a certain thing to do in the world, and that, by a proper study of himself, he, and he alone, can arrive at the clearest and surest knowledge of that particular object. I am a firm believer in the molding of character through the influence of another; but my conviction is equally strong that every man is the architect of his own fortune, and that his truest course in life is to follow not the guidance of another, but his own instincts. In other words, I think young men should, as early in life as possible, get into touch with the idea of their own responsibility, and be taught the great lesson that, however well others may advise, they, and they alone, must carve out their own careers. The most successful careers, the most honorable lives in the history of the world are those which have been shaped by their own hands. There is an element of danger in this, of course, but the element is small in comparison with the greater danger which lies in the foundation of a character against one's own instincts.

The aspirations of the young are not to be checked by the experience of the old. No matter how rich or full a man's experience may have been, it counts only in a sense of general application to another career which stands upon its threshold. Years should teach wisdom; but if we all waited for years to bring us wisdom, this world would be a sorry place to live in. Youthful imaginings may lead to mistakes, youthful enthusiasm may encounter disappointment, but only experience, real and actual, can demonstrate these things to a young man. And the experience is good for him if it teaches him a better and truer knowledge of himself and his capacities. The greatest figures in the world's history show that they were made through experience, and what experience taught them. This is not saying that the young have no use for the old. They have. But the rule should be, "Young men for action, old men for counsel." Experience looks backward; enthusiasm looks forward. And, as between the two, enthusiasm is worth more than experience, since it is the former which is brave and strong and attempts the impossible. If we attempted only the possible in this world we should soon stop where we are; it is for the young man, with his enthusiasm, to battle with the impossible and carry the world a step farther on in discovery, if not in actual accomplishment.

I say all this because I want every young fellow to feel that, to a large extent, he stands alone for himself in the world. Counsel he may seek and he should seek, but the action is his, and his alone. And to make that action sure and wise it is necessary that the workman should understand his tools. He must know with what he has to work; and once sure of his tools, he must learn the thing he has set for himself to do, having a distinct purpose in view, and, being fully conscious that he is right and capable, not allowing himself to be swerved from his aim. After acquiring true knowledge of himself, I know of nothing so valuable to a young man as an absolute distinctness of purpose, and then pursuing that purpose to success. In natural sequence comes, therefore, the question of "What, really, is success?"


II

What, Really, Is Success?


Before a young man goes into business it is necessary, I think, that he should set himself straight on one very important point, and that is what success in business really is and means. Unfortunately, not enough has been written on this phase of the topic. It is idle for a young man to seek out the methods of success before he is really clear in his mind just what constitutes success -- until, in other words, he finds out the true definition of the word. And very few of us have a proper and correct conception of it. On the other hand, thousands of us have the wrong notion.

In this age of big things, particularly, we are inclined to regard success as synonymous only with the higher walks of life, with great achievements. Success, in the minds of some, is something which is only given for the fortunate to achieve. Or we think that if we cannot do something which sets people talking or wondering about us, if our heads do not tower above those of our fellow-beings, our lives, if not altogether negative, are still not successful. In other words, we feel that a successful life is the doing of something momentous; the becoming known of all men and women; the being exceptional to the rest of the human race. Ask ten people their idea of success, and I warrant that eight will give a definition of it along these lines. And yet, when we look at the matter closely and study it carefully, scarcely a more incorrect interpretation of a successful life can be imagined. Along this line of thought, not one person in ten thousand lives a successful life, since statistics have informed us that it is only this percentage of the human race that is ever heard of outside of its immediate circle of relatives and friends.

It is given to very few of us to say something or perform some action which will be heard of by the world. The greater part of the human race dies as it is born, unknown and unheard of by the world at large. Where you find one leader among men or women you will find a thousand who prefer to follow. The instinct of leadership is rare -- rare even in these developing days. Hence, if success depended upon aggressive instinct, its votaries would be few. Success is as ofttimes quietly won. I think that young men are oftener misled by wrong notions of what constitutes success than by how to achieve success as they understand it.

The average young man's idea of success is like unto that of people of older growth, as I hinted in a preceding paragraph -- it means the accomplishment of something great. He cannot understand that a successful life is just as possible in an obscure position as it is in a conspicuous one. It does not seem plain to him that a clerk earning five hundred dollars per year can make just as pronounced a success of his life as can his employer, whose income is ten thousand dollars, or even one hundred thousand dollars, per year. He is apt to measure success by dollars, and here is the rock upon which so many young men split. To be a successful subject is as great an achievement for the subject as being a successful ruler is creditable to the ruler. Every man born into the world has his limitations, and beyond that line it is simply impossible for him to go. All of us know men capable of splendid work so long as they are under direction, but who have either made or would make absolute failures as directors. Other men chafe under direction; they must be leaders. But success is as possible with the one as with the other.

The correct definition of success is the favorable termination of anything attempted -- a termination, in other words, which answers the purpose intended. The writing of a business letter can be made just as great a success as can be the drafting of a presidential proclamation. Success never depends upon conspicuity, and it never will. If we accepted as the successful men of the time only those who are in conspicuous places and of whom we know, we should narrow success down to a very few. Great successes have been made as often in quiet ways as with the blare of trumpets. A commercial success won on conservative lines, and maintained by cautious and prudent methods, is the success most highly regarded in the business world to-day. The meteoric commercial flash, so admired by the average young man, seldom has a firm foundation, and rarely commands the confidence of experienced business men. The truest success is that which is earned slowly, but which surely strengthens itself. Ostentation is never typical of a true success. It is always a good thing to remember that the vast majority of successful men are never heard of. It is very important, therefore, that the first thing for a young man going into business to learn is to disassociate success from the more prominent walks in life, and get rid of that false theory. When he does that, successful living will have a deeper, fuller, and truer meaning for him. It will have for him then its correct meaning: that success is possible in every position, and can be made the possession of the humblest as well as the most powerful.

A successful life is nothing more nor less than living as well as we know how and doing the very best that we can. And upon that basis, which is the only true basis, naturally no success can be measured by fame, wealth, or station. Some of us must live for the few, as others again must live for the many, just as some are born to occupy important positions while others are intended for humbler places. But both lives are successful.

Let a young man be thoroughly fitted for the business position he occupies, alert to every opportunity, and embracing it to its fullest possibility, with his methods fixed on honorable principles, and he is a successful man. It does not matter whether he makes a thousand dollars or a hundred thousand dollars. He makes a success of his position. He carries to a successful termination that which it has been given him to do, be that great or small. If the work he does, and does well, is up to his limitations, he is a success. If he does not work up to his capacity, then he fails, just as he fails, too, if he attempts to go beyond his mental or physical limit. There is just as much danger on one side of man's limit-line as there is on the other. The very realization of one's capacity is a sign of success. It is an old saying that it is a wise man who knows when he has enough, and it is a successful man who never goes beyond his depth in business. This is a truth which requires experience to see, perhaps, but it is a lesson which Success demands that her votaries shall learn, and learn well. Success is simply doing anything to the utmost of one's ability -- making as much of one's position as it is possible to make.


III

The Young Man In Business


Every one conversant with the business life of any of our cities, large or small, will, I am sure, agree with me that more business opportunities exist to-day than there are young men capable of embracing them, and that the demand is far in excess of the supply. Positions of trust are constantly going begging for the right kind of young men to fill them. But the material does not exist, or, if it does, it certainly has a most unfortunate way of hiding its light under a bushel; so much so that business men cannot see even a glimmer of its rays. Let a position of any real importance become open, and it is the most difficult kind of a problem to find any one to fill it satisfactorily. Business men are constantly passing through this experience. Young men are desired in the great majority of positions because of their progressive ideas and capacity to endure work; in fact, "young blood," as it is called, is preferred nowadays in nine positions out of every ten. The young men capable of filling these positions are few. For the most part, the average young man is incapable, or, if he be not exactly incapable (I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt), he is unwilling, which is even worse. That exceptions can be brought up to controvert this statement I know; but in these remarks I am dealing with the many, and not with the few. It is the exception that we find in business to-day a young man who is something more than a plodder -- a mere automatic machine. As a general rule, the average young man comes to his office at nine o'clock in the morning; is faithful in the duties he performs; goes to lunch at twelve; comes back at one; takes up whatever he is told to do until five, and then goes home. His work for the day is done. One day is the same to him as another; he has a certain routine of duties to do, and he does them day in and day out, month in and month out. His duties are regulated by the clock. As that points, so he points. Verily it is true of him that he is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever. No special fault can be found with his work. Given a particular piece of work to do, he does it just as a machine would. Such a young man, too, generally considers himself hard-worked -- often overworked and under-paid -- wondering all the time why his employer does not recognize his value and advance his salary. "I do everything I am told to do," he argues, "and I do it well. What more can I do?"

This is simply a type of a young man who exists in thousands of offices and stores. He comes to his work each day with no definite point or plan in view; he leaves it with nothing accomplished. He is a mere automaton. Let him die, and his position can be filled in twenty-four hours. If he detracts nothing from his employer's business he certainly adds nothing to it. He never advances an idea; is absolutely devoid of creative powers; his position remains the same after he has been in it for five years as when he came to it.

Now I would not for a moment be understood as belittling the value of faithfulness in an employee. But, after all, faithfulness is nothing more nor less than a negative quality. By faithfulness a man can hold a position a lifetime. He will keep it just where he found it. But by the exercise of this single quality he does not add to the importance of the position any more than he adds to his own value. It is not enough that it should be said of a young man that he is faithful; he must be something more. The willingness and capacity to be faithful to the smallest detail must be there, serving only, however, as a foundation upon which other qualities are built.

Altogether too many young men are content to remain in the positions in which they find themselves. The thought of studying the needs of the next position just above them never seems to enter into their minds. I believe it is possible for every young man to rise above his position, and I care not how humble that position may be, nor under what disadvantages he may be placed. But he must be alert. He must not be afraid of work, and of the hardest kind of work. He must study not only to please, but he must go a step beyond. It is essential, of course, that he should first of all fill the position for which he is engaged. No man can solve the problem of business before he understands the rudiments of the problem itself. Once the requirements of a position are understood and mastered, then its possibilities should be undertaken. It is foolish to argue, as some young men do, that to go beyond one's special position is made impossible by an employer. The employer never existed who will prevent the cream of his establishment from rising to the surface. The advance of an employee always means the advance of the employer's interest. Every employer would rather pay a young man five thousand dollars a year than five hundred. What is to the young man's interests is in a far greater degree to the interests of his employer. A five-hundred-dollar clerkship is worth just that amount to an employer, and nothing more. But a five-thousand-dollar man is fully worth five times that sum to a business. A young man makes of a position exactly what he chooses, either a millstone around his neck or a stepping-stone to larger success. The possibilities lie in every position; seeing and embracing them rest with its occupant. The lowest position can be so filled as to lead up to the next and become a part of it. One position should only be the chrysalis for the development of new strength to master the other just above it.

A substantial success means several things. It calls, in the first place, for concentration. There is no truth so potent as that which tells us that we cannot serve God and Mammon. Nor can any young man successfully serve two business interests, no matter how closely allied; in fact, the more closely the interests the more dangerous are they. The human mind is capable of just so much clear thought, and generally it does not extend beyond the requirements of one position in these days of keen competition. If there exists a secret of success, it lies, perhaps, in concentration more than in any other single element. During business hours a man should be in business. His thoughts should be on nothing else. Diversions of thought are killing to the best endeavors. The successful mastery of business questions calls for a personal interest, a forgetfulness of self, that can only come from the closest application and the most absolute concentration. I go so far in my belief of concentration to business interests in business hours as to argue that a young man's personal letters have no right to come to his office address, nor should he receive his social friends at his desk. Business hours are none too long in the great majority of our offices, and with a rest of one hour for luncheon, no one has a right to chop off fifteen minutes here to read an irrelevant personal letter, or fifteen minutes there to talk with a friend whose conversation distracts the mind from the problems before it. Digression is just as dangerous as stagnation in the career of a young man in business. There is absolutely no position worth the having in business life to-day to which a care of other interests can be added. Let a man attempt to serve the interests of one master, and if he serves him well he has his hands and his head full.

There is a class of ambitious young men who have what they choose to call "an anchor to the windward" in their business; that is, they maintain something in addition to their regular position. They do this from necessity, they claim. One position does not offer sufficient scope for their powers or talents, does not bring them sufficient income; they are "forced," they explain, to take on something in addition. I have known such young men. But so far as I have been able to discern, the trouble does not lie so much with the position they occupy as with themselves. When a man turns away from the position he holds to outside affairs, he turns just so far away from the surest path of success. To do one thing perfectly is better than to do two things only fairly well. It was told me once, of one of our best-known actors, that outside of his stage-knowledge he knew absolutely nothing. But he acted well -- so well that he stands to-day at the head of his profession, and has an income of five figures several times over. All-around geniuses are rare -- so rare that we can hardly find them. It is a pleasant thing to be able to talk well on many topics; but, after all, that is but a social accomplishment. To know one thing absolutely means material success and commercial and mental superiority. I dare say that if some of our young men understood the needs of the positions they occupy more fully than they do, the necessity for outside work would not exist.

Right in line with this phase of a young man's work comes the necessity of his learning that he cannot do evening work and be employed the entire day as well. It is the most difficult thing for ambitious young men to understand that night-work is physically and mentally detrimental to the best business success. Let a machine run night and day, and before long it will break down; and what a mechanism of iron and steel cannot bear, the human organism certainly cannot stand. If a young man employs his evenings for work, he unfits himself for his work during the day. The mind needs diversion, recreation, rest; and any mentality kept at a certain tension for more than seven or eight hours per day will sooner or later lose its keen perceptive powers. No young man true to his best and wisest interests will employ his evenings in the same line of thought as that which engrosses him during the day. Mental work is unlike manual labor in that it tires without physical exhaustion; and because the worker does not feel it as much when he uses his head for ten or twelve hours per day as he would if he used the muscles for that period of time, he goes, nevertheless, unconsciously beyond his powers of strength. Unknown to him, the strain leaves its mark upon the mind. Youthful vigor throws its effects off for a while, but not permanently; and a man's early breakdown when he should be at the zenith of his powers in middle life is very often directly traceable to an overtaxing of his powers in early life. But not only is the effect of a future character; it is noticeable at the time of the indiscretion. It is seen in the inability of the mind to respond quickly to some suggestion at the office; and how can it be otherwise when the mind has been worked beyond its normal capacity? There is no question in my mind whatever that a young man is untrue to the interests of his employer when he allows himself to work during the evening hours. Although he may not be conscious of it himself, he does not come to his work the following morning as fresh as he might if the mind had been given a season of diversion and rest.

I know whereof I speak when I touch upon this subject. In common with other young men who are wiser than their best advisers, I made the mistake of evening work. For several years I gave up four or five evenings of each week to literary work. My family, my best friends, my physician, warned me to desist. But I knew better. Others, I conceded, undoubtedly had suffered from what I was doing, but I should not. I was strong, young, and of excellent physique. I could stand it; others could not; in fact, I was an exception to the rest of the human race. Two or three years went by, and I was proud of proving to my advisers that I was right and they were wrong. But suddenly, with scarce a warning, the blow came. Irritability and nervousness came first; everything annoyed me. The closing of a door, or the sudden entrance of a person into the room, caused me to start. The harder I worked the less I seemed to accomplish. I could not understand it. Then I began to lie awake for a half-hour after I retired; after a while the half-hour lengthened into an hour, then into two hours. Finally I had insomnia. After a bit my digestion did not seem to be as regular; a heavy feeling possessed me after eating. I was ordered away; stayed a week when I was told I should remain for a month. But, of course, I knew better. And what is the result? For the past three years I have suffered from an indigestion as constant as it is keen; and to-day I have to regulate my food, my hours, and my habits, with the pleasing prospect that at least two years of such living are ahead of me before I can hope for relief. And why? Simply because of working, years ago, when I should have been resting. But then I did not understand it. I do now, and I wish that every young man who reads these words might profit by my error. I am fortunate to get off with nothing more serious than indigestion, but even that affliction has pains which only those who have suffered them can begin to fully realize. Night-work, when employed in the day, does not pay; on the contrary, it kills. I wish fervently and sincerely that five, eight, or ten years ago I might have reached this point of wisdom. I did not, but I write it now and here as a warning to young fellows who value their health, their happiness, their peace of mind, and a comfortable feeling in the pits of their stomachs.

A fatal error in the case of many young men is that they reach a point where they make no progress. Now stagnation in a young man's career is but a synonym for starvation, since there is no such thing as standing still in the business world of to-day. Either we go backward or we go forward. When a young man fails to keep abreast of the possibilities of his position he recedes constantly, if unconsciously, perhaps. The young man who progresses is he who enters into the spirit of the business of his employer, and who points out new methods to him, advances new ideas, suggests new channels and outputs. There is not a more direct road to the confidence of an employer than for that employer to see that any one of his clerks understands the details of his business better than himself. That young man commands the attention of his chief at once, and when a vacancy occurs he is apt to step into it, if he does not forge over the shoulders of others. Young men who think clearly, who can conceive, create, and carry out, are not so plentiful that even a single one will be lost sight of. It is no special art, and it reflects but little credit upon any man, to simply fill a position. That is expected of him; he is engaged to do that, and it is only a fair return for a certain payment made. The art lies in doing more than was bargained for; in proving greater than was expected; in making more of a position than has ever been made before. A quick conception is needed here, the ability to view a broad horizon; for it is the liberal-minded man, not the man of narrow limitations, who makes the success of to-day. A young man showing such qualities to an employer does not remain in one position long.

Two traps in which young men in business often fall are a disregard for small things, and an absolute fear of making mistakes. One of the surest keys to success lies in thoroughness. No matter how great may be the enterprise undertaken, a regard for the small things is necessary. Just as the little courtesies of every-day life make life worth the living, so the little details form the bone and sinew of a great success. A thing half or three-quarters done is worse than not done at all. Let a man be careful of the small things in business, and he can generally be relied upon for the greater ones, provided, of course, that he possesses broadness of mind. The man who can overcome small worries is greater than the man who can override great obstacles. When a young man becomes so ambitious for large success that he overlooks the small things, he is pretty apt to encounter failure. There is nothing in business so infinitesimal that we can afford to do it in a slipshod fashion. It is no art to answer twenty letters in a morning when they are, in reality, only half answered. When we commend brevity in business letters we do not mean brusqueness. Nothing stamps the character of a house so clearly as the letters it sends out.

The fear of making mistakes keeps many a young man down. Of course errors in business are costly, and it is better not to make them. But, at the same time, I would not give a snap of the finger for a young man who has never made mistakes. But there are mistakes and mistakes; some easy to be overlooked, and others it is better not to blink at in an employee. A mistake of judgment is possible with us all; the best of us are not above a wrong decision. And a young man who holds back for fear of making mistakes loses the first point of success.

I know there are thousands of young men who feel themselves incompetent for a business career because of a lack of early education. And here might come in -- if I chose to discuss the subject, which I do not -- the oft-mooted question of the exact value of a college education to the young man in business. Far abler pens than mine have treated of this; it is certainly not for me to enter into it here. But I will say this: a young man need not feel that the lack of a college education will stand in any respect whatever in the way of his success in the business world. No college on earth ever made a business man. The knowledge acquired in college has fitted thousands of men for professional success, but it has also unfitted other thousands for a practical business career. A college training is never wasted, although I have seen again and again five-thousand-dollar educations spent on five-hundred-dollar men. Where a young man can bring a college education to the requirements of a practical business knowledge it is an advantage. But before our American colleges become an absolute factor in the business capacities of men, their methods of study and learning will have to be radically changed. I have had associated with me both kinds of young men, collegiate and non-collegiate, and I must confess that the ones who had a better knowledge of the practical part of life have been those who never saw the inside of a college and whose feet never stood upon a campus. College-bred men and men who never had college advantages have succeeded in about equal ratios. The men occupying the most important commercial positions in New York to-day are self-made, whose only education has come to them from contact with that greatest college of all, the business world. Far be it from me to depreciate the value of a college education. I believe in its advantages too firmly. But no young man need feel hampered because of the lack of it. If business qualities are in him they will come to the surface. It is not the college education; it is the young man. Without its possession as great and honorable successes have been made as with it. Men are not accepted in the business world upon their collegiate diplomas, nor on the knowledge these imply. They are taken for what they are, for what they know.

The young man engaged in business to-day in this country has advantages exceeding those of any generation before him. And I do not say this simply as an echo of what others before me have said, or to use a platitudinous phrase. There never was a time in the world's history when a young man had the opportunity to make something of himself that he has at the present day. He lives in a country where every success is possible; where a man can make of himself what he may choose; where energy and enterprise are appreciated, and a market is always ready for good wares. Young men have forged to the front wonderfully during the past ten years. Employers are more than ever willing to lay great responsibilities on their shoulders. Salaries are higher than ever; young men never before earned the incomes which are received by some to-day. All success is possible.

But a young man must be alert to every opportunity. He cannot forget himself for a moment in business. A man's best working years are not many, and when they are upon him he must make hay, and all the hay he can. No young man can afford to reach the age of thirty without feeling that he is settled in a business way. Before that time he flounders; but at thirty the floundering time should be over. He should have found that special trade or profession for which he thinks he is most capable. This age is generally accepted, I believe, for the reason that a man is most likely to do his best work between thirty and forty; after forty a man's work is not apt to have that energy and snap that is born of youth, and the tendency is first shown in his willingness to deputize details to others. I do not mean to say that a man begins to decline at forty; on the contrary, he is at his prime, and he remains so for ten or fifteen years. But he is better for judgment than he is for working out details. A man's real work, his energetic work, his laborious work, is generally done before he reaches thirty-five.

And not only must he practically make himself between thirty and forty, but he must not spend all that he earns. He must lay aside a goodly portion of his earnings. It is a cruel but a hard fact that the business world has very little use for what are termed old men nowadays; and in these times of keen competitive strife a man is judged to be old very early from the cold commercial point of view. He may not consider himself as being old, but he is no longer considered to be "in the race" with the younger men, who naturally have quicker perceptions and whose sense of alertness is necessarily keener. The most successful man at forty is very often the man who is quietly pushed aside at sixty. If young men earning good incomes between thirty and forty would look a little ahead, and consider the inevitable fact that as they grow older their value is very apt to lessen in a commercial sense, they would save themselves much after-humiliation and sorrowful retrospection. It is hard for a young man at, say, thirty-five, in the full flush and vigor of manhood, to realize that a time will come when others as clever as himself and a bit cleverer will pass him by. But the cold fact exists, nevertheless, and he is wise who, at his prime, thinks of a time which is almost sure to come to every man who lives.

And yet, while a young man may be ambitious for success in business, he cannot afford to get impatient or restless. Not long ago I received a letter from a young fellow which particularly reflected the feeling that I mean. He wrote me that he was twenty, and was impatient because he did not make the progress in his business which he felt that he should. He confessed that he was not so very much dissatisfied with his salary, which was twenty-two dollars per week, although he thought it ought to be forty dollars. Unfortunately for him, however, his employers did not seem to think so, and he was quite sure he was "being kept back." He conceded that he was "becoming impatient," but insisted that he had reason to feel so.

Well, I felt precisely the same way when I was twenty; only my salary was eighteen dollars and thirty-three cents per week, and I felt quite sure that the figures ought to be reversed. And there were several positions just beyond me, too, which I felt I should justly be asked to occupy. But I was not, and, of course, I felt aggrieved. I considered myself imposed upon. Now when I look back upon that time I can see that the reason my salary was not thirty-three dollars and eighteen cents was simply because I was incapable of earning that amount. I was not worth it to my employer. And the reason I did not get those several positions just ahead of me was because I could not have filled them if I had gotten them -- not one of them. But I am a little more than twenty now, and my correspondent, when he is about ten years older, will understand a great many things that are not very clear to him just now. Of course he probably will not choose to believe this; youths of twenty are not apt to believe much that is told them, since they have so little to learn!

But, if I were back to twenty again, and, with my later knowledge, were earning twenty-two dollars per week, I should not only be satisfied, but I should be intensely thankful. I think, too, that the knowledge that there were thousands of men of forty and fifty years who were not earning as much would help me to endure the ordeal. I think that instead of rebelling at the fact that I was earning twenty-two dollars, I should rather devote my time to trying to find the best way of doubling it. I might not be able to make twenty-five dollars for a year or two, but I should endeavor to do so. In fact, if we look over the field, there are more young men of twenty-one who are worth less than twenty-five dollars per week than there are who are worth that or more. And one proof of this is found in the fact that in New York City alone there are tens of thousands of young men at that age who are not earning eighteen dollars per week. In addition to all this I might be tempted to believe that too rapid advance might not be the best thing in the world for me. Too large an income, even when deserved, is far often more of a hindrance to a young man of twenty-one or thereabouts than a help. What I should feel willing to do would be this: if I felt that my employer was a man of honor and judgment I should leave myself in his hands for a while. I should do him the courtesy of believing that he knew more than I did. A man at fifty is sometimes apt to know more -- if only a very little more -- than a boy of twenty; and if I had his confidence and felt that I was pleasing him with my services, I should let him go at that -- for a time, at any rate.

There are hundreds of young men in business to-day who feel just as restless and impatient as did this correspondent. But these young men should bear a few things in mind. They should remember, first of all, that between the years of twenty and twenty-five a young man acquires rather than achieves. It is the learning period of life, the experience-gaining time. Knowledge that is worth anything does not come to us until we are past twenty-five. The mind before that age is incapable of forming wise judgments. The great art of accurate decision in business matters is not acquired in a few weeks of commercial life. It is the result of years. It is not only the power within himself, but the experience behind him, that makes a successful business man. The commercial world is only a greater school than the one of slates and slate-pencils. No boy, after attending school for five years, would consider himself competent to teach. And surely five years of commercial apprenticeship will not fit a young man to assume a position of trust, nor give him the capacity to decide upon important business matters. In the first five years -- yes, in the first ten years -- of a young man's business life he is only in the primary department of the great commercial world. It is for him, then, to study methods, to observe other men -- in short, to learn and not hope to achieve. That will come later. Business, simple as it may look to the young man, is, nevertheless, a very intricate affair, and it is only by years of closest study that we master an understanding of it.

The electric atmosphere of the American business world is all too apt to make our young men impatient. They want to fly before they can even walk well. Ambition is a splendid thing in any young man. But getting along too fast is just as injurious as getting along too slow. A young man between twenty and twenty-five must be patient. I know patience is a difficult thing to cultivate, but it is among the first lessons we must learn in business. A good stock of patience, acquired in early life, will stand a man in good stead in later years. It is a handy thing to have and draw upon, and makes a splendid safety-valve. Because a young man, as he approaches twenty-five, begins to see things more plainly than he did five years before, he must not get the idea that he is a business man yet, and entitled to a man's salary. If business questions which he did not understand five years before now begin to look clearer to him, it is because he is passing through the transitory state that divides the immature judgment of the young man from the ripening penetration of the man. He is simply beginning. From that point he will grow, and his salary will grow as he grows. But Rome was not built in a day, and a business man is not made in a night. As experience comes, the judgment will become mature; and by the time the young man reaches thirty he will begin to realize that he did not know as much at twenty-five as he thought he did. And when he is ready to learn from others he will begin to grow wise. And when he reaches that state where he is willing to concede that he has not a "corner" in knowledge, he will be stepping out of the chrysalis of youth.

And so to a young man in business or just starting in business I would say, remember these very essential truths.

Above all things, before a young man attempts to make a success he should convince himself that he is in a congenial business. Whether it be a trade or a profession -- both are honorable and productive -- let him satisfy himself, above everything else, that it enlists his personal interest. If a man shows that he has his work at heart his success can be relied on. Personal interest in any work will bring other things; but all the other essentials combined cannot create personal interest. That must exist first; then two thirds of the battle is won. Fully satisfied that he is in that particular line of business for which he feels a stronger, warmer interest than for any other, then he should remember:

First, that, whatever else he may strive to be, he must, above all, be absolutely honest. From honorable principles he can never swerve. A temporary success is often possible on what are not exactly dishonest, but "shady" lines. Such success, however, is only temporary, with a certainty of permanent loss. The surest business successes -- yes, the only successes worth the making -- are built upon honest foundations. There can be no "blinking" at the truth or at honesty, no half-way compromise. There is but one way to be successful, and that is to be absolutely honest; and there is but one way of being honest. Honesty is not only the foundation, but the capstone as well, of business success.

Second, he must be alert, alive to every opportunity. He cannot afford to lose a single point, for that single point might prove the very link that would make complete the whole chain of a business success.

Third, he must ever be willing to learn, never overlooking the fact that others have long ago forgotten what he has still to learn. Firmness of decision is an admirable trait in business. The young man whose opinion can be tossed from one side to another is poor material. But youth is full of errors, and caution is a strong trait.

Fourth, if he be wise he will entirely avoid the use of liquors. If the question of harm done by intoxicating liquor is an open one, the question of the actual good derived from it is not.

Fifth, let him remember that a young man's strongest recommendation is his respectability. Some young men, apparently successful, may be flashy in dress, loud in manner, and disrespectful of women and sacred things. But the young man who is respectable always wears best. The way a young man carries himself in his private life ofttimes means much to him in his business career. No matter where he is, or in whose company, respectability, and all that it implies, will always command respect.

And if any young man wishes a set of rules even more concise, here it is:

Get into a business you like.

Devote yourself to it.

Be honest in everything.

Employ caution; think out a thing well before you enter upon it.

Sleep eight hours every night.

Do everything that means keeping in good health.

School yourself not to worry; worry kills, work does not.

Avoid liquors of all kinds.

If you must smoke, smoke moderately.

Shun discussion on two points -- religion and politics.

And last, but not least, marry a true woman, and have your own home.


IV

His Social Life And Amusements


The social life of a young man has a direct and important bearing upon his success, and he cannot be too careful of what forms of amusement he allows to come into his hours of leisure.

From a business standpoint it is all-important that he keep a careful watch on his social habits. For it is not enough for any young man that he should only take care of himself during his working-hours. To social dissipations at night can be traced the downfall of hundreds upon hundreds of young men. The idea that an employer has no control over a young man's time away from the office is a dangerous fallacy. An employer has every right to ask that those into whose hands he intrusts responsibilities shall follow social habits which will not endanger his interests upon the morrow. So far as social life is concerned, young men generally run to extremes. Either they do not go out at all, which is stagnating, or they go out too much, which is deadly. Only here and there is found one who knows the happy medium; a certain amount of social diversion is essential to everybody -- boy, man, girl, or woman; and particularly so to a young man with a career to make. To come into contact with the social side of people is broadening; it is educative. "To know people," says a writer, "you must see them at play." Social life can be made a study at the same time that it is made a pleasure. To know the wants of people, to learn their softer side, you must come into contact with their social natures. No young man can afford to deny himself certain pleasures, or a reasonable amount of contact with people in the outer world. It is to his advantage that people should know he exists; it is important to the wise shaping of his aims and aspirations. It is well for him to keep himself honorably in the eyes of people. His evening diversions should be as widely different from his occupations during the day as possible. The mind needs a change of thought as well as does the body a change of raiment. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" contains a vast amount of truth.

At the same time, nothing is more injurious to the chances of a young man in business than an over-indulgence in the pleasures of what, for the want of a better word, we call "society." It is a rough but a true saying that "a man cannot drink whisky and be in business." Perhaps a softer and more refined translation of this is that a man cannot be in society and be in business. This is impossible, and nothing that a young man can bear in mind will stand him to such good account as this fact. No mind can be fresh in the morning that has been kept at a tension the night before by late hours, or been befogged by indulgence in late suppers. We need more sleep at twenty or twenty-five than we do at fifty; and the young man who grants himself less than eight hours' sleep every night just robs himself of so much vitality. So far as the required amount of sleeping is concerned, I hold to this inexorable rule: sleep eight hours every night and an extra hour whenever possible. The most successful men have repeatedly acknowledged that to a regularity in hours of retiring they can trace a large part of their ability to compass the questions which enter into a successful career.

One rule should be positive with every young man: the midnight hours should be passed in sleep; and by these hours I mean eleven and twelve o'clock. If a young man makes it a rule to be asleep by eleven and up by seven, he chooses the course which hundreds of the most successful men of the day have chosen. The loss of vitality brought by less than eight hours' sleep may not be felt or noticed at present, but the process of sleeping is only nature's banking system of principal and interest. A mind capable of the fulfilment of its highest duties should be receptive to ideas, quick to comprehend, instantaneous in its conception of a point. With a fresh mind and a clear brain a young man has two of the greatest levers of success. These cannot be retained under social indulgences. The dissipation of a night has its invariable influence upon the work of the morrow. I do not preach total abstinence of any habits to which human nature is prone. Every man ought to know what is good for him and what is injurious to his best interests. But an excess of anything is injurious, and a young man on the threshold of a business career cannot afford to be excessive in a single direction. He should husband his resources. He will need them all. For no success is easily made in these days. Appearances are tremendously deceptive in this respect. We see men making what we choose to regard and what are known as quick successes, because at a comparatively early age they acquire position or means. But one needs only to study the conditions of the business life of to-day to see how impossible it is to achieve any success except by the severest patience and by the very hardest work. No young man need approach a business career with the idea that its achievement is easy. The histories of successful men tell us all too clearly the lessons of the patience and efforts of years. Some men compass a successful career in less time than others. And if the methods employed are necessarily different, the requirements are precisely the same. It is a story of hard work in every case, of close application, and of a patient mastery of the problem in hand. Advantages of education will come in at times and push one man ahead of another. But a practical business knowledge is apt to be a greater possession.

"But," says some young fellow, "what are the social pleasures and indulgences which injuriously affect a young man's success?" Only one general answer can be given, and it is this: any social pleasure or indulgence which affects a young man's health affects his success. Good health is the foundation of all possible success in life; affect the one and you affect the other.

I presume it is safe to say that no single element in social life has injured so many young men as an indulgence in intoxicating liquors, and I shall treat of this first. And in doing so I shall take the matter entirely away from the moral standpoint, and place it simply on its best and wisest basis, that of principle. Many a writer -- too many, alas! -- has held forth on this subject of wine-drinking and young men, and pointed out its moral aspects. This is all very well as far as it goes; but I think that if more writers placed their young-men readers on their honor in this matter it would be infinitely better. It is not a question of whether it is right or wrong for a young man to indulge in spirituous drinks, so far as his success is concerned. It simply amounts to one thing: he absolutely cannot do it. And I can say this to every young fellow from my own experience and observation as a young man who, when he started out, did not know exactly what position to take.

I was about sixteen years old, if I remember rightly, when I began attending public dinners and assemblages in the capacity of a newspaper reporter. Wines were then more freely used at dinners than now, and I soon saw that I must make up my mind whether at these gatherings I should partake of wines or decline them. I had been trained to the belief that it was always best to err on the safe side, and as I sat down to my first public dinner -- a New England dinner in Brooklyn -- I shielded the wine-glasses set before me as the waiters came to my plate, and this practice I have followed ever since.

At first my principle never to touch liquor or spirits of any kind directed to me the chaffings of my friends. I was told it looked "babyish"; that I could not expect to go out much and keep to my principle; that I would often find it considered discourteous to refuse a simple glass of wine tendered by my hostess. But I made up my mind that there was no use of having a principle unless one stuck to it. And I soon saw that people respected me the more for it. And just let me say right here to all young men: I never lost one friend by my refusals, but I made scores of friendships -- of men, from one who has occupied the presidential chair down; of women, among whom are the best and most famous in our land to-day.

I honestly believe that a young man who starts out in life with a fixed principle -- whether it be that he will not drink, or smoke, or indulge in anything which in his heart he feels is not good for him, or in which he does not conscientiously believe -- and adheres to that principle, no matter under what circumstances he may be placed, holds in his hand one of the most powerful elements of success in the world to-day. There is a great deal of common sense abroad in this world of ours, and a young man with a good principle is always safe to depend upon it. The men and women whose friendships are worth having are the men and women who have principles themselves, and respect them in others, especially when they find them in a young man.

Another thing which led me to make up my mind never to touch liquor was the damage which I saw wrought by it upon some of the finest minds with which it was ever my privilege to come in contact; and I concluded that what had resulted injuriously to others might prove so to me. I have seen, even in my few years of professional life, some of the smartest -- yea, brilliant -- literary men dethroned from splendid positions owing to nothing else but their indulgence in wine. I have known men with salaries of thousands of dollars per year, occupying positions which hundreds would strive a lifetime to attain, come to beggary from drink. Only recently there applied to me, for any position I could offer him, one of the most brilliant editorial writers in the newspaper profession -- a man who, two years ago, easily commanded one hundred dollars for a single article in his special field. That man became so unreliable from drink that editors are now afraid of his articles; and although he can to-day write as forcible editorials as at any time during his life, he sits in a cellar in one of our cities writing newspaper wrappers for one dollar per thousand. And that is only one instance of several I could recite here. I do not hold my friend up as a "terrible example"; he is but a type who convinced me, and may convince others, that a clear mind and liquor do not go together.

I know it is said, when one brings up such an instance as this, "Oh well, that man drank to excess. One glass will hurt no one." How do these people know that it will not? One drop of kerosene has been known to throw into flame an almost hopeless fire, and one glass of liquor may fan into a flame a smoldering spark hid away where we never thought it existed. The spark may be there and it may not. Why take the risk? Liquor to a healthy young man will never do him the least particle of good; it may do him harm. The man for whom I have absolutely no use is the man who is continually asking a young man to "just have a little; one glass, you know." A man who will wittingly urge a young man whom he knows has a principle against liquor is a man for whom a halter is too good.

Then, as I looked around and came to know more of people and things, I found the always unanswerable argument in favor of a young man's abstinence, i.e., that the most successful men in America to-day are those who seldom, if ever, lift a wine-glass to their lips. Becoming interested in this fact, I had the curiosity to personally inquire into it, and of twenty-eight of the leading business men in the country whose names I selected at random, twenty-two were abstainers. I made up my mind that there was some reason for this. If liquor brought safe pleasures, why did these men abstain from it? If, as some say, it is a stimulant to a busy man, why did not these men, directing the largest business interests in this country, resort to it? And when I saw that these were the men whose opinions in great business matters were accepted by the leading concerns of the world, I concluded that their judgment in the use of liquor would satisfy me. If their judgment in business matters could command the respect and attention of the leaders of trade on both sides of the sea, their decision as to the use of liquor was not apt to be wrong. At least, it was good enough for me.

As opportunities have come to me to go into homes and public places, I find that I do not occupy a solitary position. The tendency to abstain from liquor is growing more and more among young men of to-day. The brightest young men I know, who are filling positions of power and promise, never touch a drop of beer, wines, or intoxicants of any sort. And the young man who to-day makes up his mind that he will be on the safe side and adhere to strict abstinence will find that he is not alone. He has now the very best element in business and social life in the largest cities of our land with him.

He will not be chided for his principle, but through it will command respect.

It will not retard him in commercial success, but prove his surest help.

It will win him no enemies, but bring him the friendship of upright men and good women.

It will win him surer favor than aught else in eyes which he will sometime in his life think are the sweetest he has ever looked into.

It will insure him the highest commercial esteem and the brightest social position.

And as it molds his character in youth, so will it develop him into a successful man and a good citizen.

I know young men are sometimes inclined to believe that abstinence from wines is apt to prove a barrier to their social success. "It looks unsociable," it is claimed. But my own experience has demonstrated to me otherwise. I have found that a young man's best and highest social success is assured just in proportion as he abstains from wines. An indulgence in intoxicants of any sort has never helped a man to any social position worth the having; on the contrary, it has kept many from attaining a position to which by birth and good breeding and all other qualifications they were entitled. No young man will ever find that the principle of abstinence from liquor is a barrier to any success, social, commercial, or otherwise. On the other hand, it is the one principle in his life which will, in the long run, help him more than any other. And touching the point of etiquette on this question, whether it is in better form in drinking wines at dinner to turn down one's glasses or have them removed, I would say, neither. Simply shield the glasses with the hand as the waiter reaches your place at the table with each course of wine. Turning down one's wine-glasses or causing them to be removed from the table always seems to me to be an unnecessary and rather a disagreeable way of pronouncing one's principles.

So far as the habit of smoking is concerned -- whether it takes the form of a cigarette, cigar, or pipe -- I do not believe in the idea which tells a young man that he must not smoke. I say, rather, he will be wisest if he does not smoke. His health will be the better for it and his pocket-book the fatter. If the physical or mental injury to be derived from smoking is an open question, the good it does is not. Smoking does absolutely no good to any one; it is simply a question of the extent of harm that it does. But if a young fellow is inclined to smoke, if he has a taste for it that he feels he must indulge, then I say, smoke moderately. The greatest danger in smoking is in the imperceptible growth of the habit; and this is particularly true of cigarette-smoking, now so prevalent among young men. Unless a young man has himself well in hand, and can govern his passions, he will find that cigarette-smoking has a nasty way of growing upon one. He may at first smoke only two or three cigarettes per day. After a while he adds a fourth. In a year it will be five per day; and so it goes on multiplying, but never diminishing, until the habit gets a hold which many find it impossible to shake off. Then follow irritability, nervousness, loss of memory and of appetite, and all kindred complaints, which are killing to a young fellow's health, and necessarily to his success and happiness. This, to my mind, is the danger which lurks in tobacco; the actual harm is not in its use, but in its abuse. And use easily leads to abuse in the vast majority of cases. An excuse is always at hand to make an extra cigarette or cigar permissible on a special occasion. But after a bit special occasions multiply. I believe that if young men would not smoke until they attained their thirtieth year, it would be the wisest solution of this whole question. One thing is certain: the young man who does not smoke is far better off than he who does; and I think any one addicted to tobacco will agree with this statement.

It is only natural that no young man desires to remain at home every evening of the week; and the question naturally arises, What are the best amusements for a young fellow? And on this point opinions must necessarily differ.

For example, there is the question of attendance at the theater. There are people -- and delightful, good, and conscientious people they are, too -- who sincerely disapprove of the theater. To their minds the playhouse is simply a trick of the devil to lure young men to destruction. And, as plays go nowadays, I must confess that they are not far from the right. Our theaters are unquestionably suffering from a deluge of plays most of which are morally bad and some of which are artistically worthless. But the dramatic history of every country has waves of this sort.

To condemn the theater as an institution, however, and say to young men indiscriminately that they must keep away from it, is, to my mind, wrong. Because there are bad plays it does not necessarily follow that there are no good plays. There are -- not in plenty, I confess, but nevertheless they exist. I believe in the theater in moderation, so long as good actors and good plays are selected. Then I hold that the theater is a source of education to a young man. It will bring before him the lessons of life in a more effective way than is possible by any method of reading or studying. But no general rule can be followed in this form, or, for that matter, in any other form of amusement. To some young men the theater is an absolute harm, and has an injurious effect. If he is of susceptible mind and of weak character, he will be influenced by the life he sees on the stage, believe it to be real, and, ofttimes as not, he will fashion his own life and desires by it. This is where the theater does positive injury, and such a young man should never attend it. If, however, he is strong of character, and goes to the theater in the right spirit, I believe it is good for him. A good play is a wonderful stimulant, a powerful rejuvenant of spirits. It pleases the senses as nothing else can do; it takes the mind away from every-day affairs in a way that no factor in life, save, perhaps, a good book, does. And a good play is as beneficial as a good book. As I have said before, it is unfortunate that we have so few really good plays on the boards of our theaters; but they are there, and we can find them if we will only look out for them. And with care in our selection, it does us all good to go to the theater and enjoy a hearty laugh, or to see the mirror held up to nature. Young men are often puzzled, too, as to the right position to assume as regards dancing. So far as this form of amusement is concerned, I have always liked to believe that dancing, like going to the theater, is good when enjoyed in moderation. Its unhealthy possibilities in a moral sense no young fellow of the right sort ever thinks of or considers. It is only when they are discussed -- as, unfortunately, they are all too often in print -- that they suggest themselves. Dancing, to my mind, when it is not indulged in promiscuously, but with friends and acquaintances of the opposite sex, is one of the highest forms of enjoyment, and one that gives to a young fellow what we all should possess, grace and the ability to carry ourselves well. But, like all good things, dancing can be abused, and then the injurious effects come in. If a young fellow goes to a dance, and dances all evening without any regard to his physical abilities, he exhausts himself and is unfit for his regular duties on the morrow. When the practice is followed in this wise, and a late supper -- which generally means cold or iced foods on a heated stomach -- is indulged in, then one of the most graceful and enjoyable of pleasures is taken out of its proper place and becomes an injury.

There is one thing, however, which a young man carving his own career in the world soon finds out for himself, and it is that dances, as a rule, are very exhausting pleasures and generally mean late hours. And after a while he feels that they interfere with his business duties on the following day. Then it is that he must make a choice, and, of course, dancing must suffer and "go by the board," so to speak. As I have said a few paragraphs back, any social pleasure which interferes with a young fellow's best business interests is bad. What one young man can stand another cannot, and hence every one must decide for himself. He need only keep his health in mind. If he finds that any pleasure -- whether it be attendance at the theater, dancing, or what not -- makes him wish next day that he had not indulged in it, it should be perfectly clear to him that that particular social pleasure is not for him, and he should give it up.

Card-playing has never had any special attraction for me, and so I can say very little for it. A good game of whist, euchre, cribbage, or hearts is enjoyable; but I have always felt that playing at whist, particularly with experts, is more or less of a mental strain, and should not be indulged in by those who are required to use their mental faculties during the day. To some, however, it is a relaxation, a recreation, and to these it is good. I am inclined to believe, however, that the game of "poker" is one which a young man will be wisest if he does not learn, since it is almost invariably associated with gambling. And gambling at cards, or gambling or betting of any sort whatever, is a practice in which no self-respecting young fellow can indulge. It is generally the first step downward; and whether it tends in that way or not, it always, without exception, has its evil effects. Therefore it is wisest to shun it, and shun it absolutely.

The growth of outdoor sports in this country has made thousands of young men interested in wheeling, tennis, base-ball, foot-ball, and kindred sports; and no national sign is more encouraging. The deeper the interest which every young man evinces in manly sports the better it is not only for him in every possible way, but for the generation succeeding him. It betokens a clean, healthy mind when a young fellow takes an honest, sincere interest in outdoor sports. But the great danger is in overdoing this. Sports are splendid in their place and at their time, but too many of our young men allow them to interfere with their business interests. A young man in business cannot allow his interest in base-ball, or any other sport, to become so absorbing as to take first place in his mind. There is no earthly reason why an interest in foot-ball, base-ball, or any other sport, confined within proper bounds and at the proper time, should not be good. But when a young fellow finds that he knows the standing of the base-ball clubs in the various leagues, or the names of the players, or their batting average, better than he knows the names of the customers of his employer, or the prices of the goods he is paid to sell, or the discounts of his house, then I say his interest is directed against his own good. Base-ball, or any other kind of ball, is a splendid thing -- in its place. Nor is an interest in any legitimate sport or game harmful so long as it is kept within bounds and not allowed to occupy the mind to the detriment of business interests. What are called "base-ball cranks" or "bicycle fiends" or "foot-ball enthusiasts" are never good business men, and their standing in the community is on a par with their overwrought interest.

A young man's social life and his indulgences must, in other words, be tempered with reason and common sense. He should have a social side to his nature, but that side must not dominate him. If it does, it affects his business interests; and a young man whose thoughts during business hours are fixed upon a pleasure of the evening before, or upon a sport of the morrow, soon finds himself outdistanced in the race for success by others who keep such things in their proper places. A little common sense here counts for much. It counts for everything, in fact.


V

"Sowing His Wild Oats"


It is a common saying, and a belief equally as general, that it is not only essential, but it is assumed as right, that a young man should, at some time in his life, "sow his wild oats." This sowing of one's wild oats means, in plainer words, that a young man should have his "fling," as it is called; that is, he must "see the world."

Now, it has always seemed to me a great misfortune that the man who framed that sentence of "sowing wild oats" did not die before he constructed it. From the way some people talk one would imagine that every man had instilled into him at his birth a certain amount of deviltry, which he must get rid of before he can become a man of honor. For what is called "sowing wild oats" is nothing more nor less than self-degradation to any young man. It does not make a man one particle more of a man because he has passed through a siege of riotous living and indiscretion when he was nineteen, twenty, or twenty-five; it makes him just so much less of a man. It dwarfs his views of life far more than it broadens them. And he realizes this afterward. He does not know one iota more of "life," except a certain phase of it, which, if it has glitter for him in youth, becomes a repellent remembrance to him when he is matured. The reputation and power that comes of right living and good character are what the man from forty to seventy covets, and nothing but the well-spent years of early life can secure these. There is no such thing as an investigation period in a man's life; at one period it is as important for him to be honorable and true to the teachings of his mother as at another.

To my mind no young man need seek this "darker side of life" which the sowing of wild oats means. The good Lord knows that it forces itself upon our attention soon enough. It does not wait to be sought. A young man need not be afraid that he will fail to see it. He will see plenty of it, and without any seeking on his part, either. And even if he does fail to become conversant with it, he is the gainer in the end. There are a great many things which we can accept by inference as existing in this world. It is not a liberal education to see them. Too many young men have a burning itch to see wickedness -- not to indulge in it, as they are quick to explain, but simply to see it. But the thousands of men who have never seen it have never felt themselves the losers. If anything, they are glad of it. It does not raise a man's ideal to come into contact with certain types of manhood or womanhood which are only removed from the lowest types of the animal kingdom by virtue of the fact that the Creator chose to have them get through the world on two legs instead of four. The loftiest ideal of womanhood that a young man can form in his impressionable days will prove none too high for him in his years of maturity. To be true to the best that is within a man means, above all, to be an earnest believer in the very best qualities of womanhood. Let him accept by inference that there are two types of woman, the good and the bad. But he will be wiser and happier if he associate only with the former. There are hundreds of good women in this world to every one of the contrasting element. No young man has, therefore, a valid excuse for seeking the latter.

Sometimes this "sowing of wild oats" is deemed necessary to insure to a young man what is called "a broader view of life"; whereas, in reality, no means that could be devised gives him such a contracted, narrow, and unsatisfactory standard. A broad view of life means the cultivation of a mind that can take in every part of the horizon of the truest living; that can see good in everything; that accepts the good, and rejects, not investigates, the bad. We can always leave that for some one else to do. The outlook from the wheel-house of an ocean steamer is far better than it is from the stoke-hole. Curiosity may lead some people to go down and look into the stoke-holes of life; but take my word for it, you will find the atmosphere purer and the vision clearer if you stay in the wheel-house. To see "the wheels go round" is a very instructive thing to do in directions where the motive is a good one, prompted by lofty ideas. But some "wheels" are far better unseen. Satisfy a healthy curiosity always, but shun the other kind. There is no satisfaction to be had, and a man whose curiosity overcomes him is always disgusted with the poor return he receives for his trouble.

The young man who reaches manhood without a knowledge of the dark and vicious side of human nature is far better off than the one who has seen it. He will lose nothing by not having seen it; not an ounce less of respect will be meted out to him. But he will feel prouder of himself, and men will respect him infinitely more for the strength of his will-power.

Not long since a young fellow wrote to me in this connection, and said in his letter: "What's the use of leading a straight life? Nobody gives you credit for it. Society expects a more or less diverting life from a young fellow; it accepts him as such. Practically, it calls him a 'ninny' if he doesn't diverge from the straight path once in a while. It only asks of him that he shall not be caught."

I can scarcely imagine a view of life so entirely wrong in its personal application. The real "use" of leading a "straight life" is apparently absolutely overlooked by this young man, who seems to think that his life is lived for others rather than for himself. The "use" of leading an honorable life concerns itself with the young man himself. He is accountable to himself -- to his own conscience, to his own heart. Of what possible satisfaction is it to get credit from others for doing what is best for one's self? Men do not lead honorable lives for the sake of getting credit for it -- to win the hand of applause. They do it for themselves; for their own inner satisfaction, that they may be true to themselves and to the best that is within them.

Aside from this paramount fact, however, people do give a young man credit for the life that he leads, and they are far more often aware of it than the young man supposes. But it depends upon the people whose favor the young man values. If he seeks the recognition of what is so wrongly called and known as "society," a righteous life, an upright life, an honorable life -- in other words, a manly life -- may not count for so much. But the aimless men and silly women who constitute that body called "society" figure for nothing in the life of an earnest young man. If, however, he associates with men who in his developing days can mean much to him, and whose acquaintance in later years will be a pride and a joy to him, if he finds company in women who arouse his best thoughts and truest motives, he will find that his life, free from blemish, is appreciated, is understood, is recognized, and is known. There is an indefinable chord which always draws the right men to the young man of pure life. They are the men who give credit to a young fellow who tries to live aright, and they are the only men worth his knowing. These men may not openly applaud him, but they will give him their confidence, their good will, their friendship; and in later years he will more fully understand what these elements mean to him. These men do not call a young man a "ninny" when he leads an upright life; they call him a manly fellow, and they take him into their hearts and into their homes. By the best part of mankind a young man is always known by his true color. Of that he need never fear. An adherence to high principles shows itself in every thought and every action of a young man, and it always counts for something and much. And as he progresses in life, and a clearer understanding of the right kind of living comes to him, he will see with his own eyes that the men who hold the true respect of the world are the men who were pure-lived and who can fearlessly and honestly look every man and woman in the eye.


VI

In Matters Of Dress


We may like it or not, but we are judged in this world first for what we are, but also as we look; and a young man's common sense should teach him that it is always wise to create a good impression. It does much for him, and he cannot afford to ignore it. Good clothes cannot make a young man, but they are a help; and when carving out a career it is only pure justice to himself that he should take advantage of every point offered him. In other words, I believe it is a duty which every young man owes to himself to be well dressed. But to be well dressed does not necessarily imply the highest-priced clothes, cut according to the latest patterns. It is just as possible to be well attired in clothes of moderate cost, so long as they are not "loud" or "showy," but quiet and neat.

The average young fellow undoubtedly errs in this matter of dress. With his tastes unfixed, in the majority of cases he goes to either one of two extremes: he either dresses shabbily because he claims he cannot afford to do otherwise, or he goes to the other extreme and tries to imitate the styles affected by the extremists in dress, and necessarily makes himself an object of ridicule.

Clothes are moderate enough in price nowadays to make it possible for every young man, no matter how humble his income, to be neatly attired. The secret of a neat appearance in dress does not depend upon the number of suits he may have, but upon the manner in which even a single suit is taken care of and how it is worn. Many a young man with a wardrobe of but two suits of clothes looks neater than another who has five or six suits with which to alternate. The art of looking well depends, first, upon the choice of a suit, and, second, how it is taken care of. If a young man has a moderate income he should make it a point to select only the quiet patterns of dark colors. Not only is this more economical, but it is in better taste than are the lighter and more conspicuous clothes. If a young man will look around him a bit, he will find that the successful men of the day are always the most quiet dressers. Their clothes are never conspicuous; they detract rather than attract attention. It is only the fop of shallow mind who invites attention by his dress. There is a certain class of pictures that require elaborate gilt frames in order to set off the little merit they possess; and likewise are there scores of men who must dress conspicuously in order to gain even the most meager attention. Men who are least certain of their position always dress the showiest. Hence if a young man dresses quietly and neatly he pursues not only the best, but the only wise course. His dress is a pretty accurate reflection of his character, and very often he is judged, to a certain extent, by the taste which he shows in his clothes.

But while a young man injures himself by showy dressing, he has no business to dress shabbily. Shabby clothes are no longer an eccentricity of genius. There are men of genius who have achieved deserved fame and substantial success who are absolutely indifferent to their appearance. And the world overlooks and forgives it. But this is only possible with men of commanding genius who are established; and the young man who takes these men as models so far as attire goes makes a sorry mistake. It is given to men of high position and of established success to follow a great many little eccentricities which are not overlooked in a young man struggling for a career.

Aside from the aspect of mere appearance, neatness in dress is undoubtedly a great inner and outer factor in a young man's success. A neat suit of clothes communicates a sense of neatness to the body, and, in turn, this sense of neatness of the person is extended to the work in hand. As we feel, so unquestionably do we work. Our clothes unmistakably affect our feelings, as any man knows who has experienced the different sensation that comes to him when attired in a new suit from the feeling when wearing old clothes. No employer expects his clerks of moderate incomes to dress in the immediate fashions, but he likes to see them neat in appearance. It commends them to his attention. We all have an inner consciousness that a young man who keeps himself looking neat and clean is more worthy of our confidence than he who is regardless of his appearance and looks soiled and shabby. Neatness always attracts, just as shabbiness invariably repulses.

Particularly would I emphasize the value of clean linen to a young man. There is no earthly excuse why any young fellow should wear soiled collars or cuffs. Soap and water are within the reach of the smallest purse, and the home or the outer laundry is accessible to all. No single element in his dress cuts more of a figure in a young man's success than his linen. However worn may be his clothes, his appearance always invites closer proximity when his linen is clean.

I do not wish to be understood as making too much of dress as a factor in a young man's life. But I believe in it sufficiently, and I have seen evidences again and again to strengthen that belief, that no young fellow anxious for his self-betterment can afford to slight his appearance. No fair computation can be offered as to what percentage of his income he should expend on his dress. That depends altogether too much on circumstances. But I thoroughly believe and strongly counsel that he should dress as well as his means allow; no better, but no worse. Money spent on a neat appearance is never wasted with a man, be he young or old. The chief danger which the young man has to battle with is dressing beyond his means. A tendency toward extravagance is never justifiable, no matter what may be his income. Extravagance is always wasteful. But neither must he economize too closely. In a word, he should strive always to look neat; to present the best appearance he can.

The extreme styles presented in men's clothes are like the extreme styles fashioned for women: they should be left for those who have large wardrobes. The young man of limited wardrobe cannot afford to have anything in it which is in the immediate style one year and out of fashion the next year. Quiet patterns in clothes, in cravats, in shoes, and in linen are always in style. The marvelous combinations we see in young men's clothes, of extreme long coats, of light cloths and large patterns in suitings, of razor-pointed shoes, of pink shirts, white collars, and blue cravats, are generally worn by extremists in dress, or by those of mediocre tastes whose exhibition of those tastes always keeps them in the lower stations of life. These styles should never be affected by the young man who wishes to gain the confidence of his superiors in business, or the respect of the people in social life whose friendships will be of value and benefit to him. A young man, so far as this matter of dress is concerned, cannot do better than always to remember this one inflexible rule: that the best dressers among men follow the same method as do the best dressers among women -- they dress well, but quietly. And quiet dressing is always in good taste.


VII

His Religious Life


When a writer seeks to present the religious life a being, be he young man or patriarch, it naturally follows that he can only be general in what he says. Religion is too much a matter of one's innermost feelings, of one's own convictions, to be governed by rule or example. But in these days of men more or less wise, when many of the truths which our forefathers held sacred are being discussed in so-called "new lights," and when the convictions of many are disturbed by reason of these "new doctrines," it is well, I think, that young men should bear in mind one or two fundamental truths so far as the religious side of their lives is concerned.

It is not within the province of this book to treat either of dogmas or creeds, or of the necessity of church-going; but it does come within its lines to say these words to every young man who reads this chapter:

No matter what present revelations or subsequent discoveries may prove or seek to disprove as to religious teachings, one great essential can never be altered, and that is the necessity of a firm faith, an absolute belief, that a wise God rules over this universe and over the destiny of each and every living man, woman, or child. Whatever constitutes that God is not for us to solve. The wisest of us can only dimly comprehend it. Our minds are finite; the Spirit who rules us is infinite; and nothing finite can comprehend or understand the infinite. Enough is it for us to know that there is a God, that there is a Supreme Being, a Creator, a Ruler. That is all it is given us to know. It is all that the new-born infant can know; it is all that the finest and keenest mentality ever given to man can know. But that there is a great Creator no one can doubt; everything in nature points to that one fact; and the young man who refuses to believe in the existence of a God makes the greatest and most momentous mistake of his life. Without that faith, without that absolute conviction, he is not only hindered or crippled in whatever he undertakes, but he is simply helpless. On that point he cannot afford to err; to doubt it, even in the light of the most advanced knowledge that can ever be presented, he cannot for one single moment allow himself. This much is absolute.

Another point is like unto it, and it is that every person can go to that Creator and Dispenser of all good, and receive, through supplication, guidance in all affairs. This is but another way of expressing an earnest, a heartfelt, an honest belief in prayer. Whatever arguments may be brought to bear upon this question, one thing remains undisputed: that an honest and earnest prayer sent forth from the human heart to its Heavenly Father, for guidance or for help, is sure, and absolutely sure, to bring strength and enlightenment to the mind. No scientific analysis can refute this. Too many millions of people have experienced the truth of this in their lives. Argument on this point is pointless; it is fruitless. A young man might as well argue that he loved his mother. Conscious experience does more than theoretical argument, and that conscious experience has taught the happiest men and the best women who ever lived that there is a direct communication between God and the humblest person who ever lived, and that a prayer for guidance sent from the heart of man to that God is never lost. There is in every man and woman not alone substance of material matter, but a spiritual nature which, if kept in daily contact with its God, finds a response such as can come from no finite source. This truth no young man can hesitate to believe -- the efficacy of prayer. It requires no creed to believe it, no dogma, no form of religion. It is a simple belief that to ask a heavenly guidance in all things good and right means a fruition of the highest and best hopes of a man.

With this absolute faith in the existence of a God, and in prayer, only one thing more is needed to complete the fundamental basis of all religions -- an honest effort to live according to our conscience and to the best and truest that is within ourselves.

Here, then, is a simple religion for any young man. If his heart craves it and his mind can compass it, he can go deeper into the question and believe more. But less he cannot accept. Nor, if he is wise, will he wish to accept less. All objections fall before so simple a code of belief. It asks for no great mental capacity; it is beyond the mental power of none. The rising and setting of the sun, the coming of the seasons, the downfall of night upon day, the birth of a child, the death of a man -- everything proves to the humblest mind that this is a religion which it can accept without hesitancy, without a single misgiving. When we go beyond these fundamental principles we go into questions which are complex and open to individual construction. However a young man may decide for himself those questions, he cannot shirk the three points I have dwelt upon. They will teach him a respect for all sacred things, without which no man can earn respect for himself. They will teach him charity for the faults of others, without which none can hope for leniency for his own shortcomings. They will teach him to hold out the helping hand to others, without which he can himself never succeed. They will keep him close to the teachings and the beliefs of his mother, without which a young man is untrue to the source from which he sprang.

I think, so far as church attendance is concerned, that a young man serves his best interests if he is a regular attendant at some form of worship. I do not say he should or must; I simply believe he is wisest if he does identify himself with some religious body which comes closest to his tastes and beliefs. Whatever be the faults of the church as an institution, a young man must never forget the fact that it is an order born of God, that he sanctioned it, and that if it has its shortcomings it is simply because man is not perfect. Young men with their critical faculties on the alert are prone to discover some single defect, or what looks to them as a defect, in some church with which they are acquainted, and foolishly condemn the church as an institution. Or they will see hypocrisy stand out bold and clear in some man or woman known as a devout attendant at church, and they condemn church-membership as a whole and belittle the influence of religious teachings. This is wrong, and hence it is unfair. None of us would think of condemning all the sweet flowers that grow simply because of a few that are poisonous to the touch. Or, because we know some women who do not follow righteous lives, we certainly would not condemn the entire sex of women, which would necessarily include our own mother. We cannot condemn the many because of the few. A young man should keep his mind fixed on the purposes of the church as an institution, and those purposes affect him for the reason that the church is to-day the balancing power between this earth being a chaos and what it is. It is the greatest safeguard to home and society; and because of the fact that it is such a powerful safeguard, many things are made possible for him which, without the church, it would be impossible for him to enjoy. The church is an indispensable factor in our modern life, and it holds out more possibilities for good to a young man than any other single institution. Its influence is always sure, and he can depend upon it. The best people of our land are its upholders. The most successful men are among its believers and worship at its altar. Worship -- true worship of the heart -- does not imply a sickly sentimentality, as some young men believe; to go to church is not "babyish," nor to stay away from it "smart." A true belief in the church and its fundamental teachings is one of the manliest qualities which one can possess. In its atmosphere of worship the spiritual -- that is, the softer and gentler -- side of man dominates the material side, and to a young man in the race for success this is all-essential. No young fellow can afford either to disbelieve in the church or to scoff at its workings or influence. The methods pursued may not always be to our liking or to our way of thinking, but that is, as I have said before, simply because earthly hands minister over it. But its aim is divine, and that every young man must believe and accept as a belief.

And here let me say a word touching the application of religious principles to a young man's business life. The question is asked, and as often discussed: "Is a life built upon religious principles really compatible with a young man's business success?" Or sometimes it is put: "Does it really pay to be honest in business?" Or again: "Can a young fellow be religious and yet successful?" Of course all are but variations of the same question.

Now the simple fact of the matter boiled down is that a business success is absolutely impossible upon any other basis than an honorable one, followed upon lines of the very strictest honesty.

The great trouble with young men is that their ideas are altogether too much influenced by a few unfortunate examples of apparent success which are prominent -- too prominent, alas! -- in American life to-day. These examples, for the most part representing politicians, are regarded in the eyes of the world as successful; that is, they are talked about incessantly; interviewed by reporters; they lavishly buy diamonds for their wives and build costly houses; and all these are duly reported in the newspapers. Young men read these things and ask themselves, "If he can, why not I?" Then they begin to look around for some "short cut to success," as one young fellow expressed it to me not long since. And it is precisely through this method of "cutting across lots" in business that scores of young men find themselves, after a while, completely baffled. And the man who has once had about him an unsavory taint in his business methods rarely -- very rarely -- rids himself of that atmosphere in the eyes of his confreres. How often we see some young man in business representative of the very best qualities that should win success! Every one agrees that he is brilliant. "He is clever," is the general verdict. He impresses one well in his manner, he is thoroughly businesslike, is energetic, and yet, somehow or other, he never seems to get into a place and stick there. People wonder at it, and excuse it on the ground that he has not quite found his right place. But some day the secret is explained. "Yes, he is clever," says some old business man, "but, don't you know, he isn't -- well, he isn't just safe!" Just safe! How much that expresses; how clearly that defines hundreds and hundreds of the smartest young men in business to-day! He is everything else, but he isn't "just safe"! He is not dishonest in any way, but he is, what is equally as bad, not quite reliable. To attain success he has, in other words, tried to "cut across lots." And rainbow-chasing is really a very commendable business in comparison with a young man's search for the "royal road to success." No success worth attaining is easy; the greater the obstacles to overcome the surer is the success when attained. "Royal roads" are poor highways to travel in any pursuit, and especially in a business calling.

It is strange how reluctant young men are to accept as the most vital truth in life that the most absolute honesty is the only kind of honesty that succeeds in business. It is not a question of religion or religious beliefs. Honesty does not depend upon any religious creed or dogma that was ever conceived. It is a question of a young man's own conscience. He knows what is right and what is wrong. And yet, simple as the matter is, it is astonishing how difficult it is of understanding. An honest course in business seems too slow to the average young man. "I can't afford to plod along. I must strike, and strike quickly," is the sentiment. Ah yes, my friend, but not dishonestly. No young man can afford to even think of dishonesty. Success on honorable lines may sometimes seem slower in coming, but when it does come it outrivals in permanency all the so-called successes gained by other methods. To look at the methods of others is always a mistake. The successes of to-day are not given to the imitator, but to the originator. It makes no difference how other men may succeed -- their success is theirs and not yours. You cannot partake of it. Every man is a law unto himself. The most absolute integrity is the one and the only sure foundation of success. Such a success is lasting and the only one which wins respect. Other kinds of successes may seem so, but it is all in the seeming and not in the reality. Let a young man swerve from the path of honesty and it will surprise him how quickly every avenue of a lasting success is closed against him. Making money dishonestly is the most difficult thing to accomplish in the world, just as lying is the practice most wearing to the mind. It is the young man of unquestioned integrity who is selected for the important position. No business man ever places his business in the hands of a young man whom he feels he cannot absolutely trust. And to be trusted means to be honest. Honesty, and that alone, commands confidence. An honest life well directed is the only life for a young man to lead. It is the one life that is compatible with the largest and surest business success.

A religious life, whether in business or out of business, is one which every young man not only should, but can follow. It partakes of no gloom, as many suppose; it means no depression of spirits. It means simply the living of an upright life, a life of respectability. Religion is nothing more nor less than an adherence to the simple code I have presented: a recognition of a God, and an allegiance in manner of life to that God. And that manner of living is simply a healthy development of the spiritual nature -- keeping close to one's best instincts. The communion of a man with his Creator comes with such a manner of living. But this is all that a religious life means. That comprises true religion, at once the easiest and the safest element for any young man to take into his life. It will stand the severest test, and will prove a veritable Rock of Gibraltar to him in time of anxiety and trouble.


VIII

His Attitude Toward Women


The attitude which a young man assumes toward women is one of the surest index-fingers to his character, and nothing stamps him with such unerring accuracy before men. And if this be true in a general sense of his attitude toward the whole sex, it applies with particular force to his position as son. "As is the son so will be the husband," is a well-known saying, and it is likewise true that as is the son so is the man. When a young man reverences his mother it is easy for him to believe in the nobility of the sex to which she belongs. And it is a correct belief.

That women are morally better and spiritually nobler than men should be believed by every young man. No ideal of the best and truest qualities of womanhood is too high for him to set for himself. Such a belief of his young manhood will become a conviction of his later manhood. I know that it is the fashion of some men to speak lightly of women and womanhood; and young men in their susceptible years are sometimes apt to listen to these low standards, and inclined to accept them or be influenced by them. But of one thing every young fellow may be assured: that the man who speaks of woman in any but the most respectful terms is either a knave or a fool -- very often he is both. And this is one of the few rules in life to which there is no exception. I wish that young men would more closely associate their mothers with women in general, and realize that every slur cast upon women as a sex is a slur upon their mothers. This is the feeling which prompted General Grant to give a lesson in politeness which will always be told of him. The story is doubtless familiar to all how one evening an officer came into camp, and in a rollicking mood said to those assembled:

"I have such a rich story that I want to tell you. There are no women present, are there?"

Whereupon General Grant, lifting his eyes from the paper which he was reading, and looking his officer square in the eye, said slowly, but deliberately:

"No, but there are gentlemen present."

The rebuke was masterly, and it is one which young men cannot too vividly remember.

Nothing in this world stamps a man more decisively in the eyes of his fellow-men than the practice of telling "off-color" stories in which women are concerned. I have often seen this practice followed, but never yet have I seen a single instance when the story-teller did not lower himself in the estimation of his listeners. Men are prone to laugh at these stories when they are told them; but privately I have noticed that they form their own opinion of the man who tells them, and the opinion is always of one kind. It is the man who upholds womanhood who commands the respect of other men; the man who attempts to lower it invariably invites their distrust. The men who hold that "every woman has her price" are the men who, in the estimation of other men, have no price at all, commercially, socially, or morally. The man who uses such an expression regarding woman simply apes the "smart" utterance of the first fool that God ever made, and after whose pattern all the other fools in this world were created. A man who truly loves his mother, wife, sister, or sweetheart never tells a story which lowers her sex in the eyes of others. He who tells such a story is always lacking in some one respect, and generally it is common decency. I have dwelt upon this point because I should like young fellows to believe more firmly than they do that it is not "caddishness" or "babyishness" or "goody-goodyness" to refuse to listen to a story which makes light of women; it is one of the manliest qualities which a young fellow can show, and deep down in his heart every man will respect a young man for such a position. The higher order of men never forget that, being born of woman, they owe an obligation to their mother's sex which, as loyal sons and true gentlemen, forbids them to listen without protest to offensive stories in which woman is concerned. And no young man can listen to this class of stories without offending his mother, his sister, or the girl who a little later will teach him, through her own sweet life, that whatever is said to the moral detriment of her sex is a lie, and a reflection upon the two women who, one at the beginning of his life and the other at its ending, will prove his best friends -- his mother and his wife.

It has often been said before, but it is one of those truths which can as often be said again, that a woman is a man's truest and most loving friend, first, last, and all the time. And particularly is this so of a mother. I know perfectly well that young men are apt sometimes to think that their mothers are unreasonable. And they are, sometimes, undoubtedly, and a little selfish, too. But one point must not be forgotten: it is an unreasonableness and a selfishness born of a mother's surest instinct for the best interests of her boy. I can look back to my earliest years of young manhood and see where, again and again, I thought my mother was either wrong or unreasonable or prone to be a trifle too cautious. But I can also look back now, and I cannot see one instance in which after-events did not prove her to be right. And to-day it is easy to say that if it has been given me to achieve even the smallest measure of success in my life thus far, it is all and entirely due to the influence of my mother, and to my absolute confidence in that influence. No woman has been so much to me, no woman is more to me at this moment that I write, than she who is my mother, my confidante, my truest and best friend -- always watchful, always loving, always true, always the same. And gladly do I write this loving tribute to her, grateful that I can place it in her hands rather than on her grave.

There is no deeper or greater satisfaction to a man than to be able to have his mother live to see him fairly launched on a successful career of usefulness. If his father dies before he has made his mark in the world he does not seem to feel it so keenly. But somehow he always wants his mother to live long enough to see for herself that she did not give him life for naught, and that the world is a little better off for the being which she gave unto it. There wells up within his nature a peculiar sense of pride when some day his mother comes quietly to him, and putting her arms around his neck, says, with all the tenderness of a mother's love, "You have done well, my boy. Now I am content to go." No matter how hard a man may have worked, such approval comes to him as his sweetest and richest reward. The applause of the world is little compared with such a motherly benediction, and more precious to him is the remembrance of that short sentence in after years than all the honors that can be showered upon him or the riches that may come to him. It has been my privilege to hear this sacred thought from the lips of more than one of the most famous of American men -- men who are to-day leaders in their professions, others who have gone to their graves crowned with the ripest honors and fullest laurels of the world.

For men, even in their most mature years, are, after all, nothing but grown boys. The fond stroke of a mother's hand is as welcome at forty as at fourteen. The world never looks so bright to a man as when he sits at his mother's side with her arms around him. A woman never seems so gentle as when she fondly strokes the recreant lock from his brow, after a trying day, and says, in that voice so familiar, but ever sweet, "You are tired, are you not, dear?" Ah, those women who come into a room when a man is almost worn out, and bring new life and new hope and new spirit with them! Those God-inspired mothers who say so much in a smile, who speak so lovingly to us in a look, who send a thrill of confidence through a man in a tender pressure of the hand! They know us so well. They knew us when we were children, but how much better they know us when we are men! We try to convince them that we are no longer boys, but only a quiet little smile and a fond little petting shows us the fallacy of our own words. They stroke our cheeks, and somehow the mind seems more restful and the brain ceases to throb. The things we try to hide from them are the very things we tell them about. They know with a single look just what is troubling us, and although they never ask us, we pour out to them our worries just as we did when we were children. The quarrels of the playground have only become the worries of business, and the baby of the cradle has simply become the baby of the mother's heart.

It is easy for a man to think well of woman when he can look at her through the eyes of a good mother. And it is this which I want every young fellow to do. His mother should be the central figure of womanhood to him -- his ideal, his standard; and while necessarily other women will suffer in comparison, it will only be in the respect that to the one he is a son, while to the others he is a man. The tenderest solicitude which a young man can show to his mother, the most unremitting care he can give her, are none too good for the life he owes to her. And the more tender his feelings for her the stronger he will find his faith grow in her sex. There is no influence to be compared with that of a good woman over the life of a young man. It means everything to him, his success in every phase of life. Men are by nature coarse and brutal; it is the influence of woman which softens them. And we ought to be softened as much as we can. The good Lord knows we need it badly enough. But no influence is productive of the best and surest results unless we make ourselves susceptible to it. If we lack faith in woman, if we fail in the right ideal of womanhood, all her influence will be as naught upon us. From the beginning of the world woman has been man's leader. She has made him what he is to-day. All the qualities which we admire in men come from woman's influence. And a young man starting out in life cannot trust to an influence so sure and so safe as that which comes to him from the being of whose life he is a part, or in whose heart he finds a supreme place. Man's best friend is the woman who loves him. That should be the faith of every young man toward woman; that should be his absolute conviction, and he should show it by an attitude of respect and deference toward her.


IX

The Question Of Marriage


Necessarily the question of marriage to a young man is an important one -- perhaps the most important that is given him to solve when he reaches a marriageable age. To some young men it is easy of solution. They fall in love with some girl who occupies their every thought, they are married, and, as the story-books generally have it, "they live happily ever afterward." But to others it takes the form of a problem. They are troubled with sentimental perplexities; and if these do not enter into the matter, then it is either a question of the right girl, the means with which to marry, or the proper age. That the matter takes on one of these phases with the majority of young men there can be no doubt, since few men marry the girl who first strikes their fancy.

The first point to present in this question of marriage is the principle of it: that it is unquestionably for the good of almost every young man that he shall marry. There are no two sides to this for the great majority of young men. Of course there are reasons why a man, in some special instance, should choose to lead a single life; in fact, there are excellent reasons why it is best that some men should. I have known men to have inner conflicts with themselves for years, and then resolutely decide upon celibacy. Such decisions make heroes of some men. There are circumstances which sometimes enter into a man's life that make celibacy judicious and wise -- circumstances not of his own choosing. There are men whose lofty estimate of women will not permit of their asking a woman to share what God in his wisdom has chosen to have them bear. That type of men exists. But to the majority of men it is decreed to marry and that they shall live in marriage.

When a young man deliberately lays out for himself a single life based upon any other than the strongest physical or mental reasons, he makes the mistake of his lifetime. If a young man refuses to marry because of a lack of faith in womanhood, or a distrust of the existence of those qualities generally attributed to woman, he errs, and he errs fatally. And the best evidence of this is found in the incontrovertible fact that the happiest men in the world to-day are the men who have believed in good womanhood, and have shown that belief by taking a good woman into their hearts and homes. There can be no disputing the fact that a man's life is never complete in its fullest happiness until that life is made whole and complete by the love of a true woman. The simplest reference to the history of men since the creation of the world will demonstrate the truth of this assertion. Man has done nothing without woman; without her counsel he has become as a cipher in the world. Left alone, aside from the question of influence, he is helpless. No man ever lived who knows, for example, how to take care of himself. The absence of a wife from home has demonstrated to many a man how large and important a part she is of it and of him. The right kind of a wife knows better what is essential to her husband's comfort than he does himself -- far better. He waits for illness to come, and then combats it, frequently when too late. But the wife sees the symptoms and uses preventives. Her keen insight tells her that her husband is unwell when sometimes he is not conscious of it himself. Women, we are told, know little of business; yet when business troubles come to a man a good wife is the source of all comfort to him. When he despairs she is hopeful. By her influence, perhaps, more than by what she actually accomplishes, she brings new hope, new courage, and points the way to a new beginning. How often women have been the means of averting business disasters or the multiplying of failures with further implications the world will never know; but there are men who know it, and they are the men of whom to ask, "Is marriage a failure?"

It is an unfortunate fact that some men never get to a point where they understand woman. And yet to know woman, to properly understand her, to correctly interpret her best motives, is the deepest lesson that life can teach a man. Every man with a fair mind who clasps a good woman to his breast and calls her mother, wife, or sister will understand the import of these words. How a man can be a hater of woman I cannot conceive when through her so much can be added to his life. Nothing is such an incentive to a man to make the best of himself as the knowledge that there is some one in the world who believes he is just the cleverest fellow alive; that there are eyes, far lovelier than all the stars in heaven to him, which sparkle at his coming; that there is a loving, womanly heart which beats quicker at the sound of his footsteps; that there is a nature ever ready to sympathize with him in his troubles and gladden at his victories -- a dear, sweet, loving woman, who laughs with him, and puts her soft, loving arms around him when he is in trouble, rouses him to his better self, making him feel that, after all, this world is not such a bad place to live in. This, as many a man knows, is not a picture drawn from fancy; it finds its living reflection in thousands of homes all through this land and across the sea, in homes where men are happiest and where women are most content.

The bachelor is ofttimes happy in his single state -- that is, for a bachelor. He may console himself with the reflection that he accounts only to himself, that he is his own master, can go where he will and do as he chooses so long as he obeys the laws of society and of the land; but in his heart he knows he is but half of a complete thing. He knows that there is something lacking in his life which, if supplied, would make the complete whole. Business success may come to him, wealth may be his; but one way or another he feels the absence of some one to enjoy his successes with him. He wonders why it is that he does not always put forth his best efforts. He marvels whether, after all, a man does not need something outside of himself to draw him on and incite him to his utmost exertions. He may be courted for his money, he may have friendships innumerable, every comfort may be in his rooms; yet moments come to him when persistent thought points to something lacking in his life to round it out. Travel as he will, live on the best the world can provide, he feels, as I have heard it said of the millionaire owner of one of the greatest newspapers in the land, roaming from one land to another, that few men are ofttimes more miserable in their daily lives than is he. He has everything the heart can wish for; more wealth than he can spend; costly residences on this side of the ocean and on the other; swift yachts are his, and swifter horses. Yet, while driving one day, and seeing in a passing carriage a man of his acquaintance sitting beside a devoted wife and two children, he said to a friend, "That man's whole fortune is not one half of my yearly income, and yet his life is a far happier one." And when his friend asked him in what the other's happiness exceeded his, James Gordon Bennett replied, "In having a good wife, and a lovely child for each knee."

Of the wisdom of marriage itself there can be no question. The knotty little problems which enter into it are another matter. Some of them find expression in the choice of the right girl. And here, naturally, is a question which no one can decide for another. It is a man's heart which directs him to the woman whom he wants for his wife, never the finger of the adviser. "Love pointeth surely" is an old proverb, and it is as true to-day as upon the day it was written. Many a young man, however, stands undecided on this question of marriage. He believes that the only holy marriage, the only marriage from which can spring happiness, is that born of love. The girl with whom such a marriage is possible is perhaps within his eye. He loves her, he feels, and yet he hesitates. Why he hesitates he cannot sometimes explain. Sometimes there is another girl in the case, whom he acknowledges to himself he does not love quite so well, and yet he feels that she would bring to him something that the other girl does not: a certain social advancement, perhaps, a furtherance of his business interests, or an advantage of one kind or another. Again, there are young men who feel drawn toward accepting the girl of their own heart and choice, but are withheld by parental opposition, or, if not exactly opposition, that parental indifference or coldness which is even more chilling and killing than open antagonism. They want the girl, and yet they do not want to offend their parents; or perhaps, as in some cases, it is friends that are considered. And so hesitancy and perplexity come in. The heart leads one way, some other interest or consideration draws another.

It is to the mind of such a young man that a girl awakens divers feelings, many of which are mistaken for love. It is love which draws him one way; it is an inherent sense of mere possession that draws him the other. And I am very free in saying that some young men are actuated in marrying simply because of this sense of mere possession. Nor do I mean the word "possession" here as applying to property. To marry a girl for her money is the most contemptuous act of which a man can be capable. It dwarfs him and it dwarfs the woman upon whom he inflicts the wrong. But it is the notion which gets into the heads of so many young men to marry a girl because of the possession of some trait, some art, some grace, which they have not themselves, and the girl's possession of it attracts them. Sometimes it is the girl's talent; at other times her education, or her traveled knowledge; again it is her beauty, her social graces, her ability to appear well, to dress well, to entertain well. The young man associates such a girl in his mind as a part of an establishment which is the dream of his young manhood. She would look well; she would always be able to entertain his friends, to help him in achieving a certain position; and he feels that he would be proud of her. And he would. But the satisfaction of a mere pride is not the satisfaction of the heart. Pride is very easily satisfied; and when it is satisfied it generally departs. In a few years he will want something more than an ornament to his home, and then he will find it wanting. For only in rare cases do we find the useful and the ornamental combined in a single woman. To marry a girl because of some possession; because he simply likes her better, perhaps, than he does other girls; because, maybe, he respects, fancies, or admires her; because she seems to sympathize with him, is to establish a wrong basis for a happy marriage. Not one of these emotions can form the foundation for any truly happy marriage. They are things which appeal to us in any dear friend, man or woman. The girl who is to be a young man's companion for life, to be with him and of him as long as she or he may live, and to be the sharer of his joys or sorrows, to be a daughter to his mother and a mother to his children, must awaken other emotions in a young man's heart. She must awaken that true, affectionate love out of which all of the things of which I have spoken spring, but none of which alone or combined constitutes love itself.

The girl that a young man should marry, and the only girl he is safe to marry, is she who fills all his life, his every thought, who guides him in his every act, whose face comes before him in everything that he does -- the girl, in short, without whom he feels life would be a blank, without whom he could not live. That is the girl whom he loves, and it makes little difference whether such a girl be rich or poor, talented or not, traveled or untraveled. Enough is it for him if she is affectionate in her nature, sympathetic with his work, responsive to his thoughts, appreciative of his best qualities. These are the traits in a woman which last the longest, and remain with a man throughout his life. They are the traits in women which make good wives and better mothers. Knowledge is a good thing in a woman, but affection is infinitely better. Far wiser is the young man who marries the stupidest girl in the world, if she be affectionate, than he who marries the brightest girl in the universe, if she be cold, clammy, and unresponsive in her disposition. We laugh at sentiment, we men, when we are young; when we have lived a lifetime we reverence it, and the jest becomes the tribute.

Another point, as I hinted above, which sometimes enters into a young man's thoughts of marriage is what is called by the world the "social station" of the girl he loves. Now what is termed "social station" is a very difficult thing to define. The habit of social distinction which so many families endeavor to engender and develop in contemplated marriage is, I think, one of the most unfortunate tendencies of the times. A social aristocracy has always been impossible in America, and it is never more impossible than at the present time. We need not be extremists in our beliefs, and refuse to admit that there exist grades and classes in American society. Our social lines are sufficiently drawn for individual protection, as they rightly should be, and must be in any great nation. But for any grade of society to refuse a humane and proper recognition to a girl foreign, perhaps, to our special modes of living, is a piece of snobbery unworthy of any American family which thrives and prospers under American privileges and resources. We have in this country a class of people whose social standards are beneath contempt, and who consider it almost infectious to brush their mantles against the plainer cloaks of what they choose to call "the lower classes." We can, if we so choose, amuse ourselves in this country by believing that there is such a thing as American lineage. But when we permit this harmless amusement to become a settled belief and seriously discuss it, as I have heard it in some drawing-rooms, the matter passes out of the amusing and assumes the ridiculous. The great social strength of this country, the real substantial strength, hope, and life of this nation, lies with what is designated as the great average middle class; and from this class springs not only the mental, physical, and moral bone and sinew of this republic, but the best type of womanhood which ornaments the American home to-day. The man or woman who to-day sneers at or casts a discreditable innuendo upon that class stamps himself or herself unworthy of being classed among intelligent people.

The truest, best, and sweetest type of the American girl of to-day does not come from the home of wealth; she steps out from a home where exists comfort rather than luxuries. She belongs to the great middle class -- that class which has given us the best American wifehood; which has given help-mates to the foremost American men of our time; which teaches its daughters the true meaning of love; which teaches the manners of the drawing-room, but the practical life of the kitchen as well; which teaches its girls the responsibilities of wifehood and the greatness of motherhood. These girls may not ride in their carriages, they may not wear the most expensive gowns, they may even help a little to enlarge the family income; but these girls are to-day the great bulwark of American society, not only present, but of the future. They represent the American home and what is best and truest in sweet domestic life, and they make the best wives for our American men. I have no patience with those theories that would seek to place the average American girl in any other position than that which she occupies, ornaments, and rightfully holds: the foremost place in our respect, our admiration, and our love. She is not the society girl of the day, and she is better for it. She knows no superficial life; she knows only the life in a home where husband, wife, and children are one in love, one in thoughts, and one in every action. She believes no woman to be so sweet as her mother; no man so good as her father. She believes that there are good women and true men in the world, and her belief is right. And that young man will ever be happiest who takes such a girl for his wife.

I seek not to disparage the home life of the wealthy of our land. Some of my best friends live in homes of luxury, are deemed by the world wealthy and fortunate, and the atmosphere of their homes is as pure and elevating as is their family life representative of every element that makes good women and men. Nor have I one word to say against honest ancestral pride. On the contrary, I believe in it. I think if we had more of it in this country it would be better. It is one of the greatest stimulants to a young man to know that he comes of a good family and that he is expected to so carry himself as to add respect and pride to the name of his family. A good family name is one of the strongest safeguards to a young man's respectability. We cannot underestimate the value of heredity. We should be proud of an honorable ancestry. But we should not boast of it, or use it to a detrimental comparison of the ancestry of others. That spirit is vulgar; certainly it is un-American.

Nor should any of us, who have been a little more favored with this world's goods, refuse to recognize good in those not possessed of equal possessions. I care not how tenderly the favored son of a wealthy home may have been reared; with what care and precision his mental and moral development may have been guarded and watched; what hopes may be centered in him: I will match his worth any hour of the day with a girl from a plainer home and of lesser advantages. "But her social position?" the proud mother asks. Social station? What is social station? So long as a girl is respectable, so long as she is good, so long as she is a loving, tender, and true woman, by what social standard can she be measured? What right have we to apply superficial standards to worth and character? What comparison can a social standard bear to the highest standard of morality, to good womanhood, to the best wifehood, to the truest conception of motherhood? Is the girl in an office less of a woman than the girl who rides in her carriage? Is she less capable of making a good wife? Why do we marry? To please society? To uphold social standards as false as they are mythical? False pride has made enough trouble in this world without letting it bring grief into our homes. Let the young men of this country be sufficiently broad-minded not to measure a girl by her surroundings, but to judge her for herself. True worth lasts longer and wears to the end. The loving heart of a good girl is better than all the wealth and social accomplishments which she can bring to a man. It is something that comes back to a man three hundred and sixty-five times in a year. We can get along with a little money in this world if we will; but love is a quality of which we can scarce have too much.

And when the conditions are reversed, and the young man's income or financial possessions are taken into account, the same general principle is true. There is not a more cruel standard by which to measure a young man than the position he is able to offer the girl of his choice. I am not an advocate of the "love-in-a-cottage" theory by any means; but I do believe in the good old-fashioned theory of a young couple starting out in the world with a moderate income, and then climbing upward together. I know this sounds visionary, and like the sort of reading we find in stories; but the truth is there just the same. I give it as my earnest conviction that a young girl will be far safer in the hands of a young man born of parents in moderate circumstances, honest in his principles, energetic and industrious, than she would with a young man who has known only the luxuries of life, and to whom work is an incidental matter rather than the aim and purpose of life. I do not care how poor a young man may be; if he has good health, sound principles, is respectful of sacred things, is temperate in his habits, and is not afraid to work, and work hard, and face the world with a determination to succeed, that young man can be trusted with the best and sweetest girl ever reared in an American home.

At the same time I believe that no young man has a right to ask a girl to be his wife until he has reached a certain point in his life. And I would apply this both to his age and to his prospects. As to age, I think a young man should wait until he is at least twenty-five before he marries. Before that time his impressions and his fancies are apt to be fleeting. He drifts and flounders in almost everything he does -- wife-choosing included -- before he is twenty-five. He himself rarely knows what he wants in anything. He does not know the world nor its people. He may think he does -- a young man between eighteen and twenty-five generally does -- but he does not all the same. It requires him to reach and pass the twenty-five-year period to find out how little he knew before. After he passes twenty-five he begins to learn, and from that time things come to have a meaning to him. The difference before and after this twenty-five-year period is that before he is twenty-five he wonders that he is so much more mature than others and knows so much; while after he passes twenty-five he wonders that he is so immature and knows so little. And when a young man reaches that point where he is convinced that he knows very little, then his time of learning commences. Young men generally think they know "a great deal about girls" when they are twenty-one, and can easily choose a wife. But the wisdom of twenty-one on that point is a little slippery, and I would advise no young man to test it.

Then, too, a young man has no conception of his capabilities before he reaches twenty-five. He has no fixed purpose in mind; he has no idea what he is capable of doing; he does not know the business world nor its chances. He has had no opportunity of showing his employers his capacity to fill a more important position. He has, therefore, no practical idea of his prospects, and he can form none. The period between the ages of twenty and twenty-five is the formative period in his life, and during that time it is better that he has no additional responsibilities upon him other than his own struggles will demand. But when he reaches twenty-five he generally begins to develop. His opinions on matters begin to be listened to -- casually, it is true, at first, but they command attention, nevertheless, where formerly they were ignored, and justly so. From this time his career begins, and he can, with a greater degree of accuracy, decide for himself whether he can ask the girl of his choice to share his life with him. Between twenty-five and thirty a young man should, if he hopes to amount to anything, choose his path in life and test his capabilities. And then it is that the love of a good wife and her counsel will mean everything to him. If we look at current statistics we find at once that the greater majority -- I think it is something like seventy per cent. -- of our young men are marrying between twenty-five and thirty, with a leaning toward the latter age. Years ago it was different, and the marrying age for young men was between twenty-two and twenty-five.

But, likewise, a young man cannot afford to wait too long in this question of marriage; and when I say too long I mean beyond the age of thirty. After a man passes thirty years his habits are very likely to become fixed, and from that time it will be harder for him each year to tear away from his bachelor habits. For marriage demands a few sacrifices from a man, and he must be prepared to meet them, just as the girl gives up many of her girlish pleasures. Marriage is not a lark, as some young people are apt to suppose, and it should not be entered into just for the fun of the thing, nor for the sake of being married. Better is it for a young man never to marry than to marry simply for the sake of marrying, or because he feels that he is getting along in years.

There is only one safe rule for a young man to follow in this whole question of marriage, and it solves the problem of the girl and the age: wait until the right girl comes along and then marry her. But, if possible, don't marry her this side of twenty years, and don't you marry this side of twenty-five.

Regarding the question of engagements, I believe thoroughly in their short duration. This whole question of matrimonial engagements might be changed somewhat by young people themselves, and to their own benefit. In many cases the young become engaged too soon, and then they are restless because they cannot marry; whereas, if the period of acquaintanceship were made longer, and the engagement time shorter, things would be much improved. Long engagements are never advisable; in fact, they are bad from every point of view; long periods of acquaintance previous to an engagement are far better. So far as actually knowing each other is concerned -- well, for that matter, what woman has ever known a man until after she is married to him, or what man has ever known a woman?

Touching the question of a young man's income when he marries, no rule can be laid down. There are thousands of married people who are living the happiest of lives on six hundred dollars per year, while there are thousands, on the other hand, who struggle to keep out of debt on six thousand a year. And so it goes. Everything depends upon the people. Hundreds of men constantly ask the question, "Can I marry on six hundred, eight hundred, or a thousand dollars per year?" No one can determine this question but the young fellow himself, and particularly the girl whom he loves. As I wrote to a young fellow who asked me if I believed it would be safe for him to marry on a thousand dollars per year, so do I say to all young men who are asking the question, irrespective of the amount involved: no one can tell you. You and the girl in question must settle that. But, on general principles, I think the sooner we look at this question of marriage from some other than this strictly mercenary standpoint the better. I do not believe, as I said a few paragraphs back, in the theory of love in a cottage, with nothing else. But I do believe in young people starting at the lowest rung in the ladder and then climbing up. Nothing else in the world knits the interests of two people so closely together, or insures such absolute happiness in the future as their lives progress. I cannot advise any young fellow what to do, but I know if I were earning six hundred, eight hundred, or a thousand dollars a year, and I really loved a girl -- felt, in other words, as if I could not live without her -- and the girl was of the right kind -- that is, sensible in her ideas, frugal in her tastes, and of a marriageable age -- I would let her settle my doubt for me. Girls have a very interesting way of settling doubts of this kind -- when they are fond of the fellow in doubt. One thing is certain: the greatest safety in this world for a man is to place his interests in the keeping of the woman who loves him.

These are the only points which I or any other writer can possibly advance regarding this question of marriage. Every young man must necessarily settle it for himself; all that a writer can do is to lay down the best and what he considers to be the safest general principles, and each reader must apply those principles to his own individual needs and condition.

But there is one thing which a writer can safely do, and that is to counsel in every young man a firm belief in womanhood and an honest faith in marriage. He must not paint the marriage relation all of a rose-colored hue. Necessarily it has its purple lights; sometimes its black shadows. No condition of life is without its little trials, its vexations, or its anxieties, and marriage is not an exception to this rule. But it is through the marriage state, through the love of woman, as I have said before, that man has reached his present status. Married to a woman, he may wonder now and then a little whether she is not rather expensive. Her ways may not always be his ways. Occasionally he may frown a little, and perhaps scold a bit. He may leave home in the morning and go to his office without the customary farewell kiss. He may sometimes get provoked because she is "so slow in getting ready" when he goes out with her. He may want to stay at home when she wants to go out. He may be led to say once in a great while, "Women are queer, and you are one of the queerest!" He may fly into a passion, only to feel sorry for it afterward. He may feel piqued at times because she is not home when he comes from the office; that dinner is not ready just at the precise moment when he wants it; that she wants to retire about three hours earlier than he does. But, "after all," he says to himself, "I tell you what, my wife is an angel. She always seems to know what is best for me, and what is not. She looks at nothing in the light of a sacrifice. When I have been tired for three hours she keeps going. Well, she is my daily joy; sick, my comfort, and the best of nurses; in trouble, my star of hope. When I want to be rash she is cautious. I could stake my life on the honesty of a man; she, at a glance, has read his innermost thoughts and knows his character. And take her year in and year out she is the most patient, most loving, and dearest of women. Faults? Of course she has, but so have I -- lots of them, too. I notice all she has, but some way or other she never seems to see mine, and talks only of my best side. And, after all, is she not right?" And then, as a pair of arms are twined around him from behind, as he sits in a comfortable chair, a soft, fluffy sleeve just rubs gently against his face, a pair of eyes look into his eyes as he raises them, a pair of lips lovingly press his, a gentle, loving voice says, "Do you know, dear, you look very comfortable and happy," everything that is good swells up in him and finds its expression in the typical Americanism: "You bet I am!"

<eob>

Tom Swift And His Big Tunnel

Or

The Hidden City Of The Andes

By

Victor Appleton



Chapter I

An Appeal for Aid


Tom Swift, seated in his laboratory engaged in trying to solve a puzzling question that had arisen over one of his inventions, was startled by a loud knock on the door. So emphatic, in fact, was the summons that the door trembled, and Tom started to his feet in some alarm.

"Hello there!" he cried. "Don't break the door, Koku!" and then he laughed. "No one but my giant would knock like that," he said to himself. "He never does seem able to do things gently. But I wonder why he is knocking. I told him to get the engine out of the airship, and Eradicate said he'd be around to answer the telephone and bell. I wonder if anything has happened?"

Tom shoved back his chair, pushed aside the mass of papers over which he had been puzzling, and strode to the door. Flinging it open he confronted a veritable giant of a man, nearly eight feet tall, and big in proportion. The giant, Koku, for that was his name, smiled in a good-natured way, reminding one of an overgrown boy.

"Master hear my knock?" the giant asked cheerfully.

"Hear you, Koku? Say, I couldn't hear anything else!" exclaimed Tom. "Did you think you had to arouse the whole neighborhood just to let me know you were at the door? Jove! I thought you'd have it off the hinges."

"If me break, me fix," said Koku, who, from his appearance and from his imperfect command of English, was evidently a foreigner.

"Yes, I know you can fix lots of things, Koku," Tom went on, kindly enough. "But you musn't forget what enormous strength you have. That's the reason I sent you to take the engine out of the airship. You can lift it without using the chain hoist, and I can't get the chain hoist fast unless I remove all the superstructure. I don't want to do that. Did you get the engine out?"

"Not quite. Almost, Master."

"Then why are you here? Has anything gone wrong?"

"No, everything all right, Master. But man come to machine shop and say he must have talk with you. I no let him come past the gate, but I say I come and call you."

"That's right, Koku. Don't let any strangers past the gate. But why didn't Eradicate come and call me. He isn't doing anything, is he? Unless, indeed, he has gone to feed his mule, Boomerang."

"Eradicate, he come to call you, but that black man no good!" and Koku chuckled so heartily that he shook the floor of the office.

"What's the matter with Eradicate?" asked Tom, somewhat anxiously. "I hope you and he haven't had another row?" Eradicate had served Tom and his father long before Koku, the giant, had been brought back from one of the young inventor's many strange trips, and ever since then there had been a jealous rivalry between the twain as to who should best serve Tom.

"No trouble, Master," said Koku. "Eradicate he start to come and tell you strange man want to have talk, but Eradicate he no come fast enough. So I pick him up, and I set him down by gate to stand on guard, and I come to tell you. Koku come quick!"

"Oh, I knew it must be something like that!" exclaimed Tom in some vexation. "Now I'll have Eradicate complaining to me that you mauled him. Picked him up and set him down again."

"Sure. One hand!" boasted the giant. "Eradicate him not be heavy. More as a sack of flour now."

"No, poor Eradicate is getting pretty old and thin," commented Tom. "He can't move very quickly. But you should have let him come, Koku. It makes him feel badly when he thinks he can't be of service to me any more."

"Man say he in hurry." The giant spoke softly, as though he felt the gentle rebuke Tom administered. "Koku run quick tell you -- bang on door."

"Yes, you banged all right, Koku. Well, it can't be helped, I reckon. Where is this strange man? Who is he? Did you ever see him before?"

"Me no can tell, Master. Not sure. But him now be at the outer gate. Eradicate watch."

"All right. I'll go and see who it is. I don't want any strangers poking around here, especially with the plans of my new gyroscope lying in plain view."

Before he left the laboratory Tom swept into a desk drawer the mass of papers and blue prints, and locked the receptacle.

"No use taking any chances," he remarked. "I've had too much trouble with people trying to get inside information about dad's and my patents. Now, Koku, I'll go and see this man."

The buildings composing the plant of Tom Swift and his father at Shopton were enclosed by a high, board fence, and at one of the entrances was a sort of gate-house, where some one was always on guard. Only those who could give a good account of themselves, workmen in the plant, or those known to the sentinel were admitted.

It happened that the colored man, Eradicate, was on guard at the gates this day when the stranger asked to see Tom. Koku, working on the airship engine not far away, saw the stranger. Hearing the man say he was in a hurry and noting the slow progress of the aged Eradicate, who was troubled with rheumatism, the giant took matters into his own hands.

Tom Swift entered the gate-house and saw, seated in a chair, a man who was impatiently tapping the floor with his thick-soled shoe.

"Looks like a detective or a policeman in disguise," thought Tom, for, almost invariably, members of this profession wear very thick-soled shoes. Opposite the stranger sat Eradicate, a much-injured look on his honest, black face.

"Oh, Massa Tom!" exclaimed Eradicate, as soon as the young inventor entered. "Dat Koku he -- he -- he done gone and cotch me by de collar ob mah coat, an' den he lif' me up, an' he sot me down so hard -- so hard -- dat he jar loose all mah back teef!" and Eradicate opened his mouth wide to display his gleaming ivories.

"Eradicate, he no can come quick. He walk like so fashion!" and Koku, who had followed the young inventor, imitated the limping gait of the colored man with such a queer effect that Tom could not help laughing, and the stranger smiled.

"Ef I gits holt on yo' -- ef I does, yo' great, big, overgrown lummox, Ah'll -- Ah'll -- " began the colored man, stammeringly.

"There. That will do now!" interrupted Tom. "Don't quarrel in here. Koku, get back to that engine and lift out the motor. Eradicate, didn't father tell you to whitewash the chicken coops to-day?"

"Dat's what he done, Massa Tom."

"Well, go and see about that. I'll stay here for a while, and when I leave I'll call one of you, or some one else, to be on guard. Skip now!"

Having thus disposed of the warring factions, Tom turned to the stranger and after apologizing for the little interruption, asked:

"You wished to see me?"

"If you're Tom Swift; yes."

"Well, I'm Tom Swift," and the young owner of the name smiled.

"I hope you will pardon a stranger for calling on you," resumed the man, "but I'm in a lot of trouble, and I think you are the only one who can help me out."

"What sort of trouble?" Tom inquired.

"Contracting trouble -- tunnel blasting, to be exact. But if you have a few minutes to spare perhaps you will listen to my story. You will then be better able to understand my difficulty."

Tom Swift considered a moment. He was used to having appeals for help made to him, and usually they were of a begging nature. He was often asked for money to help some struggling inventor complete his machine.

In many cases the machines would have been of absolutely no use if perfected. In other cases the inventions were of the utterly hopeless class, incapable of perfection, like some perpetual motion apparatus. In these cases Tom turned a deaf ear, though if the inventor were in want our hero relieved him.

But this case did not seem to be like anything Tom had ever met with before.

"Contracting trouble -- blasting," repeated the youth, as he mused over what he had heard.

"That's it," the man went on. "Permit me to introduce myself" and he held out a card, on which was the name

Mr. Job Titus


Down in the lower left-hand corner was a line:

"Titus Brothers, Contractors."

"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Titus," Tom said warmly, offering his hand. "I don't know anything about the contracting business, but if you do blasting I suppose you use explosives, and I know a little about them."

"So I have heard, and that's why I came to you," the contractor went on. "Now if you'll give me a few minutes of your time -- "

"You had better come up to the house," interrupted Tom. "We can talk more quietly there."

Calling a young fellow who was at work near by to occupy the gate-house, Tom led Mr. Titus toward the Swift homestead, and, a little later, ushered him into the library.

"Now I'll listen to you," the youth said, "though I can't promise to aid you."

"I realize that," returned Mr. Titus. "This is a sort of last chance I'm taking. My brother and I have heard a lot about you, and when he wrote to me that he was unable to proceed with his contract of tunneling the Andes Mountains for the Peruvian government, I made up my mind you were the one who could help us if you would."

"Tunneling the Andes Mountains!" exclaimed Tom.

"Yes. The firm represented by my brother and myself have a contract to build a railroad for the Peruvian government. At a point some distance back in the district east of Lima, Peru, we are making a tunnel under the mountain. That is, we have it started, but now we can't advance any further."

"Why not?"

"Because of the peculiar character of the rock, which seems to defy the strongest explosive we can get. Now I understand you used a powder in your giant cannon that -- "

Mr. Titus paused in his explanation, for at that moment there arose such a clatter out on the front piazza as effectually to drown conversation. There was a noise of the hoofs of a horse, the fall of a heavy body, a tattoo on the porch floor and then came an excited shout:

"Whoa there! Whoa! Stop! Look out where you're kicking! Bless my saddle blanket! Ouch! There I go!"



Chapter II

Explanations


"What in the world is that?" cried Mr. Job Titus, in alarm.

Tom Swift did not answer. Instead he jumped up from his chair and ran toward the front door. Mr. Titus followed. They both saw a strange sight.

Standing on the front porch, which he seemed to occupy completely, was a large horse, with a saddle twisted underneath him. The animal was looking about him as calmly as though he always made it a practice to come up on the front piazza when stopping at a house.

Off to one side, with a crushed hat on the back of his head, with a coat split up the back, with a broken riding crop in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, sat a dignified, elderly gentleman.

That is, he would have been dignified had it not been for his position and condition. No gentleman can look dignified with a split coat and a crushed hat on, sitting under the nose of a horse on a front piazza, with his raiment otherwise much disheveled, while he wipes his scratched and bleeding face with a handkerchief.

"Bless my -- bless my -- " began the elderly gentleman, and he seemed at a loss what particular portion of his anatomy or that of the horse, to bless, or what portion of the universe to appeal to, for he ended up with: "Bless everything, Tom Swift!"

"I heartily agree with you, Mr. Damon!" cried Tom. "But what in the world happened?"

"That!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, pointing with his broken crop at the horse on the piazza. "I was riding him when he ran away -- just as my motorcycle tried to climb a tree. No more horses for me! I'll stick to airships," and slamming his riding crop down on the porch floor with such force that the horse started back, Mr. Damon arose, painfully enough if the contortions on his face and his grunts of pain went for anything.

"Let me help you!" begged Tom, striding forward. "Mr. Titus, perhaps you will kindly lead the horse down off the piazza?"

"Certainly!" answered the tunnel contractor. "Whoa now!" he called soothingly, as the steed evinced a disposition to sit down on the side railing. "Steady now!"

The horse finally allowed himself to be led down the broad front steps, sadly marking them, as well as the floor of the piazza, with his sharp shoes.

"Ouch! Oh, my back!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, as Tom helped him to stand up.

"Is it hurt?" asked Tom, anxiously.

"No, I've just got what old-fashioned folks call a 'crick' in it," explained the elderly horseman. "But it feels more like a river than a 'crick.' I'll be all right presently."

"How did it happen?" asked Tom, as he led his guest toward the hall. Meanwhile Mr. Titus, wondering what it was all about, had tied the horse to a post out near the street curb, and had re-entered the library.

"I was riding over to see you, Tom, to ask you if you wouldn't go to South America with me," began Mr. Damon, rubbing his leg tenderly.

"South America?" cried Tom, with a sudden look at Mr. Titus.

"Yes, South America. Why, there isn't anything strange in that, is there? You've been to wilder countries, and farther away than that."

"Yes, I know -- it's just a coincidence. Go on."

"Let me get where I can sit down," begged Mr. Damon. "I think that crick in my back is running down into my legs, Tom. I feel a bit weak. Let me sit down, and get me a glass of water. I shall be all right presently."

Between them Tom and Mr. Titus assisted the horseman into an easy chair, and there, under the influence of a cup of hot tea, which Mrs. Baggert, the housekeeper, insisted on making for him, he said he felt much better, and would explain the reason for his call which had culminated in such a sensational manner.

And while Mr. Damon is preparing his explanation I will take just a few moments to acquaint my new readers with some facts about Tom Swift, and the previous volumes of this series in which he has played such prominent parts.

Tom Swift was the son of an inventor, and not only inherited his father's talents, but had greatly added to them, so that now Tom had a wonderful reputation.

Mr. Swift was a widower, and he and Tom lived in a big house in Shopton, New York State, with Mrs. Baggert for a housekeeper. About the house, from time to time, shops and laboratories had been erected, until now there was a large and valuable establishment belonging to Tom and his father.

The first volume of this series is entitled, "Tom Swift and His Motor Cycle." It was through a motor cycle that Tom became acquainted with Mr. Wakefield Damon, who lived in a neighboring town. Mr. Damon had bought the motor cycle for himself, but, as he said, one day in riding it the machine tried to climb a tree near the Swift house.

The young inventor (for even then he was working on several patents) ministered to Mr. Damon, who, disgusted with the motor cycle, and wishing to reward Tom, let the young fellow have the machine.

Tom's career began from that hour. For he learned to ride the motor cycle, after making some improvements in it, and from then on the youth had led a busy life. Soon afterward he secured a motor boat and from that it was but a step to an airship.

The medium of the air having been conquered, Tom again turned his attention to the water, or rather, under the water, and he and his father made a submarine. Then he built an electric runabout, the speediest car on the road.

It was when Ton Swift had occasion to send his wireless message from a lonely island where he had been shipwrecked that he was able to do Mr. and Mrs. Nestor a valuable service, and this increased the regard which Miss Mary Nestor felt for the young inventor, a regard that bid fair, some day, to ripen into something stronger.

Tom Swift might have made a fortune when he set out to discover the secret of the diamond makers. But Fate intervened, and soon after that quest he went to the caves of ice, where he and his friends met with disaster. In his sky racer Tom broke all records for speed, and when he went to Africa to rescue a missionary, had it not been for his electric rifle the tide of battle would have gone against him and his party.

Marvelous, indeed, were the adventures underground, which came to Tom when he went to look for the city of gold, but the treasure there was not more valuable than the platinum which Tom sought in dreary Siberia by means of his air glider.

Tom thought his end had come when he fell into captivity among the giants; but even that turned out well, and he brought two of the giants away with him. Koku, one of the two giants, became devotedly attached to the lad, much to the disgust of Eradicate Sampson, the old negro who had worked for the Swifts for a generation, and who, with his mule Boomerang, "eradicated" from the place as much dirt as possible.

With his wizard camera Tom did much to advance the cause of science. His great searchlight was of great help to the United States government in putting a stop to the Canadian smugglers, while his giant cannon was a distinct advance in ordnance, not excepting the great German guns used in the European war.

When Tom perfected his photo telephone the last objection to rendering telephonic conversation admissible evidence in a law court was done away with, for by this invention a person was able to see, as well as to hear, over the telephone wire. One practically stood face to face with the person, miles away, to whom one was talking.

The volume immediately preceding this present one is called: "Tom Swift and His Aerial Warship." The young inventor perfected a marvelous aircraft that was the naval terror of the seas, and many governments, recognizing what an important part aircraft were going to play in all future conflicts, were anxious to secure Tom's machine. But he was true to his own country, though his rivals were nearly successful in their plots against him.

The Mars, which was the name of Tom's latest craft, proved to be a great success, and the United States government purchased it. It was not long after the completion of this transaction that the events narrated in the first chapter of this book took place.

Mr. Damon and Tom had been firm friends ever since the episode of the motor cycle, and the eccentric gentleman (who blessed so many things) often went with Tom on his trips. Besides Mary Nestor, Tom had other friends. The one, after Miss Nestor, for whom he cared most (if we except Mr. Damon) was Ned Newton, who was employed in a Shopton bank. Ned also had often gone with Tom, though lately, having a better position, he had less time to spare.

"Well, do you feel better, Mr. Damon?" asked Tom, after a bit.

"Yes, very much, thank you. Bless my pen wiper! but I thought I was done for when I saw my horse bolt for your front stoop. He rushed up it, fell down, but, fortunately, I managed to get out of his way, though the saddle girth slipped. And all I could think of was that my wife would say: 'I told you so!' for she warned me not to ride this animal.

"But he never ran away with me before, and I was in a hurry to get over to see you, Tom. Now then, let's get down to business. Will you go to South America with me?"

"Whereabout in South America are you going, Mr. Damon, and why?" Tom asked.

"To Peru, Tom."

"What a coincidence!" exclaimed Mr. Titus.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Damon, interrogatively.

"I said what a coincidence. I am going there myself."

"Excuse me," interposed Tom, "I don't believe, in the excitement of the moment, I introduced you gentlemen. Allow me -- Mr. Damon -- Mr. Titus."

The presentation over, Mr. Damon went on:

"You see, Tom, I have lately invested considerable money in a wholesale drug concern. We deal largely in Peruvian remedies, principally the bark of the cinchona tree, from which quinine is made. Of late there has been some trouble over our concession from the Peruvian government, and the company has decided to send me down there to investigate.

"Of course, as soon as I made up my mind to go I thought of you. So I came over to see if you would not accompany me. All went well until I reached your front gate. Then my horse became frightened by a yellow toy balloon some boy was blowing up in the street and bolted with me. I suppose if it had been a red or green balloon the effect would have been the same. However, here I am, somewhat the worse for wear. Now Tom, what do you say? Will you go to South America -- to Peru -- with me, and help look up this Quinine business?"

Once more Mr. Titus and Tom looked at each other.



Chapter III

A Face at the Window


"What is the matter?" asked Mr. Damon, catching the glance between Tom and the contractor. "Is there anything wrong with South America -- Peru? I know they have lots of revolutions in those countries, but I don't believe Peru is what they call a 'banana republic'; is it?"

"No," and Mr. Titus shook his head. "It isn't a question of revolutions."

"But it's something!" insisted Mr. Damon. "Bless my ink bottle! but it's something. As soon as I mention Peru, Tom, you and Mr. Titus eye each other as if I'd said something dreadful. Out with it! What is it?"

"It's just -- just a coincidence," Tom said. "But go on, Mr. Damon. Finish what you have to say and then we'll explain."

"Well, I guess I've told you all you need to know for the present. I went into this wholesale drug concern, hoping to make some money, but now, on account of the trouble down in Peru, we stand to lose considerable unless I can get back the cinchona concession."

"What does that mean?" Tom asked.

"Well, it means that our concern secured from the Peruvian government the right to take this quinine-producing bark from the trees in a certain tropical section. But there has been a change in the government in the district where our men were working, and now the privilege, or concession, has been withdrawn. I'm going down to see if I can't get it back. And I want you to go with me."

"And I came here for very nearly the same thing," went on Mr. Titus. "That is where the coincidence comes in. It is strange that we should both appeal to Mr. Swift at the same time."

"Well, Tom's a valuable helper!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "I know him of old, for I've been on many a trip with him."

"This is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting him," resumed the tunnel contractor, "but I have heard of him. I did not ask him to go to South America for us. I only wanted to get some superior explosive for my brother, who is in charge of driving the railroad tunnel through a spur of the Andes. I look after matters up North here, but I may have to go to Peru myself.

"As I told Mr. Swift, I had read of his invention of the giant cannon and the special powder he used in it to send a projectile such a distance. The cannon is now mounted as one of the pieces of ordnance for the defense of the Panama Canal, is it not?" he asked Tom.

The young inventor nodded in assent.

"Having heard of you, and the wonderful explosive used in your big cannon," the contractor went on, "I wrote to my brother that I would try and get some for him.

"You see," he resumed, "this is the situation. Back in the Andes Mountains, a couple of hundred miles east of Lima, the government is building a short railroad line to connect two others. If this is done it will mean that the products of Peru -- quinine bark, coffee, cocoa, sugar, rubber, incense and gold can more easily be transported. But to connect the two railroad lines a big tunnel must be constructed.

"My brother and I make a specialty of such work, and when we saw bids advertised for, our firm put in an estimate. There was some trouble with a rival firm, which also bid, but we secured the contract, and bound ourselves to have the tunnel finished within a certain time, or forfeit a large sum.

"That was over a year ago. Since then our men, aided by the native Indians of Peru, have been tunneling the mountain, until, about a month back, we struck a snag."

"What sort of snag?" Tom asked.

"A snag in the shape of extra hard rock," replied the tunnel contractor. "Briefly, Paleozoic rocks make up the eastern part of the Andean Mountains in Peru, while the western range is formed of Mesozoic beds, volcanic ashes and lava of comparatively recent date. Near the coast the lower hills are composed of crystalline rocks, syenite and granite, with, here and there, a strata of sandstone or limestone. These are, undoubtedly, relics of the lower Cretaceous age, and we, or rather, my brother, states that he has found them covered with marine Tertiary deposits.

"Now this Mesozoic band varies greatly. Porphyritic tuffs and massive limestone compose the western chain of the Andes above Lima, while in the Oroya Valley we find carbonaceous sandstones. Some of the tuffs may be of the Jurassic age, though the Cretaceous period is also largely represented.

"Now while these different masses of rock formation offer hard enough problems to the tunnel digger, still we are more or less prepared to meet them, and we figured on a certain percentage of them. Up to the present time we have met with just about what we expected, but what we did not expect was something we came upon when the tunnel had been driven three miles into the mountain."

"What did you find?" asked Tom, who knew enough about geology to understand the terms used. Mr. Damon did not, however, and when Mr. Titus rolled off some of the technical words, the drug investor softly murmured such expressions as

"Bless my thermometer! Bless my porous plaster!"

"We found," resumed Mr. Titus, "after we had bored for a considerable distance into the mountain, a mass of volcanic rock which is so hard that our best diamond drills are dulled in a short time, and the explosives we use merely shatter the face of the cutting, and give us hardly any progress at all.

"It was after several trials, and when my brother found that he was making scarcely any progress, compared to the energy of his men and the blasting, that he wrote to me, explaining matters. I at once thought of you, Tom Swift, and your powerful explosive, for I had read about it.

"Now then, will you sell us some of your powder -- explosive or whatever you call it -- Mr. Swift, or tell us where we can get it? We need it soon, for we are losing valuable time."

Mr. Titus paused to draw on a piece of paper a rough map of Peru, and the district where the tunnel was being constructed. He showed where the two railroad lines were, and where the new route would bring them together, the tunnel eliminating a big grade up which it would have been impossible to haul trains of any weight.

"What do you say, Mr. Swift?" the contractor concluded. "Will you let us have some of your powder? Or, better still, will you come to Peru yourself? That would suit us immensely, for you could be right on the ground. And you could carry out your plan of going with your friend here," and Mr. Titus nodded toward Mr. Damon. "That is, if you were thinking of going."

"Well, I was thinking of it," Tom admitted. "Mr. Damon and I have been on so many trips together that it seems sort of natural for us to 'team it.' I have never been to Peru, and I should like to see the country. There is only one matter though, that bothers me."

"What is it?" asked Mr. Titus quickly. "If it is a question of money dismiss it from your mind. The Peruvian government is paying a large sum for this tunnel, and we stand to make considerable, even if we were the lowest bidders. We can afford to pay you well -- that is, we shall be able to if we can complete the bore on time. That is what is bothering me now -- the unexpected strata of hard rock we have met with, which seems impossible to blast. But I feel sure we can do it with the explosive used in your giant cannon."

"That is just the point!" Tom exclaimed. "I am not so sure my explosive would do."

"Why not?" the tunnel contractor asked. "It's powerful enough; isn't it?"

"Yes, it is powerful enough, but whether it will have the right effect on volcanic rock is hard to say. I should like to see a rock sample."

"I can telegraph to have some sent here to you," said Mr. Titus eagerly. "Meantime, here is a description of it. I can read you that"; and, taking a letter from his pocket, he read to Tom a geological description of the hard rock.

"Hum! Yes," mused Tom, as he listened. "It seems to be of the nature of obsidian."

"Bless my watch chain!" cried Mr. Damon. "What's that?"

"Obsidian is a volcanic rock -- a sort of combination of glass and flint for hardness," Tom explained. "It is brittle, black in color, and the natives of the Admiralty Islands use it for tipping their spears with which they slay victims for their cannibalistic feasts."

"Bless my -- bless my ear-drums!" gasped Mr. Damon. "Cannibals!"

"Obsidian was also used by the ancient Mexicans to make knives and daggers," Tom went on. "When Cortez conquered Mexico he found the priests cutting the hearts from their living victims with knives made from this volcanic glass-like rock, known as obsidian. It may be that your brother has met with a vein of that in the tunnel," Tom said to the contractor.

"Possibly," admitted Mr. Titus.

"In that case," Tom stated, "I may have to use a new kind of explosive. That used for my giant cannon would merely crumble the hard rock for a short distance."

"Then will you accept the contract, and help us out?" asked Mr. Titus eagerly. "We will pay you well. Will you come to Peru and look over the ground?"

"And kill two birds with one stone, and come with me also?" put in Mr. Damon.

Tom pondered for a moment. He was about to answer when the tunnel contractor, who was looking from the library window, suddenly jumped from his chair crying:

"There he is again! Once more dogging me!"

As he rushed from the room, Tom and Mr. Damon had a glimpse of a face at one of the low library windows -- a face that had an evil look. It disappeared as Mr. Titus ran from the room.



Chapter IV

Tom's Experiments


"Bless my looking glass, Tom, what does that mean?" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "That face!"

"I don't know," answered the young inventor. "But the sight of some one looking in here seemed to disturb Mr. Titus. We must follow him."

"Perhaps he saw your giant Koku looking in," suggested the odd, little man who blessed everything he could think of. "The sight of his face, to any one not knowing him, Tom, would be enough to cause fright."

"It wasn't Koku who looked in the window," said Tom, decidedly. "It was some stranger. Come on."

The young inventor and Mr. Damon hurried out after the tunnel contractor, who was running down the road that led in front of the Swift homestead.

"He's chasing some one, Tom," called Mr. Damon.

"Yes, I see he is. But who?"

"I can't see any one," reported Mr. Damon, who had run down to the gate, at which his horse was still standing. Mr. Damon had washed the dirt from his hands and face, and was wearing one of Mr. Swift's coats in place of his own split one.

Tom joined the eccentric man and together they looked down the road after the running Mr. Titus. They were in half a mind to join him, when they saw him pull up short, raise his hands as though he had given over the pursuit, and turn back.

"I guess he got away, whoever he was," remarked Tom. "We'll walk down and meet Mr. Titus, and ask him what it all means."

Shortly afterward they came up to the contractor, who was breathing heavily after his run, for he was evidently not used to such exercise.

"I beg your pardon, Tom Swift, for leaving you and Mr. Damon in such a fashion," said Mr. Titus, "but I had to act quickly or lose the chance of catching that rascal. As it was, he got away, but I think I gave him a scare, and he knows that I saw him. It will make him more cautious in the future."

"Who was it?" asked Tom.

"Well, I didn't have as close a look as I could have wished for," the contractor said, as he walked back toward the house with Tom and Mr. Damon, "but I'm pretty sure the face that peered in at us through the library window was that of Isaac Waddington."

"And who is he, if it isn't asking information that ought not be given out?" inquired Mr. Damon.

"Oh, no, certainly. I can tell you," said the contractor. "Only perhaps we had better wait until we get back to the house.

"Since one of their men was seen lurking around here there may be others," went on Mr. Titus, when the three were once more seated in the Swift library. "It is best to be on the safe side. The face I saw, I'm sure, was that of Waddington, who is a tool of Blakeson & Grinder, rival tunnel contractors. They put in a bid on this Andes tunnel, but we were lower in our figures by several thousand dollars, and the contract was awarded to us.

"Blakeson & Grinder tried, by every means in their power, to get the job away from us. They even invoked the aid of some Peruvian revolutionists and politicians, but we held our ground and began the work. Since then they have had spies and emissaries on our trail, trying their best to make us fail in our work, so the Peruvian officials might abrogate the contract and give it to them.

"But, so far, we've managed to come out ahead. This Waddington is a sort of spy, and I've found him dodging me several times of late. I suppose he wants to find out my plans so as to be ready to jump in the breach in case we fail."

"Do you think your rivals had anything to do with the difficulties you are now meeting with in digging the tunnel?" asked Mr. Damon. Mr. Titus shook his head.

"The present difficulties are all of Nature's doing," he said. "It's just the abnormally hard rock that is bothering us. Only for that we'd be all right, though we might have petty difficulties because of the mean acts of Blakeson & Grinder. But I don't fear them."

"How do you think this Waddington, if it was he, knew you were coming here?" asked Tom.

"I can only guess. My brother and I have had some correspondence regarding you, Tom Swift. That is, I announced my intention of coming to see you, and my brother wrote me to use my discretion. I wrote back that I would consult you.

"Our main office is in New York, where we employ a large clerical and expert force. There is nothing to prevent one of our stenographers, for instance, turning traitor and giving copies of the letters of my brother and myself to our rivals.

"Mind you, I don't say this was done, and I don't suspect any of our employees, but it would be an easy matter for any one to know my plans. I never thought of making a secret of them, or of my trip here. In some way Waddington found out about the last, and he must have followed me here. Then he sneaked up under the window, and tried to hear what we said."

"Do you think he did?" asked Tom.

"I wouldn't be surprised. We took no pains to lower our voices. But, after all, he hasn't learned much that he didn't know before, if he knew I was coming here. He didn't learn the secret of the explosive that must be used, and that is the vital thing. For I defy him, or any other contractor, to blast that hard rock with any known explosive. We've tried every kind on the market and we've failed. We'll have to depend on you, Tom Swift, to help us out with some of your giant cannon powder."

"And I'm not sure that will work," said the young inventor. "I think I'll have to experiment and make a new explosive, if I conclude to go to Peru."

"Oh, you'll go all right!" declared Mr. Titus with a smile. "I can see that you are eager for the adventures I am sure you'll find there, and, besides, your friend here, Mr. Damon, needs you."

"That's what I do, Tom!" exclaimed the odd man. "Bless my excursion ticket, but you must come!"

"I'll have to invent the new powder first," Tom said.

"That's what I like to hear!" exclaimed Mr. Titus. "It shows you are thinking of coming with us."

Tom only smiled.

"I am so anxious to get the proper explosive," went on Mr. Titus, "that I would even purchase it from our rivals, Blakeson & Grinder, if I thought they had it. But I'm sure they have not, though they may think they can get it.

"That may be the reason they are following me so closely. They may want to know just when we will fail, and have to give up the contract, and they may think they can step in and finish the work. But I don't believe, without your help, Tom Swift, that they can blast that hard rock, and -- "

"Well, I'll say this," interrupted Tom, "first come, first served with me, other things being equal. You have applied to me and, like a lawyer, I won't go over to the other side now. I consider myself retained by your firm, Mr. Titus, to invent some sort of explosive, and if I am successful I shall expect to be paid."

"Oh, of course!" cried the contractor eagerly.

"Very good," Tom went on. "You needn't fear that I'll help the other fellows. Now to get down to business. I must see some samples of this rock in order to know what kind of explosive force is needed to rend it."

"I have some in New York," went on the contractor. "I'll have it sent to you at once. I would have brought it, only it is too heavy to carry easily, and I was not sure I could engage you."

"Did that fellow -- Waddington, I believe you called him -- get away from you?" asked Mr. Damon.

"Clean away," the contractor answered. "He was a better runner than I."

"It doesn't matter much," Tom said. "He didn't hear anything that would benefit him, and I'll give my men orders to be on the lookout for him. What sort of fellow is he, Mr. Titus?"

The contractor described the eavesdropper, and Mr. Damon exclaimed:

"Bless my turkey wish-bone! I'm sure I passed that chap when I was riding over to see you a while ago, Tom."

"You did?"

"Yes, on the highway. He inquired the way to your place. But there was nothing strange in that, since you employ a number of men, and I thought this one was coming to look for work. I can't say I liked his appearance, though."

"No, he isn't a very prepossessing individual," commented Mr. Titus. "Well, now what's the first thing to be done, Tom Swift?"

"Get me some samples of the rock, so I can begin my experiments."

"I'll do that. And now let us consider about going to Peru. For I'm sure you will be successful in your experiments, and will find for us just the powder or explosive we need."

"We can go together." said Mr. Damon. "I shall certainly feel more at home in that wild country if I know Tom Swift is with me, and I will appreciate the help of you and your friends, Mr. Titus, in straightening out the tangles of our drug business."

"I'll do all I can for you, Mr. Damon."

The three then talked at some length regarding possible plans. Tom sent out word to one of his men to keep a sharp watch around the house and grounds, against the possible return of Waddington, but nothing more was seen of him, at least for the time being.

Mr. Titus drew up a sort of tentative agreement with Tom, binding his firm to pay a large sum in case the young inventor was successful, and then the contractor left, promising to have the rock samples come on later by express.

Mr. Damon, after blessing a few dozen more or less impersonal objects, took his departure, his fractious horse having quieted down in the meanwhile, and Tom was left to himself.

"I wonder what I've let myself in for now," the youth mused, as he went back to his laboratory. "It's a new field for me -- tunnel blasting. Well, perhaps something may come of it."

But of the strange adventure that was to follow his agreement to help Mr. Titus, our hero, Tom Swift, had not the least inkling.

Tom went back to his labors over the gyroscope problem, but he could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion, and, tossing aside the papers, covered with intricate figures, he exclaimed:

"Oh, I'm going for a walk! This thing is getting on my nerves."

He strolled through the Shopton streets, and as he reached the outskirts of the town, he saw just ahead of him the figure of a girl. Tom quickened his pace, and presently was beside her.

"Where are you going, Mary?" he asked.

"Oh, Tom! How you startled me!" she exclaimed, turning around. "I was just thinking of you."

"Thanks! Something nice?"

"I shan't tell you!" and she blushed. "But where are you going?"

"Walking with you!"

Tom was nothing if not bold.

"Hadn't you better wait until you're asked?" she retorted, mischievously.

"If I did I might not get an invitation. So I'm going to invite myself, and then I'm going to invite you in here to have an ice cream soda," and he and Miss Nestor were soon seated at a table in a candy shop.

Tom had nearly finished his ice cream when he glanced toward the door, and started at the sight of a man who was entering the place.

"What's the matter?" asked Mary. "Did you drop some ice cream, Tom?"

"No, Mary. But that man -- "

Mary turned in time to see an excited man hurry out of the candy shop after a hasty glance at Tom Swift.

"Who was he?" the girl asked.

"I -- er -- oh, some one I thought I knew, but I guess I don't," said Tom, quickly. "Have some more cream, Mary?"

"No, thank you. Not now."

Tom was glad she did not care for any, as he was anxious to get outside, and have a look at the man, for he thought he had recognized the face as the same that had peered in his window. But when he and Miss Nestor reached the front of the shop the strange man was not in sight.

"I guess he came in to cool off after his run," mused Tom, "but when he saw me he didn't care about it. I wonder if that was Waddington? He's a persistent individual if it was he."

"Are you undertaking any new adventures, Tom?" asked Mary.

"Well, I'm thinking of going to Peru."

"Peru!" she cried. "Oh, what a long way to go! And when you get there will you write to me? I'm collecting stamps, and I haven't any from Peru."

"Is that -- er -- the only reason you want me to write?" asked Tom.

"No," said Mary softly, as she ran up the walk.

Tom smiled as he turned away.

Three days later he received a box from New York. It contained the samples from the Andes tunnel, and Tom at once began his experiments to discover a suitable explosive for rending the hard stone.

"It is compressed molten lava," said Mr. Swift. "You'll never get an explosive that will successfully blast that, Tom."

"We'll see," declared the young inventor.



Chapter V

Mary's Present


Outside a rudely-constructed shack, in the middle of a large field, about a mile away from the nearest of the buildings owned by Tom Swift and his father, were gathered a group of figures one morning. From the shack, trailing over the ground, were two insulated wires, which led to a pile of rocks and earth some distance off. Out of the temporary building came Koku, the giant, bearing in his arms a big rock, of peculiar formation.

"That's it, Koku!" exclaimed Tom Swift. "Now don't drop it on your toes."

"No, Master, me no drop," the giant said, as he strode off with the heavy load as easily as a boy might carry a stone for his sling-shot.

Koku placed the big rock on top of the pile of dirt and stones and came back to the hut, just as Eradicate, the colored man-of-all-work, emerged. Koku was not looking ahead, and ran into Eradicate with such force that the latter would have fallen had not the giant clasped his big arms about him.

"Heah now! Whut yo' all doin' t' me?" angrily demanded Eradicate. "Yo' done gone an' knocked de breff outen me, dat's whut yo' all done! I'll bash yo' wif a rock, dat's what I'll do!"

Koku, laughing, tried to explain that it was all an accident, but Eradicate would not listen. He looked about for a stone to throw at the giant, though it was doubtful, with his feeble strength, and considering the great frame of the big man, if any damage would have been done. But Eradicate saw no rocks nearer than the pile in which ended the two insulated wires, and, with mutterings, the negro set off in that direction, shuffling along on his rheumatic legs.

From the shack Tom Swift hailed:

"Hi there, Rad! Come back! Where are you going?"

"I'se gwine t' git a rock, Massa Tom, an' bash de haid ob dat big lummox ob a giant! He done knocked de breff outen me, so he did."

"You come back from that stone pile!" Tom ordered. "I'm going to blow it up in a minute, and if you get too near you'll have the breath knocked out of you worse than Koku did it. Come back, I say!"

But Eradicate was obstinate and kept on. Tom, who was adjusting a firing battery in the shack, laughed, and then in exasperation cried:

"Koku, go and get him and bring him back. Carry him if he won't come any other way. I don't want the dear old chump to get the fright of his life, and he sure will if he goes too close. Bring him back!"

"Koku bring, Master," was the giant's answer.

He ran toward Eradicate, who, seeing his tormentor approaching, redoubled his shuffling pace toward the stone pile. But he was no match for the giant, who, ignoring his struggles, picked up Eradicate, and, flinging him over his shoulder like a sack of meal, brought him to the shack.

"There him be, Master!" said the giant.

"So I see," laughed Tom. "Now you stay here, Rad."

"No, sah! No, sah, Massa Tom! I -- I'se gwine t' git a rock an' -- an' bash his haid -- dat's what I'se gwine t' do!" and the colored man tried to struggle to his feet.

"Look out now!" cried Tom, suddenly. "If things go right there won't be a rock left for you to 'bash' anybody's head with, Rad. Look out!"

The three cowered inside the shack, which, though it was rudely made, was built of heavy logs and planks, with a fronting of sod and bags of sand.

Tom turned a switch. There was a loud report, and where the stone pile had been there was a big hole in the ground, while the air was filled with fragments of rock and dirt. These came down in a shower on the roof of the shack, and Eradicate covered his ears with his trembling hands.

"Am -- am de world comin' to de end, Massa Tom?" he asked. "Am dat Gabriel's trump I done heah?"

"No, you dear old goose!" laughed the young inventor. "That was just a charge of my new explosive -- a small charge, too. But it seems to have done the work."

He ran from the shack to the place where the rock pile had been, and picked up several small fragments.

"Busted all to pieces!" exulted Tom Swift. "Not a piece left as big as a hickory nut. That's going some! I've got the right mixture at last. If an ounce did that, a few hundred pounds ought to knock that Andes tunnel through the mountain in no time. I'll telegraph to Mr. Titus."

Leaving Koku and Rad to collect the wires and firing apparatus, there being no danger now, as no explosive was left in the shack, Tom made his way back to the house. His father met him.

"Well, Tom," he asked, "another failure?"

"No, Dad! Success! This time I turned the trick. I seem to have gotten just the right mixture. Look, these are some of the pieces left from the big rock -- one of the samples Mr. Titus sent me. It was all cracked up as small as this," and he held out the fragments he had picked up in the field.

Mr. Swift regarded them for a few moments.

"That's better, Tom," he said. "I didn't think you could get an explosive that would successfully shatter that hard rock, but you seem to have done it. Have you the formula all worked out?"

"All worked out, Dad. I only made a small quantity, but the same proportions will hold good for the larger amounts. I'm going to start in and make it now. And then -- Ho! for Peru!"

Tom struck an attitude, such as some old discoverer might have assumed, and then he hurried into the house to telephone a telegram to the Shopton office. The message was to Mr. Titus, and read:


"Explosive success. Start making it at once. Ready for Peru in month's time."


"Thirteen words," repeated Tom, as the operator called them back to him. "I hope that doesn't mean bad luck."

The experiment which Tom Swift had just brought to a successful conclusion was one of many he had conducted, extending over several wearying weeks.

As soon as Tom had received the samples of the rock he had begun to experiment. First he tried some of the explosive that was so successful in the giant cannon. As he had feared, it was not what was needed. It cracked the rock, but did not disintegrate it, and that was what was needed. The hard rock must be broken up into fragments that could be easily handled. Merely to crack it necessitated further explosions, which would only serve to split it more and perhaps wedge it fast in the tunnel.

So Tom tried different mixtures, using various chemicals, but none seemed to be just right. The trials were not without danger, either. Once, in mixing some ingredients, there was an explosion that injured one man, and blew Tom some distance away. Fortunately for him, there was an open window in the direction in which he was propelled, and he went through that, escaping with only some cuts and bruises.

Another time there was a hang-fire, and the explosive burned instead of detonating, so that one of the shops caught, and there was no little work in subduing the flames.

But Tom would not give up, and finally, after many trials, he hit on what he felt to be the right mixture. This he took out to the big lot, and having made a miniature tunnel with some of the sample rock, and having put some of the explosive in a hole bored in the big chunk Koku carried, Tom fired the charge. The result we have seen. It was a success.

A day after receiving Tom's message Mr. Titus came on and a demonstration was given of the powerful explosive.

"Tom, that's great!" cried the tunnel contractor. "Our troubles are at an end now."

But, had he known it, new ones were only just beginning.

Tom at once began preparations for making the explosive on a large scale, as much of it would be needed in the Andes tunnel. Then, having turned the manufacturing end of it over to his men, Tom began his preparations for going to Peru.

Mr. Damon was also getting ready, and it was arranged that he, with Tom and Mr. Titus, should take a vessel from San Francisco, crossing the continent by train. The supply of explosive would follow them by special freight.

"We might have gone by Panama except for the slide in the canal," Tom said. "And I suppose I could take you across the continent in my airship, Mr. Titus, if you object to railroad travel."

"No, thank you, Tom. If it's just the same to you, I'd rather stay on the ground," the contractor said. "I'm more used to it."

A day or so before the start for San Francisco was to be made, Tom, passing a store in Shopton, saw something in the window he thought Mary Nestor would like. It was a mahogany work-box, of unique design, beautifully decorated, and Tom purchased it.

"Shall I have it sent?" asked the clerk.

"No, thank you," Tom answered.

He knew the young lady who had waited on him, and, for reasons of his own, he did not want her to know that Mary was to get the box.

Carrying the present to his laboratory, Tom prepared to wrap it up suitably to send to Mary, with a note. Just, however, as he was looking for a box suitable to contain the gift, he received a summons to the telephone. Mr. Titus, in New York, wanted to speak to him.

"Here, Rad!" Tom called. "Just box this up for me, like a good fellow, and then take it to Miss Nestor at this address; will you?" and Tom handed his man the addressed letter he had written to Mary. "Be careful of it," Tom cautioned.

"Oh, I'll be careful, Massa Tom," was the reply. "I'll shore be careful."

And Eradicate was -- all too careful.



Chapter VI

Mr. Nestor's Letter


"Got t' git a good strong box fo' dish yeah," murmured Eradicate, as he looked at the beautiful mahogany present Tom had turned over to him to take to Mary. "Mah Landy! Dat suttinly am nice; Ah! Um! Jest laik some ob de old mahogany furniture dat was in our fambily down Souf." Eradicate did not mean his family, exactly, but the one in which he had been a slave.

"Yassum, dat shore am nice!" he went on, talking to himself as he admired the present. "I shore got t' put dat in a good box! An' dish year note, too. Let's see what it done say on de outside."

Eradicate held the envelope carefully upside down, and read -- or rather pretended to read -- the name and address. Eradicate knew well enough where Mary lived, for this was not the first time he had gone there with messages from his young master.

"Massa Tom shore am a fine writer," mused the negro, as he slowly turned the envelope around. "I cain't read nobody's writin' but hisen, nohow."

Had Eradicate been strictly honest with himself, he would have confessed that he could not read any writing, or printing either. His education had been very limited, but one could show him, say, a printed sign and tell him it read "Danger" or "Five miles to Branchville," or anything like that, and the next time he saw it, Eradicate would know what that sign said. He seemed to fix a picture of it in his mind, though the letters and figures by themselves meant nothing to him. So when Tom told him the envelope contained the name and address of Miss Nestor, Eradicate needed nothing more.

He rummaged about in some odds and ends in the corner of the laboratory, and brought out a strong, wooden box, which had a cover that screwed down.

"Dat'll be de ticket!" Eradicate exclaimed. "De mahogany present will jest fit." Eradicate took some excelsior to pad the box, and then, dropping inside it the gift, already wrapped in tissue paper, he proceeded to screw on the cover.

There was something printed in red letters on the outside box, but Eradicate could not read, so it did not trouble him.

"Dat Miss Nestor shore will laik her present," he murmured. "An' I'll be mighty keerful ob it' laik Massa Tom tole me. He wouldn't trust dat big lummox Koku wif anyt'ing laik dis."

Screwing on the cover, and putting a piece of wrapping paper outside the rough, wooden box, with the letter in his hand, Eradicate, full of his own importance, set off for Miss Nestor's house. Tom had not returned from the telephone, over which he was talking to Mr. Titus.

The message was an important one. The contractor said he had received word from his brother in Peru that his presence was urgently needed there.

"Could you arrange to get off sooner than we planned, Tom?" asked Mr. Titus. "I am afraid something has happened down there. Have you sent the first shipment of explosive?"

"Yes, that went three days ago. It ought to arrive at Lima soon after we do. Why yes, I can start to-night if we have to. I'll find out if Mr. Damon can be with us on such short notice."

"I wish you would," came from Mr. Titus. "And say, Tom, do you think you could take that giant Koku with you?"

"Why?"

"Well, I think he'd come in handy. There are some pretty rough characters in those Andes Mountains, and your big friend might be useful."

"All right. I was thinking of it, anyhow. Glad you mentioned it. Now I'll call up Mr. Damon, and I'll let you know, in an hour or so, if he can make it."

"Bless my hair brush, yes, Tom!" exclaimed the eccentric man, when told of the change in plans. "I can leave to-night as well as not."

Word to this effect was sent on to Mr. Titus, and then began some hurrying on the part of Tom Swift. He told Koku to get ready to leave for New York at once, where he and the giant would join Mr. Titus and Mr. Damon, and start across the continent to take for steamer for Lima, Peru.

"Rad, did you send that present to Miss Nestor?" asked Tom, later, as he finished packing his grip.

"Yas, sah. I done did it. Took it mase'f!"

"That's good! I guess I'll have to say good-bye to Mary over the telephone. I won't have time to call. I'm glad I thought of the present."

Tom got the Nestor house on the wire. But Mary was not in.

"There's a package here for her," said the girl's mother. "Did you -- ?"

"Yes, I sent that," Tom said. "Sorry I won't be able to call and say good-bye, but I'm in a terrible rush. I'll see her as soon as I get back, and I'll write as soon as I arrive."

"Do," urged Mrs. Nestor. "We'll all be glad to hear from you," for Tom and Mary were tentatively engaged to be married.

Tom and Koku went on with their hurried preparations to leave for New York. Eradicate begged to be taken along, but Tom gently told the faithful old servant that it was out of the question.

"Besides, Rad," he said, "it's dangerous in those Andes Mountains. Why, they have birds there, as big as cows, and they can swoop down and carry off a man your size."

"Am dat shorely so, Massa Tom?"

"Of course it is! You get the dictionary and read about the condors of the Andes Mountains."

"Dat's what I'll do, Massa Tom. Birds as big as cows what kin pick up a man in dere beaks, an' carry him off! Oh, my! No, sah, Massa Tom! I don't want t' go. I'll stay right yeah!"

Shortly before Tom and Koku departed for the railroad station, where they were to take a train for New York, Mary Nestor returned home.

"Tom called you on the telephone to say good-bye," her mother informed her, "and said he was sorry he could not see you. But he sent some sort of gift."

"Oh, how sweet of him!" Mary exclaimed. "Where is it?"

"On the dining room table. Eradicate brought it with a note."

Mary read the note first.

In it Tom begged Mary to accept the little token, and to think of him when she used it.

"Oh! I wonder what it can be," she cried in delight.

"Better open it and see," advised Mr. Nestor, who had come in at that moment.

Mary cut the string of the outside paper, and folded back the wrapper. A wooden box was exposed to view, a solid, oblong, wooden box, and on the top, in bold, red letters Mary, her father and her mother read:

Dynamite! Handle With Care!


"Oh! Oh!" murmured Mrs. Nestor.

"Dynamite! Handle with care!" repeated Mr. Nestor, in a sort of dazed voice. "Quick! Get a pail of water! Dump it in the bathtub! Soak it good, and then telephone for the police. Dynamite! What does this mean?"

He rushed toward the kitchen, evidently with the intention of getting a pail of water, but Mary clasped him by the arm.

"Father!" she exclaimed. "Don't get so excited!"

"Excited!" he cried. "Who's excited? Dynamite! We'll all be blown up! This is some plot! I don't believe Tom sent this at all! Look out! Call the police! Excited! Who's getting excited?"

"You are, Daddy dear!" said Mary calmly. "This is some mistake. Tom did send this -- I know his writing. And wasn't it Eradicate who brought this package, Mother?"

"Yes, my dear. But your father is right. Let him put it in water, then it will be safe. Oh, we'll all be blown up. Get the water!"

"No!" cried Mary. "There is some mistake. Tom wouldn't send me dynamite. There must be a present for me in there. Tom must have put it in the wrong box by mistake. I'm going to open it."

Mary's calmness had its effect on her parents. Mr. Nestor cooled down, as did his wife, and a closer examination of the outer box did not seem to show that it was an infernal machine of any kind.

"It's all a mistake, Daddy," Mary said. "I'll show you. Get me a screw driver."

After some delay one was found, and Mr. Nestor himself opened the box. When the tissue paper wrappings of the mahogany gift were revealed he gave a sigh of relief, and when Mary undid the wrappings, and saw what Tom had sent her, she cried:

"Oh, how perfectly dear! Just what I wanted! I wonder how he knew? Oh, I just love it!" and she hugged the beautiful box in her arms.

"Humph!" exclaimed Mr. Nestor, a slowly gathering light of anger showing in his eyes. "It is a nice present, but that is a very poor sort of joke to play, in my estimation."

"Joke! What joke?" asked Mary.

"Putting a present in a box labeled Dynamite, and giving us such a scare," went on her father.

"Oh, Father, I'm sure he didn't mean to do it!" Mary said, earnestly.

"Well, maybe he didn't! He may have thought it a joke, and he may not have! But, at any rate, it was a piece of gross carelessness on his part, and I don't care to consider for a son-in-law a young man as careless as that!"

"Oh, Daddy!" expostulated Mary.

"Now, now! Tut, tut!" exclaimed Mr. Nestor. "It isn't your fault, Mary, but this Tom Swift must be taught a lesson. He was careless, if nothing worse, and, for all he knew, there might have been some stray bits of dynamite in that packing box. It won't do! It won't do! I'll write him a letter, and give him a piece of my mind!"

And in spite of all his wife and his daughter could say, Mr. Nestor did write Tom a scathing letter. He accused him of either perpetrating a joke, or of being careless, or both, and he intimated that the less he saw of Tom at the Nestor home hereafter the better pleased he would be.

"There! I guess that will make him wish he hadn't done it!" exclaimed Mr. Nestor, as he called a messenger and sent the letter to Tom's house.

Mary and her mother did not know the contents of the note, but Mary tried to get Tom on the wire and explain. However, she was unable to reach him, as Tom was on the point of leaving.

The messenger, with Mr. Nestor's letter, arrived just as our hero was receiving the late afternoon mail from the postman, and just as Tom and Koku were getting in an automobile to leave for the depot.

"Good-bye, Dad!" Tom called. "Good-bye, Mrs. Baggert!" He thrust Mr. Nestor's letter, unopened, together with some other mail matter, which he took to be merely circulars, into an inner pocket, and jumped into the car.

Tom and Koku were off on the first stage of their journey.



Chapter VII

Off for Peru


"Well, Tom Swift, you're on time I see," was Mr. Job Titus' greeting, when our hero, and Koku, the giant, alighted from a taxicab in New York, in front of the hotel the contractor had appointed as a meeting place.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Did you have a good trip?"

"Oh, all right, yes. Nothing happened to speak of, though we were delayed by a freight wreck. Has Mr. Damon got here yet?"

"Not yet, Tom. But I had a message saying he was on his way. Come on up to the rooms I have engaged. Hello, what's all the crowd here for?" asked the contractor in some surprise, for a throng had gathered at the hotel entrance.

"I expect it's Koku they're staring at," announced Tom, and the giant it was who had attracted the attention. He was carrying his own big valise, and a small steamer trunk belonging to Tom, as easily as though they weighed nothing, the trunk being under one arm.

"I guess they don't see men of his size outside of circuses," commented the contractor. "We can pretty nearly, though not quite match him, down in Peru though, Tom. Some of the Indians are big fellows."

"We'll get up a wrestling match between one of them and Koku," suggested Tom. "Come on!" he called to the giant, who was surrounded by a crowd.

Koku pushed his way through as easily as a bull might make his way through a throng of puppies about his heels, and as Tom, Mr. Titus and the giant were entering the hotel corridor, the chauffeur of the taxicab called out with a laugh:

"I say, boss, don't you think you ought to pay double rates on that chap," and he nodded in the direction of the giant.

"That's right!" added some one in the crowd with a laugh. "He might have broken the springs."

"All right," assented Tom, good-naturedly, tossing the chauffeur a coin. "Here you are, have a cigar on the giant."

There was more laughter, and even Koku grinned, though it is doubtful if he knew what about, for he could not understand much unless Tom spoke to him in a sort of code they had arranged between them.

"Sorry to have hastened your departure," began Mr. Titus when he and Tom sat in the comfortable hotel rooms, while Koku stood at a window, looking out at what to him were the marvelous wonders of the New York streets.

"It didn't make any difference," replied the young inventor. "I was about ready to come anyhow. I just had to hustle a little," and he thought of how he had had to send Mary's present to her instead of taking it himself. As yet he was all unaware of the commotion it had caused.

"Did you get the powder shipment off all right?"

"Yes, and it will be there almost as soon as we. Other shipments will follow as we need them. My father will see to that."

"I'm glad you hit on the right kind of powder," went on the contractor. "I guess I didn't make any mistake in coming to you, Tom."

"Well, I hope not. Of course the explosive worked all right in experimental charges with samples of the tunnel rock. It remains to be seen what it will do under actual conditions, and in big service charges."

"Oh, I've no doubt it will work all right."

"What time do we leave here?" Tom asked.

"At two-thirty this afternoon. We have just time to get a good dinner and have our baggage transferred to the Chicago limited. In less than a week we ought to be in San Francisco and aboard the steamer. I hope Mr. Damon arrives on time."

"Oh, you can generally depend on him," said Tom. "I telephoned him, just before I started from Shopton, and he said -- "

"Bless my carpet slippers!" cried a voice outside the hotel apartment. "But I can find my way all right. I know the number of the room. No! you needn't take my bag. I can carry it my self!"

"There he is!" laughed Tom, opening the door to disclose the eccentric gentleman himself, struggling to keep possession of his valise against the importunities of a bellboy.

"Ah, Tom -- Mr. Titus! Glad to see you!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "I -- I am a little late, I fear -- had an accident -- wait until I get my breath," and he sank, panting, into a chair.

"Accident?" cried Tom. "Are you -- ?"

"Yes -- my taxicab ran into another. Nobody hurt though."

"But you're all out of breath," said Mr. Titus. "Did you run?"

"No, but I walked upstairs."

"What! Seven flights?" exclaimed Tom. "Weren't the hotel elevators running?"

"Yes, but I don't like them. I'd rather walk. And I did -- carried my valise -- bellboy tried to take it away from me every step -- here you are, son -- it wasn't the tip I was trying to get out of," and he tossed the waiting and grinning lad a quarter.

"There, I'm better now," went on Mr. Damon, when Tom had given him a glass of water. "Bless my paper weight! The drug concern will have to vote me an extra dividend for what I've gone through. Well, I'm here, anyhow. How is everything?"

"Fine!" cried Tom. "We'll soon be off for Peru!"

They talked over plans and made sure nothing had been forgotten. Their railroad tickets had been secured by Mr. Titus so there was nothing more to do save wait for train-time.

"I've never been to Peru," Tom remarked shortly before lunch. "What sort of country is it?"

"Quite a wonderful country," Mr. Titus answered. "I have been very much interested in it since my brother and I accepted this tunnel contract. Peru seems to have taken its name from Peru, a small river on the west coast of Colombia, where Pizarro landed. The country, geographically, may be divided into three sections longitudinally. The coast region is a sandy desert, with here and there rivers flowing through fertile valleys. The sierra region is the Andes division, about two hundred and fifty miles in width."

"Is that where we're going?" asked Tom.

"Yes. And beyond the Andes (which in Peru consist of great chains of mountains, some very high, interspersed with table lands, rich plains and valleys) there is the montana region of tropical forests, running down to the valley of the Amazon.

"That sounds interesting," commented Mr. Damon.

"It is interesting," declared Mr. Titus. "For it is from this tropical region that your quinine comes, Mr. Damon, though you may not have to go there to straighten out your affairs. I think you can do better bargaining with the officials in Lima, or near there."

"Are there any wild animals in Peru?" Tom inquired.

"Well, not many. Of course there are the llamas and alpacas, which are the beasts of burden -- almost like little camels you might say, though much more gentle. Then there is the wild vicuna, the fleece of which is made into a sort of wool, after which a certain kind of cloth is named.

"Then there is the taruco, a kind of deer, the viscacha, which is a big rat, the otoc, a sort of wild dog, or fox, and the ucumari, a black bear with a white nose. This bear is often found on lofty mountain tops, but only when driven there in search of food.

"The condors, of course, are big birds of prey in the Andes. You must have read about them; how they seem to lie in the upper regions of the air, motionless, until suddenly they catch sight of some dead animal far down below when they sweep toward it with the swiftness of the wink. There is another bird of the vulture variety, with wings of black and white feathers. The ancient Incas used to decorate their head dresses with these wing feathers."

"Well, I'm glad I'm going to Peru," said Tom. "I never knew it was such an interesting country. But I don't suppose we'll have time to see much of it."

"Oh, I think you will," commented Mr. Titus. "We don't always have to work on the tunnel. There are numerous holidays, or holy-days, which our Indian workers take off, and we can do nothing without them. I'll see that you have a chance to do some exploring if you wish."

"Good!" exclaimed Tom. "I brought my electric rifle with me, and I may get a chance to pop over one of those bears with a white nose. Are they good to eat?"

"The Indians eat them, I believe, when they can get them, but I wouldn't fancy the meat," said the contractor.

Luncheon over, the three travelers departed with their baggage for the Chicago Limited, which left from the Pennsylvania Station at Twenty-third Street. As usual, Koku attracted much attention because of his size.

The trip to San Francisco was without incident worth narrating and in due time our friends reached the Golden Gate where they were to go aboard their steamer. They had to wait a day, during which time Tom and Mr. Titus made inquiries regarding the first powder shipment. They had had unexpected good luck, for the explosive, having been sent on ahead by fast freight, was awaiting them.

"So we can take it with us on the Bellaconda," said, Tom, naming the vessel on which they were to sail.

The powder was safely stowed away, and our friends having brought their baggage aboard, putting what was wanted on the voyage in their staterooms, went out on deck to watch the lines being cast off.

A bell clanged and an officer cried:

"All ashore that's going ashore!"

There were hasty good-byes, a scramble on the part of those who had come to bid friends farewell, and preparations were made to haul in the gangplank.

Just as the tugs were slowly pushing against the Bellaconda to get her in motion to move her away from the wharf, there was a shout down the pier and a taxicab, driven at reckless speed, dashed up.

"Wait a minute! Hold that gangway. I have a passenger for you!" cried the chauffeur.

He pulled up with a screeching of brakes, and a man with a heavy black beard fairly leaped from the vehicle, running toward the plank which was all but cast off.

"My fare! My fare!" yelled the taxicab driver.

"Take it out of that! Keep the change!" cried the bearded man over his shoulder, tossing a crumpled bill to the chauffeur. And then, clutching his valise in a firm hand, the belated passenger rushed up the gangplank just in time to board the steamer which was moving away from the dock.

"Close shave -- that," observed Tom.

"That's right," assented Mr. Titus.

"Well, we're off for Peru!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, as the vessel moved down the bay.



Chapter VIII

The Bearded Man


Travel to Tom and Mr. Damon presented no novelties. They had been on too many voyages over the sea, under the sea and even in the air above the sea to find anything unusual in merely taking a trip on a steamer.

Mr. Titus, though he admitted he had never been in a submarine or airship, had done considerable traveling about the world in his time, and had visited many countries, either for business or pleasure, so he was an old hand at it.

But to Koku, who, since he had been brought from the land where Tom Swift had been made captive, had gone about but little, everything was novel, and he did not know at what to look first.

The giant was interested in the ship, in the water, in the passengers, in the crew and in the sights to be seen as they progressed down the harbor.

And the big man himself was a source of wonder to all save his own party. Everywhere he went about the decks, or below, he was followed by a staring but respectful crowd. Koku took it all good-naturedly, however, and even consented to show his great strength by lifting heavy weights. Once when several sailors were shifting one of the smaller anchors (a sufficiently heavy one for all that) Koku pushed them aside with a sweep of his big arm, and, picking up the big "hook," turned to the second mate and asked:

"Where you want him?"

"Good land, man!" cried the astonished officer. "You'll kill yourself!"

But Koku carried the anchor where it ought to go, and from then on he was looked up to with awe and admiration by the sailors.

From San Francisco to Callao, Peru (the latter city being the seaport of Lima, which is situated inland), is approximately nine hundred miles. But as the Bellaconda was a coasting steamer, and would make several stops on her trip, it would be more than a week before our friends would land at Callao, then to proceed to Lima, where they expected to remain a day or so before striking into the interior to where the tunnel was being bored through the mountain.

The first day was spent in getting settled, becoming used to their new surroundings, finding their places and neighbors at table, and in making acquaintances. There were some interesting men and women aboard the Bellaconda, and Tom Swift, Mr. Damon and Mr. Titus soon made friends with them. This usually came about through the medium of Koku, the giant. Persons seeing him would inquire about him, and when they learned he was Tom Swift's helper it was an easy topic with which to open conversation.

Tom told, modestly enough, how he had come to get Koku in his escape from captivity, but Mr. Damon was not so simple in describing Tom's feats, so that before many days had passed our hero found himself regarded as a personage of considerable importance, which was not at all to his liking.

"But bless my fountain pen!" cried Mr. Damon, when Tom objected to so much notoriety. "You did it all; didn't you?"

"Yes, I know. But these people won't believe it."

"Oh, yes they will!" said the odd man. "I'll take good care that they believe it."

"If any one say it not so, you tell me!" broke Koku, shaking his huge fist.

"No, I guess I'd better keep still," said Tom, with a laugh.

The weather was pleasant, if we except a shower or two, and as the vessel proceeded south, tropical clothing became the order of the day, while all who could, spent most of their time on deck under the shade of awnings.

"Did you ever hear anything more of that fellow, Waddington?" asked Tom of Mr. Titus one day.

"Not a thing. He seems to have dropped out of sight."

"And are your rivals, Blakeson & Grinder, making any trouble?"

"Not that I've heard of. Though just what the situation may be down in Peru I don't know. I fancy everything isn't going just right or my brother would not be so anxious for me to come on in such a hurry."

"Do you anticipate any real trouble?"

Mr. Titus paused a moment before answering.

"Well, yes," he said, finally, "I do!"

"What sort?" asked Tom.

"That I can't say. I'll be perfectly frank with you, Tom. You know I told you at the time that we were in for difficulties. I didn't want you to go into this thing blindly."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of trouble," Tom hastened to assure his friend. "I've had more or less of it in my life, and I'm willing to meet it again. Only I like to know what kind it is."

"Well, I can't tell you -- exactly," went on the tunnel contractor. "Those rivals of ours, Blakeson & Grinder, are unscrupulous fellows. They feel very bitter about not getting the contract, I hear. And they would be only too glad to have us fail in the work. That would mean that they, as the next lowest bidders, would be given the job. And we would have to make up the difference out of our pockets, as well as lose all the work we have, so far, put on the tunnel."

"And you don't want that to happen!"

"I guess not, my boy! Well, it won't happen if we get there in time with this new explosive of yours. That will do the business I'm sure."

"I hope so," murmured Tom. "Well, we'll soon see. And now I think I'll go and write a few letters. We are going to put in at Panama, and I can mail them there."

Tom started for his stateroom, and rapidly put his hand in the inner pocket of his coat. He drew out a bundle of letters and papers, and, as he looked at them, a cry of astonishment came from his lips.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Titus.

"Matter!" cried Tom. "Why here's a letter from Mary -- from Mr. Nestor," he went on, as he scanned the familiar handwriting. "I never opened it! Let's see -- when did I get that?"

His memory went back to the day of his departure from Shopton when he had sent Mary the gift, and he recalled that the letter had arrived just as he was getting into the automobile.

"I stuck it in my pocket with some other mail," he mused, "and I never thought of it again until just now. But this is the first time I've worn this coat since that day. A letter from Mr. Nestor! Probably Mary wrote, thanking me for the box, and her father addressed the envelope for her. Well, let's see what it says."

Tom retired to the privacy of his stateroom to read the note, but he had not glanced over more than the first half of it before he cried out:

"Dynamite! Great Scott! What does this mean? 'Gross carelessness! Poor idea of a joke! No person with your idea of responsibility will ever be my son-in-law!' Box labeled 'open with care!' Why -- why -- what does it all mean?"

Tom read the letter over again, and his murmurs of astonishment were so loud that Mr. Damon, in the next room, called out:

"What's the matter, Tom? Get bad news?"

"Bad news? I should say so! Mary -- her father -- he forbids me to see her again. Says I tried to dynamite them all -- or at least scare them into believing I was going to. I can't understand it!"

"Tell me about it, Tom," suggested Mr. Damon, coming into Tom's stateroom. "Bless my gunpowder keg! what does it mean?"

Thereupon Tom told of having purchased the gift for Mary, and of having, at the last minute, told Eradicate to put it in a box and deliver it at the Nestor home.

"Which he evidently did," Tom went on, "but when it got there Mary's present was in a box labeled 'Dynamite. Handle with care.' I never sent that."

Mr. Damon read over Mr. Nestor's letter which had lain so long in Tom's pocket unopened.

"I think I see how it happened," said the old man. "Eradicate can't read; can he, Tom?"

"No, but he pretends he can."

"And did you have any empty boxes marked dynamite in your laboratory?"

"Why yes, I believe I did. I used dynamite as one of the ingredients of my new explosive."

"Well then, it's as clear as daylight. Eradicate, being unable to read, took one of the empty dynamite boxes in which to pack Mary's present. That's how it happened."

Tom thought for a moment. Then he burst into a laugh.

"That's it," he said, a bit ruefully. "That's the explanation. No wonder Mr. Nestor was roiled. He thought I was playing a joke. I'll have to explain. But how?"

"By letter," said Mr. Damon.

"Too slow. I'll send a wireless," decided Tom, and he began the composition of a message that cost him considerable in tolls before he had hit on the explanation that suited him.

"That ought to clear the atmosphere," he said when the wireless had shot his message into the ether. "Whew! And to think, all this while, Mary and her folks have believed that I tried to play a miserable joke on them! My! My! I wonder if they'll ever forgive me. When I get hold of Eradicate -- "

"Better teach him to read if he's going to do up love packages," interrupted Mr. Damon, dryly.

"I will," decided the young inventor.

The Bellaconda stopped at Panama and then kept on her way south. Soon after that she ran into a severe tropical storm, and for a time there was some excitement among the passengers. The more timid of them put on life preservers, though the captain and his officers assured them there was no danger.

Tom and Mr. Titus, descending from the deck, whence they had been warned by one of the mates, were on their way to their stateroom, walking with some difficulty owing to the roll of the ship.

As they approached their quarters the door of a stateroom farther up the passage opened, and a head was thrust out.

"Will you send a steward to me?" a man requested. "I am feeling very ill, and need assistance."

"Certainly," Tom answered, and at that moment he heard Mr. Titus utter an exclamation.

"What is it?" asked Tom, for the man who had appealed for help, had withdrawn his head.

"That -- that man!" exclaimed the contractor. "That was Waddington, the tool of our rivals."

"Waddington!" repeated Tom, with a look at the now closed door. "Why, the bearded man has that stateroom -- the bearded man who so nearly lost the steamer. He isn't Waddington!"

"And I tell you Waddington is in that room!" insisted the contractor. "I only saw the upper part of his face, but I'd know his eyes anywhere. Waddington is spying on us!"



Chapter IX

The Bomb


Tom Swift and Mr. Titus withdrew a little way down the corridor, around a bulkhead and out of sight of any one who might look out from the stateroom whence had come the appeal for help. But, at the same time, they could keep watch over it.

"I tell you Waddington is in there!" insisted Mr. Titus, hoarsely whispering.

"Well, perhaps he may be," admitted Tom. "But several times I have seen the bearded man going in there, and it's only a single stateroom, for it's so marked on the deck plan."

"Waddington might be disguised with a false beard, Tom."

"Yes, he might. But did the man who just now looked out have a beard?"

"I couldn't tell, as I saw only the upper part of his face. But those were Waddington's shifty eyes, I'm positive."

"If Waddington were on board don't you suppose you would have seen him before this?"

"Not positively, no. If he and the bearded man are one and the same that would account for it. But I haven't noticed the bearded man once since he came aboard in such a hurry."

"Nor have I, now that I come to think of it," Tom admitted. "However, there is an easy way to prove who is in there."

"How?"

"We'll knock on the door and go in."

"Perhaps he won't let us."

"He'll think it's the steward he called for. Come, you know Waddington better than I do. You knock and go in."

"I don't know Waddington very well," admitted the contractor. "I have only seen him a few times, but I am sure that was he. But what shall I do when he sees I'm not the steward?"

"Tell him you have sent for one. I'll go with the message, so it will be true enough. Even if you have only a momentary glance at him in close quarters you ought to be able to tell whether or not he has on a false beard, and whether or not it is Waddington."

Mr. Titus considered for a moment, and then he said:

"Yes, I guess that is a good plan. You go for the steward, Tom, and I'll see if I can get in that stateroom. But I'm sure I'm not mistaken. I'll find Waddington in there, perhaps in the person of the bearded man, disguised. Or else they are using a single stateroom as a double one." And while Tom went off down the pitching and rolling corridor to find a steward, Mr. Titus, not without some apprehension, advanced to knock on the door of the suspect.

"If it is Waddington he'll know me at once, of course," thought the contractor, "and there may be a row. Well, I can't help it. The success of my brother and myself depends on finishing that tunnel, and we can't have Waddington, and those whose tool he is, interfering. Here goes!"

He tapped on the door, and a faint voice called:

"Come in!"

The contractor entered, and saw the bearded man lying in his berth.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" asked the contractor, bending close over the man. He wanted to see if the beard were false. Somewhat to his surprise the contractor saw that undoubtedly it was real.

"Steward, will you kindly get me -- Oh, you're not the steward!" the bearded man exclaimed.

"No, my friend and I heard you call," replied the contractor. "He has gone for the steward, who will be here soon. Can I do anything for you in the meanwhile?"

"No -- not a thing!" was the rather snappish answer, and the man turned his face away. "I beg your pardon," he went on, as if conscious that he had acted rudely, "but I am suffering very much. The steward knows just what I want. I have had these attacks before. I am a poor sailor. If you will send the steward to me I will be obliged to you. He can fix me up."

"Very well," assented Mr. Titus. "But if there is anything I can do -- "

At that moment footsteps and voices were heard in the corridor, and as the door of the bearded man's stateroom was opened, Mr. Titus had a glimpse of Tom and one of the stewards.

"Yes, I'll look after him," the steward said "He's been this way before. Thank you, sir, for calling me."

"I guess the steward has been well tipped," thought Tom. As Mr. Titus came out and the door was shut, the young inventor asked in a whisper,

"Well, was it he?"

The contractor shook his head.

"No," he answered. "I never was more surprised in my life. I felt sure it was Waddington in there, but it wasn't. That man's beard is real, and while he has a look like Waddington about the eyes and upper part of his face, the man is a stranger to me. That is I think so, but in spite of all that, I have a queer feeling that I have met him before."

"Where?" Tom inquired.

"That I can't say," and the tunnel contractor shook his head. "Whew! That was a bad one!" he exclaimed, as the steamer pitched and tossed in an alarming manner.

"Yes, the storm seems to be getting worse instead of better," agreed Tom. "I hope none of the cargo shifts and comes banging up against my new explosive. If it does, there'll be no more tunnel digging for any of us."

"Better not mention the fact of the explosives on board," suggested Mr. Titus.

"I won't," promised Tom. "The passengers are frightened enough as it is. But I watched the powder being stored away. I guess it is safe."

The storm raged for two days before it began to die away. Meanwhile, nothing was seen, on deck or in the dining cabins, of the bearded man.

Tom and Mr. Titus made some guarded inquiries of the steward who had attended the sick man, and from him learned that he was down on the passenger list as Senor Pinto, from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He was traveling in the interests of a large firm of coffee importers of the United States, and was going to Lima.

"And there's no trace of Waddington?" asked Tom of Mr. Titus, as they were discussing matters in their stateroom one day.

"Not a trace. He seems to have dropped out of sight, and I'm glad of it."

"Perhaps Blakeson & Grinder have given up the fight against you."

"I wish they had, though I don't look for any such good luck. But I'm willing to fight them, now that we have an even chance, thanks to your explosive."

The storm blew itself out. The Bellaconda "crossed the line," and there was the usual horseplay among the sailors when Father Neptune came aboard to hold court. Those who had never before been below the equator were made to undergo more or less of an initiation, being lathered and shaved, and then pushed backward into a canvas tank of water on deck.

While Tom enjoyed the voyage, with the possible exception of the storm, he was anxious, and so was Mr. Titus, for the time to come when they should get to the tunnel and try the effect of the new explosive. Mr. Damon found an elderly gentleman as fond of playing chess as was the eccentric man himself, and his days were fully occupied with castles, pawns, knights, kings, queens and so on. As for Koku he was taken in charge by the sailors and found life forward very agreeable.

Senor Pinto had recovered from his seasickness, the steward told Tom and Mr. Titus, but still he kept to his stateroom.

It was when the Bellaconda was within a day or two of Callao that a wireless message was received for Mr. Titus. It was from his brother. The message read:


"Have information from New York office that rivals are after you. Look out for explosive."


"What does that mean?" asked Tom.

"Well, I presume it means our rival contractors know we have a supply of your new powder on board, and they may try to get it away from us."

"Why?" Tom demanded.

"To prevent our using it to complete the tunnel. In that case they'll get the secret of it to use for themselves, when the contract goes to them by default. Can we do anything to protect the powder, Tom?"

"Well, I don't know that we'll need to while it's stowed away in the cargo. They can't get at it any more than we can, until the ship unloads. I guess it's safe enough. We'll just have to keep our eyes open when it's taken out of the hold, though."

Tom and Mr. Titus, both of whom were fond of fresh air and exercise, had made it a practice to get up an hour before breakfast and take a constitutional about the steamer deck. They did this as usual the morning after the wireless warning was received, and they were standing near the port rail, talking about this, when they heard a thud on the deck behind them. Both turned quickly, and saw a round black object rolling toward them. From the object projected what seemed to be a black cord, and the end of this cord was glowing and smoking.

For a moment neither Tom nor Mr. Titus spoke. Then, as a slow motion of the ship rolled the round black thing toward Tom, he cried:

"It a bomb!"

He darted toward it, but Mr. Titus pulled him back.

"Run!" yelled the contractor.

Before either of them could do anything, a queer figure of an elderly gentleman stepped partly from behind a deck-house, and stooped over the smoking object.

"Look out!" yelled Mr. Titus, crouching low. "That's an explosive bomb! Toss it overboard!"



Chapter X

Professor Bumper


Fairly fascinated by the spluttering fuse, neither Tom nor Mr. Titus moved for a second, while the deadly fire crept on through the black string-like affair, nearer and nearer to the bomb itself.

Then, just as Tom, holding back his natural fear, was about to thrust the thing overboard with his foot, hardly realizing that it might be even more deadly to the ship in the water than it was on the deck, the foot of the newcomer was suddenly thrust out from behind the deck-house, and the sizzling fuse was trodden upon.

It went out in a puff of smoke, but the owner of the foot was not satisfied with that for a hand reached down, lifted the bomb, the fuse of which still showed a smouldering spark of fire, and calmly pulled out the "tail" of the explosive. It was harmless then, for the fuse, with a trail of smoke following, was tossed into the sea, and the little man came out from behind the deck-house, holding the unexploded bomb.

For a moment neither Tom nor Mr. Titus could speak. They felt an inexpressible sense of relief. Then Tom managed to gasp out:

"You -- you saved our lives!"

The little man who had stepped on the fuse, and had then torn it from the bomb, looked at the object in his hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world to pick explosives up off the deck of passenger steamers, as he remarked:

"Well, perhaps I did. Yes, I think it would have gone off in another second or two. Rather curious; isn't it?"

"Curious? Curious!" asked and exclaimed Mr. Titus.

"Why, yes," went on the little man, in the most matter of fact tone. "You see, most explosive bombs are round, made that way so the force will be equal in all directions. But this one, you notice, has a bulge, or protuberance, on one side, so to speak. Very curious!

"It might have been made that way to prevent its rolling overboard, or the bomb's walls might be weaker near that bulge to make sure that the force of the explosion would be in that direction. And the bulge was pointed toward you gentlemen, if you noticed."

"I should say I did!" cried Mr. Titus. "My dear sir, you have put us under a heavy debt to you! You saved our lives! I -- I am in no frame of mind to thank you now, but -- "

He strode over to the little man, holding out his hand.

"No, no, I'd better keep it," went on the person who had rendered the bomb ineffective. "You might drop it you know. You are nervous -- your hand shakes."

"I want to shake hands with you!" exclaimed Mr. Titus -- "to thank you!"

"Oh, that's it. I thought you wanted the bomb. Shake hands? Certainly!"

And while this ceremony was being gone through with, Tom had a moment to study the appearance of the man who had saved their lives. He had seen the passenger once or twice before, but had taken no special notice of him. Now he had good reason to observe him.

Tom beheld a little, thin man, little in the sense of being of the "bean pole" construction. His head was as bald as a billiard ball, as the young inventor could notice when the stranger took off his hat to bow formally in response to the greeting of some ladies who passed, while Mr. Titus was shaking hands with him.

The bald head was sunk down between two high shoulders, and when the owner wished to observe anything closely, as he was now observing the bomb, the head was thrust forward somewhat as an eagle might do. And Tom noticed that the eyes of the little man were as bright as those of an eagle. Nothing seemed to escape them.

"I want to add my thanks to those of Mr. Titus for saving our lives," said Tom, as he advanced. "We don't know what to make of it all, but you certainly stopped that bomb from going off."

"Yes, perhaps I did," admitted the little man coolly and calmly, as though preventing bomb explosions was his daily exercise before breakfast.

Tom and Mr. Titus introduced themselves by name.

"I am Professor Swyington Bumper," said the bomb-holder, with a bow, removing his hat, and again disclosing his shiny bald head. "I am very glad to have met you indeed."

"And we are more than glad," said Tom, fervently, as he glanced at the explosive.

"Now that the danger is over," went on Mr. Titus, "suppose we make an investigation, and find out how this bomb came to be here."

"Just what I was about to suggest," remarked Professor Bumper. "Bombs, such as this, do not sprout of themselves on bare decks. And I take it this one is explosive."

"Let me look at it," suggested Tom. "I know something of explosives."

It needed but a casual examination on the part of one who had done considerable experimenting with explosives to disclose the fact that it had every characteristic of a dangerous bomb. Only the pulling out of the fuse had rendered it harmless.

"If it had gone off," said Tom, "we would both have been killed, or, at least, badly injured, Mr. Titus."

"I believe you, Tom. And we owe our lives to Professor Bumper."

"I'm glad I could be of service, gentlemen," the scientist remarked, in an easy tone. "Explosives are out of my line, but I guessed it was rather dangerous to let this go off. Have you any idea how it got here?"

"Not in the least," said Tom. "But some one must have placed it here, or dropped it behind us."

"Would any one have an object in doing such a thing?" the professor asked.

Tom and Mr. Titus looked at one another.

"Waddington!" murmured the contractor. "If he were on board I should say he might have done it to get us out of the way, though I would not go so far as to say he meant to kill us. It may be this bomb has only a light charge in it, and he only meant to cripple us."

"We'll find out about that," said Tom. "I'll open it."

"Better be careful," urged Mr. Titus.

"I will," the young inventor promised. "I beg your pardon," he went on to Professor Bumper. "We have been talking about something of which you know nothing. Briefly, there is a certain man who is trying to interfere in some work in which Mr. Titus and I are interested, and we think, if he were on board, he might have placed this bomb where it would injure us."

"Is he here?" asked the professor.

"No. And that is what makes it all the more strange," said Mr. Titus. "At one time I thought he was here, but I was mistaken."

Tom took the now harmless bomb to his stateroom, and there, after taking the infernal machine apart, he discovered that it was not as dangerous as he had at first believed.

The bomb contained no missiles, and though it held a quantity of explosive, it was of a slow burning kind. Had it gone off it would have sent out a sheet of flame that would have severely burned him and Mr. Titus, but unless complications had set in death would not have resulted.

"They just wanted to disable us," said the contractor. "That was their game. Tom, who did it?"

"I don't know. Did you ever see this Professor Bumper before?"

"I never did."

"And did it strike you as curious that he should happen to be so near at hand when the bomb fell behind us?"

"I hadn't thought of that," admitted the contractor. "Do you mean that he might have dropped it himself?"

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," replied Tom, slowly. "But I think it would be a good idea to find out all we can of Professor Swyington Bumper."

"I agree with you, Tom. We'll investigate him."



Chapter XI

In the Andes


Professor Swyington Bumper seemed to live in a region all by himself. Though he was on board the Bellaconda, he might just as well have been in an airship, or riding along on the back of a donkey, as far as his knowledge, or recognition, of his surroundings went. He seemed to be thinking thoughts far, far away, and he was never without a book -- either a bound volume or a note-book. In the former he buried his hawk-like nose, and Tom, looking over his shoulder once, saw that the book was printed in curious characters, which, later, he learned were Sanskrit. If he had a note-book the bald-headed professor was continually jotting down memoranda in it.

"I can hardly think of him as a conspirator against us," said Tom to Mr. Titus.

"After you have been in the contracting business as long as I have you'll distrust every one," was the answer. "Waddington isn't on board, or I'd distrust him. That Spaniard, Senor Pinto, seems to be out of consideration, and there only remains the professor. We must watch him."

But Professor Bumper proved to be above suspicion. Carefully guarded inquiries made of the captain, the purser and other ships' officers, brought out the fact that he was well known to all of them, having traveled on the line before.

"He is making a search for something, but he won't say what it is," the captain said. "At first we thought it was gold or jewels, for he goes away off into the Andes Mountains, where both gold and jewels have been found. He never looks for treasure, though, for though some of his party have made rather rich discoveries, he takes no interest in them."

"What is he after then?" asked Mr. Titus.

"No one knows, and he won't tell. But whatever it is he has never found it yet. Always, when he comes back, unsuccessful, from a trip to the interior and goes back North with us, he will remark that he has not the right directions. That he must seek again.

"Back he comes next season, as full of hope as before, but only to be disappointed. Each time he goes to a new place in the mountains where he digs and delves, so members of the parties he hires tell me, but with no success. He carries with him something in a small iron box, and, whatever this is, he consults it from time to time. It may be directions for finding whatever he is after. But there seems to be something wrong."

"This is quite a mystery," remarked Tom.

"It certainly is. But Professor Bumper is a fine man. I have known him for years."

"This seems to dispose of the theory that he planted the bomb, and that he is one of the plotters in the pay of Blakeson & Grinder," said Mr. Titus, when he and Tom were alone.

"Yes, I guess it does. But who can have done it?"

That was a question neither could answer.

Tom had a theory, which he did not disclose to Mr. Titus, that, after all, the somewhat mysterious Senor Pinto might, in some way, be mixed up in the bomb attempt. But a close questioning of the steward on duty near the foreigner's cabin at the time disclosed the fact that Pinto had been ill in his berth all that day.

"Well, unless the bomb fell from some passing airship, I don't see how it got on deck," said Tom with a shake of his head. "And I'm sure no airship passed over us."

They had kept the matter secret, not telling even Mr. Damon, for they feared the eccentric man would make a fuss and alarm the whole vessel. So Mr. Damon, occasionally blessing his necktie or his shoe laces, played chess with his elderly gentleman friend and was perfectly happy.

That Professor Bumper not only had kept his promise about not mentioning the bomb, but that he had forgotten all about it, was evident a day or two after the happening. Tom and Mr. Titus passed him on deck, and bowed cordially. The professor returned the salutation, but looked at the two in a puzzled sort of fashion.

"I beg your pardon," he remarked, "but your faces are familiar, though I cannot recall your names. Haven't I seen you before?"

"You have," said Tom, with a smile. "You saved our lives from a bomb the other day."

"Oh, yes! So I did! So I did!" exclaimed Professor Bumper. "I felt sure I had seen you before. Are you all right?"

"Yes. There haven't been any more bombs thrown at us," the contractor said. "By the way, Professor Bumper, I understand you are quite a traveler in the Andes, in the vicinity of Lima."

"Yes, I have been there," admitted the bald-headed scientist in guarded tones.

"Well, I am digging a tunnel in that vicinity," went on Mr. Titus, "and if you ever get near Rimac, where the first cutting is made, I wish you would come and see me -- Tom too, as he is associated with me."

"Rimac-Rimac," murmured the professor, looking sharply at the contractor. "Digging a tunnel there? Why are you doing that?" and he seemed to resent the idea.

"Why, the Peruvian government engaged me to do it to connect the two railroad lines," was the answer. "Do you know anything about the place?"

"Not so much as I hope to later on," was the unexpected answer. "As it happens I am going to Rimac, and I may visit your tunnel."

"I wish you would," returned Mr. Titus.

Later on, in their stateroom, the contractor remarked to the young inventor:

"Sort of queer; isn't it?"

"What?" asked Tom. "His not remembering us?"

"No, though that was odd. But I suppose he is forgetful, or pretends to be. I mean it's queer he is going to Rimac."

"What do you mean?" asked Tom.

"Well, I don't know exactly what I mean," went on the tunnel contractor, "but our tunnel happens to start at Rimac, which is a small town at the base of the mountains."

"Maybe the professor is a geologist," suggested Tom, "and he may want to get some samples of that hard rock."

"Maybe," admitted Mr. Titus. "But I shall keep my eyes on him all the same. I'm not going to have any strangers, who happen to be around when bombs drop near us, get into my tunnel."

"I think you're wrong to doubt Professor Bumper," Tom said.

A few days after this, when Tom and Mr. Titus were casually discussing the weather on deck and wondering how much longer it would be before they reached Callao, Mr. Damon, who had been playing numberless games of chess, came up for a breath of air.

"Mr. Damon," called Tom, "come over here and meet a friend of ours, Professor Bumper," and he was about to introduce them, for the two, as far as Tom knew, had not yet met. But no sooner had the professor and Mr. Damon caught sight of each other than there was a look of mutual recognition.

"Bless my fountain pen!" cried the eccentric man. "If it isn't my old friend!"

"Mr. Damon!" cried the professor. "I am delighted to see you again. I did not know you were on board!"

"Nor I you. Bless my apple dumpling! Are you still after those Peruvian antiquities?"

"I am, Mr. Damon. But I did not know you were acquainted with Mr. Swift."

"Oh, Tom and I are old friends."

"Professor Bumper saved the lives of Mr. Titus and myself," said Tom, "or at least he saved us from severe injury by a bomb."

"Pray do not mention it, my friends," put in the professor, casually. "It was nothing."

Of course he did not mean it just that way.

Then, naturally, Mr. Damon had to be told all about the bomb for the first time, and his wonder was great. He blessed everything he could think of.

"And to think it should be my old friend, Professor Bumper, who saved you," said the odd man to Tom and Mr. Titus later that day.

"Do you know him well?" asked Mr. Titus.

"Very well indeed. Our drug concern sells him many chemicals for his experiments."

"Well, if you know him I guess he can't be what I thought he was," the contractor went on. "I'm glad to know it. Why is he going to the Andes?"

"Oh, for many years he has been interested in collecting Peruvian antiquities. He has a certain theory in regard to something or other about their ancient civilization, but just what it is I have, at this moment, forgotten. Only I know you can thoroughly trust Professor Bumper, for a finer man never lived, though he is a bit absent-minded at times. But you will like him very much."

Thus the last lingering doubt of Professor Bumper was removed. Mr. Damon told something of how the scientist had been honored by degrees from many colleges and was regarded as an authority on Peruvian matters.

But who had placed the bomb on deck remained a mystery.

In due time Callao, the seaport of Lima, was reached and our friends disembarked. Tom saw to the unloading of the explosive, which was to be sent direct to the tunnel at Rimac. Mr. Titus, Tom and Mr. Damon would remain in Lima a day or so.

Professor Bumper disembarked with our friends, and stopped at the same hotel. Tom kept a lookout for Senor Pinto, but did not see him, and concluded that the Spaniard was ill, and would be carried ashore on a stretcher, perhaps.

Lima, the principal city and capital of Peru, proved an interesting place. It was about eight miles inland and was built on an arid plain about five hundred feet above sea level. Yet, though it was on what might be termed a desert, the place, by means of irrigation, had been made into a beauty spot.

Tom found the older part of the city was laid out with mathematical regularity, each street crossing the other at right angles. But in the new portions there was not this adherence to straightness.

"Bless my transfer! Why, they have electric cars here!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, catching sight of one on the line between Callao and the capital.

"What did you think they'd have?" asked Mr. Titus, "elephants or camels?"

"I -- I didn't just know," was the answer.

"Oh, you'll find a deal of civilization here," the contractor said. "Of course much of the population is negro or Indian, but they are often rich and able to buy what they want. There is a population of over 150,000, and there are two steam railroads between Callao and Lima, while there is one running into the interior for 130 miles, crossing the Andes at an elevation of over three miles. It is a branch of that road, together with a branch of the one running to Ancon, that I am to connect with a tunnel."

Tom found some beautiful churches and cathedrals in Lima, and spent some time visiting them. He and Mr. Damon also visited, in the outskirts, the tobacco, cocoa and other factories.

Three days after reaching the capital, Mr. Titus having attended to some necessary business while Mr. Damon set on foot matters connected with his affairs, it was decided to strike inland to Rimac, and to try the effect of Tom Swift's explosive on the tunnel.

The journey was to be made in part by rail, though the last stages of it were over a rough mountain trail, with llamas for beasts of burden, while our friends rode mules.

As Tom, Mr. Damon, Koku, and Mr. Titus were going to the railroad station they saw Professor Bumper also leaving the hotel.

"I believe our roads lie together for a time," said the bald-headed scientist, "and, if you have no objections, I will accompany you."

"Come, and welcome!" exclaimed Mr. Titus, all his suspicions now gone.

"And it may be that you will be able to help me," the scientist went on.

"Help you -- how?" asked Tom.

"I will tell you when we reach the Andes," was the mysterious answer.

It was a day later when they left the train at a small station, and struck off into the foothills of the great Andes Mountains, where the tunnel was started, that the professor again mentioned his object.

"Friends," he said, as he gazed up at the towering cliffs and crags, "I am searching for the lost city of Pelone, located somewhere in these mountains. Will you help me to find it?"



Chapter XII

The Tunnel


Mr. Damon, of the three who heard Professor Bumper make this statement, showed the least sign of astonishment. It would have been more correct to say that he showed none at all. But Tom could not restrain himself.

"The lost city of Pelone!" he exclaimed.

"Is it here -- in these mountains?" asked Mr. Titus.

"I have reason to hope that it is," went on the professor. "The golden tablets are very vague, but I have tried many locations, and now I am about to try here. I hope I shall succeed. At any rate, I shall have agreeable company, which has not always been my luck on my previous expeditions seeking to find the lost city."

"Oh, Professor, are you still on that quest?" asked Mr. Damon, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Yes, Mr. Damon, I am. And now that I look about me, and see the shape of these mountains, I feel that they conform more to the description on the golden plates than any location I have yet tried. Somehow I feel that I shall be successful here."

"Did you know Professor Bumper was searching for a lost city of the Andes?" asked Tom, of his eccentric friend.

"Why yes," answered Mr. Damon. "He has been searching for years to locate it."

"Why didn't you tell us?" inquired Mr. Titus.

"Why, I never thought of it. Bless my memorandum book! it never occurred to me. I did not think you would be interested. Tell them your story, Professor Bumper."

"I will soon. Just now I must see to my equipment. The story will keep."

And though Tom and Mr. Titus were both anxious to hear about the lost city, they, too, had much to do to get ready for the trip into the interior.

The beginning of the tunnel under one of the smaller of the ranges of the Andes lay two days journey from the end of the railroad line. And the trip must be made on mules, with llamas as beasts of burden, transporting the powder and other supplies.

"We'll only need to take enough food with us for the two days," said Mr. Titus. "We have a regular camp at the tunnel mouth, and my brother has supplies of grub and other things constantly coming in. We also have shacks to live in; but on this trip we will use tents, as the weather at this season is fine."

It was quite a little expedition that set off up the mountain trail that afternoon, for they had arrived at the end of the railroad line shortly before dinner, and had eaten at a rather poor restaurant.

Professor Bumper had made up his own exploring party, consisting of himself and three native Indian diggers with their picks and shovels. They were to do whatever excavating he decided was necessary to locate the hidden city.

Several mules and llamas, laden with the new explosive, and burdened with camp equipment and food, and a few Indian servants made up the cavalcade of Tom, the contractor, Mr. Damon and Koku. The giant was almost as much a source of wonder to the Peruvians as he had been on board the ship. And he was a great help, too. For some of the Indians were under-sized, and could not lift the heavy boxes and packages to the backs of the beasts of burden.

But Koku, thrusting the little men aside, grasped with one hand what two of them had tried in vain to lift, and set it on the back of mule or llama.

The way was rough but they took their time to it, for the trail was an ascending one. Above and beyond them towered the great Andes, and Tom, gazing up into the sky, which in places seemed almost pierced by the snow-covered peaks, saw some small black specks moving about.

"Condors," said Mr. Titus, when his attention was called to them. "Some of them are powerful birds, and they sometimes pick up a sheep and make off with it, though usually their food consists of carrion."

They went into camp before the sun went down, for it grew dark soon after sunset, and they wanted to be prepared. Supper was made ready by the Indian helpers, and when this was over, and they sat about a camp fire, Tom said:

"Now, Professor Bumper, perhaps you'll explain about the lost city."

"I wish I could explain about it," began the scientist. "For years I have dreamed of finding it, but always I have been disappointed. Now, perhaps, my luck may change."

"Do you think it may be near here?" asked Mr. Titus, motioning toward the dark and frowning peaks all about them.

"It may be. The signs are most encouraging. In brief, the story of the lost city of Pelone is this. Thousands of years ago -- in fact I do not know how many -- there existed somewhere in Peru an ancient city that was the centre of civilization for this region. Older it was than the civilization of the Mexicans -- the Montezumas -- older and more cultured.

"It is many years since I became interested in Peruvian antiquities, and then I had no idea of the lost city. But some of the antiques I picked up contained in their inscriptions references to Pelone. At first I conceived this to be a sort of god, a deity, or perhaps a powerful ruler. But as I went on in my work of gathering ancient things from Peru, I saw that the name Pelone referred to a city -- a seat of government, whence everything had its origin.

"Then I got on the track more closely. I examined ancient documents. I found traces of an ancient language and writings, different from anything else in the world. I managed to construct an alphabet and to read some of the documents. From them I learned that Pelone was a city situated in some fertile valley of the Andes. It had existed for thousands of years; it was the seat of learning and culture. Much light would be thrown on the lives of the people who lived in Peru before the present races inhabited it, if I could but locate Pelone.

"Then I came across two golden tablets on which were graven the information that Pelone had utterly vanished."

"How?" asked Tom.

"The golden tablets did not say. They simply stated the fact that Pelone was lost, and one sentence read: 'He who shall find it again shall be richly rewarded.' But it is not for that that I seek. It is that I may give to the world the treasures it must contain -- the treasures of an ancient civilization."

"And how do you think the city disappeared?" asked Mr. Titus.

"I do not know. Whether it was destroyed by enemies, whether it was buried under the ashes of a volcano, whether it still exists, deserted and solitary in some valley amid the mountain fastnesses of the Andes, I do not know. But I am certain the city once existed, and it may exist yet, though it may be in dust-covered ruins. That is what I seek to find. See! Here are the tablets telling about it. I got them from an old Peruvian grave."

He took from a box two thin sheets of yellow metal. They were covered with curious marks, but Tom and the others could make nothing of them. Only Professor Bumper was able to decipher them.

"And that is the story of the lost city of Pelone -- as much as I know," he said. "For years I have sought it. If I can find it I shall be famous, for I shall have added to human knowledge."

"If the people of that city wrote on golden tablets, the yellow metal must have been plentiful," commented Mr. Titus. "You might strike a rich mine."

"I have no use for riches," said the professor.

"Well, I have," the contractor said, with a laugh. "That's why I'm putting through this tunnel. And if my brother and I don't do it we'll be in a bad way financially. We have struck traces of gold, but not in paying quantities. I should like to see this lost city of yours, Professor Bumper. It may contain gold."

"You may have all the gold, if I am allowed to keep the antiquities we find," stipulated the scientist. "Then you will help me in my search?"

"As much as we can spare time for from the tunnel work," promised Mr. Titus. "I'll instruct my men to keep their eyes open for any sign of ancient writings on the rocks we blast out."

"Thank you," said the professor.

The night passed uneventfully enough, if one excepts the mosquitoes which seemed to get through the nets, making life miserable for all. And once Tom thought he heard gruntings in the bush back of the tent, which noises might, he imagined, have been caused by a bear. Toward morning he heard an unearthly screech in the woods, and one of the Indians, tending the fire, grunted out a word which meant pumas.

"I can see it isn't going to be dull here," Tom mused, as he turned over and tried to sleep.

Breakfast made them all feel better, and they set off on the final stage of their journey.

"If all goes well we'll be at the tunnel entrance and camp to-night," said the contractor. "This second half of the trip is the roughest."

There was no need of saying that, for it was perfectly evident. The trail was a most precarious one, and only a mule or llama could have traveled it. The mules were most sure-footed, but, as it was, one slipped, and came near falling over a cliff.

But no real accident occurred, and finally, about an hour before sunset, the cavalcade turned down the slope and emerged on a level plain, which ended against the face of a great cliff.

As Tom rode nearer the cliff he could make out around it groups of rude buildings, covered with corrugated iron. There was quite a settlement it seemed.

Then, in the face of the cliff there showed something black -- like a blot of ink, though more regular in outline.

"The mouth of the tunnel," said Mr. Titus to Tom. "Come on over to the office and I'll introduce you to my brother. I guess he will be glad we've arrived."

Tom dismounted from his mule, an example followed by the others. Professor Bumper gazed up at the great mountains and murmured:

"I wonder if the lost city of Pelone lies among them?"

Suddenly the silence of the evening was broken by a dull, rumbling sound.

"Bless my court plaster!" cried Mr. Damon. "What's that?"

"A blast," answered Mr. Titus. "But I never knew them to set off one so late before. I hope nothing is wrong!"

And, as he spoke, panic-stricken men began running out of the mouth of the tunnel, while those outside hastened toward them, shouting and calling.



Chapter XIII

Tom's Explosive


"Something has happened!" cried Mr. Titus as he ran forward, followed by Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku. Professor Bumper started with them, but on the way he saw a curious bit of rock which he stopped to pick up and examine.

At the entrance of the tunnel, from which came rushing dirt-stained and powder-blackened men, Mr. Titus was met by a man who seemed to be in authority.

"Hello, Job!" he cried. "Glad you're back. We're in trouble!"

"What's the matter?" was the question. "This is my brother Walter," he said. "This is Tom Swift and Mr. Damon," thus hurriedly he introduced them. "What happened, Walter?"

"Premature blast. Third one this week. Somebody is working against us!"

"Never mind that now," cried Job Titus. "We must see to the poor fellows who are hurt." "I guess there aren't many," his brother said. "They were on their way out when the charge went off. Some more of Blakeson & Grinder's work, I'll wager!"

They were rushing in to the smoke-filled tunnel now, followed by Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku, who would follow his young master anywhere. Tom saw that the tunnel was lighted with incandescent lamps, suspended here and there from the rocky roof or sides. The electric lights were supplied with current from a dynamo run by a gasoline engine.

"Where is it, Serato? Where was the blast?" asked Walter Titus, of a tall Indian, who seemed to be in some authority.

"Back at second turn," was the answer, in fairly good English. "I go get beds."

"He means stretchers," translated Job. "That's our Peruvian foreman. A good fellow, but easily scared."

They ran on into the tunnel, Tom and Mr. Damon noticing that a small narrow-gage railroad was laid on the floor, mules being the motive power to bring out the small dump cars loaded with rock and dirt, excavated from the big hole.

"Mind the turn!" called Job Titus, who was ahead of Tom and Mr. Damon. "It's rough here."

Tom found it so, for he slipped over some pieces of rock, and would have fallen had not Koku held him up.

"Thanks," gasped Tom, as on he ran.

A little later he came to a place where a cluster of electric lights gave better illumination, and he could see it was there that the damage had been done.

A number of men were lying on the dirt and rock floor of the tunnel, and some of them were bleeding. Others were staggering about as though shocked or stunned.

"We must get the injured ones out of here!" cried Walter Titus. "Where are the men with stretchers?"

"I sint that Spalapeen Serato for thim!" broke in a voice, rich in Irish brogue. "But he's thot stupid he might think I was after sindin' him fer wather!"

"No, Tim. Serato is after the stretchers all right," said Walter. "We passed him on the way."

"That's Tim Sullivan, our Irish foreman, though he has only a few of his own kind to boss," explained Job Titus in a whisper.

Some of the workmen (all of whom save the few Irish referred to were Peruvian Indians) had now recovered from their shock, or fright, and began to help the Titus brothers, Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku in looking after the injured. Of these there were five, only two of whom were, seemingly, seriously hurt.

"Me take them out," said Koku, and placing one gently over his left shoulder, and the other over his right, out of the tunnel he stalked with them, not waiting for the stretchers.

And it was well he did so, for one man was in need of an immediate operation, which was performed at the rude hospital the contractors maintained at the tunnel mouth. The other man died as Koku was carrying him out, but the giant had saved one life.

Serato, the Indian foreman, with some of his men now came in, and the other injured were carried out on stretchers, being attended to by the two doctors who formed part of the tunnel force. Among a large body of men some were always falling ill or getting hurt, and in that wild country a doctor had to be kept near at hand.

When the excitement had died down, and it was found that one death would be the total toll of the accident and that the premature blast had done no damage to the tunnel, the two Titus brothers began to consider matters.

Tom, Mr. Damon and the two contractors sat in the main office and talked things over. Koku was eating supper, though the others had finished, but, naturally, it took Koku twice as long as any one else. Professor Bumper was busy transcribing material in his note-book.

"Well, I'm glad you've come back, Job," said his brother. "Things have been going at sixes and sevens here since you went to get some new kind of blasting powder. By the way, I hope you got it, for we are practically at a standstill."

"Oh, I got it all right -- some of Tom Swift's best -- specially made for us. And, better still, I've brought Tom back with me."

"So I see. Well, I'm glad he's here."

"Now what about this accident to-day?" went on Job.

"Well, as I said, it's the third this week. All of them seemed to be premature blasts. But I've sent for some of the fuses used. I'm going to get at the bottom of this. Here is Sullivan with them now. Come in, Tim," he called, as the Irishman knocked at the door.

"Are they the fuses used in the blasts?" Walter asked.

"They are, sor. An' they mostly burn five minutes, which is plenty of time fer all th' min t' git out of danger. Only this time th' fuse didn't seem to burn more than a minute, an' I lit it meself."

"Let's see how long they burn now," suggested Job.

One of the longer fuses was lighted. It spluttered and smoked, while the contractors timed it with their watches.

"Four minutes!" exclaimed Job. "That's queer, and they're the regular ten minute length. I wonder what this means.

He took up another fuse, and examined it closely.

"Why!" he cried. "These aren't our fuses at all. They're another make, and much more rapid in burning. No wonder you've been having premature blasts. They go off in about half the time they should."

"I can't understhand thot!" said Tim, thoughtfully. "I keep all the fuses locked up, and only take thim out when I need thim."

"Then somebody has been at your box, Tim, and they took out our regular fuses and put in these quicker ones. It's a game to make trouble for us among our men, and to damage the tunnel."

"Bless my rubber boots!" cried Mr. Damon. "Who would do a thing like that?"

"Our rivals, perhaps, though I do not like to accuse any man on such small evidence," said Walter. "But we must adopt new measures."

"And be very careful of the fuses," said Job.

"Thot's what I will!" declared Tim. "I'll put th' supply in a new place. No wonder there was blasts before th' min could git out th' way! Bad cess t' th' imps thot did this!" and he banged his big fist down on the table.

Since the trouble began a guard had been always posted around the tunnel entrance and surrounding buildings, and this night the patrol was doubled. Tom, Mr. Damon and the two Titus brothers sat up quite late, talking over plans and ideas.

Professor Bumper went to bed early, as he said he was going to set off before sunrise to make a search for the lost city.

"I regard him as more or less of a visionary," said Mr. Job Titus; "but he seems a harmless gentleman, and we'll do all we can to help him."

"Surely," agreed his brother.

The night was not marked by any disturbance, and after breakfast, Tom, under the guidance of the Titus brothers, looked over the tunnel with a view to making his first experiment with the new explosive.

The tunnel was being driven straight into the face of one of the smaller ranges of the Andes Mountains. It was to be four miles in length, and when it emerged on the other side it would enable trains to make connections between the two railroads, thus tapping a rich and fertile country.

On the site of the tunnel, which was two days' mule travel east from Rimac, the Titus brothers had assembled their heavy machinery. They had brought some of their own men, including Tim Sullivan, with them, but the other labor was that of Peruvian Indians, with a native foreman, Serato, over them.

There were engines, boilers, dynamos, motors, diamond drills, steam shovels and a miniature railway, with mules as the motive power. A small village had sprung up at the tunnel mouth, and there was a general store, besides many buildings for the sleeping and eating quarters of the laborers, as well as places where the white men could live. Their quarters were some distance from the native section.

Powder, supplies, in fact everything save what game could be obtained in the forest, or what grains or fruits were brought in by natives living near by, had to be brought over the rough trail. But Titus Brothers had a large experience in engineering matters in wild and desolate countries, and they knew how to be as comfortable as possible.

Mr. Damon learned that one of the districts whence his company had been in the habit of getting quinine was distant a day's journey over the mountain, so he decided to make the trip, with a native guide, and see if he could get at the bottom of the difficulty in forwarding shipments.

This was a few days after the arrival of our friends. Meanwhile, Tom had been shown all through the tunnel by the Titus Brothers and had had his first sight of the hard cliff of rock which seemed to be a veritable stone wall in the way of progress -- or at least such progress as was satisfactory to the contractors.

"Well, we'll try what some of my explosive will do," said Tom, when he had finished the examination. "I don't claim it will be as successful as the sample blast we set off at Shopton, but we'll do our best."

Holes were drilled in the face of the rock, and several charges of the new explosive tamped in. Wires were attached to the fuses, which were of a new kind, and warning was given to clear the tunnel. The wires ran out to the mouth of the horizontal shaft and Tom, holding the switch in his hand made ready to set off the blast.

"Are they all out?" he asked Tim Sullivan, who had emerged, herding the Indian laborers before him. Tim insisted on being the last man to seek safety when an explosion was to take place.

"All ready, sor," answered the foreman.

"Here she goes!" cried Tom, as his fingers closed the circuit.



Chapter XIV

Mysterious Disappearances


There was a dull, muffled report, a sort of rumbling that seemed to extend away down under the earth and then echo back again until the ground near the mouth of the tunnel, where the party was standing, appeared to rock and heave. There followed a cloud of yellow, heavy smoke which made one choke and gasp, and Tom, seeing it, cried:

"Down! Down, everybody! There's a back draft, and if you breathe any of that powder vapor you'll have a fearful headache! Get down, until the smoke rises!"

The tunnel contractors and their men understood the danger, for they had handled explosives before. It is a well-known fact that the fumes of dynamite and other giant powders will often produce severe headaches, and even illness. Tom's explosive contained a certain percentage of dynamite, and he knew its ill effects. Stretched prone, or crouching on the ground, there was little danger, as the fumes, being lighter than air, rose. The yellow haze soon drifted away, and it was safe to rise.

"Well, I wonder how much rock your explosive tore loose for us, Tom," observed Job Titus, as he looked at the thin, yellowish cloud of smoke that was still lazily drifting from the tunnel.

"Can't tell until we go in and take a look," replied the young inventor. "It won't be safe to go in for a while yet, though. That smoke will hang in there a long time. I didn't think there'd be a back draft."

"There is, for we've often had the same trouble with our shots," Walter Titus said. "I can't account for it unless there is some opening in the shaft, connecting with the outer air, which admits a wind that drives the smoke out of the mouth, instead of forward into the blast hole. It's a queer thing and we haven't been able to get at the bottom of it."

"That's right," agreed his brother. "We've looked for some opening, or natural shaft, but haven't been able to find it. Sometimes we shoot off a charge and everything goes well, the smoke disappears in a few minutes. Again it will all blow out this way and we lose half a day waiting for the air to clear. There's a hidden shaft, or natural chimney, I'm sure, but we can't find it."

"Thot blast didn't make much racket," commented Tim Sullivan. "I doubt thot much rock come down. An' thot's not sayin' anythin' ag'in yer powder, lad," he went on to Tom.

"Oh, that's all right," Tom Swift replied, with a laugh. "My explosive doesn't work by sound. It has lots of power, but it doesn't produce much concussion."

"We've often made more noise with our blasts," confirmed Job Titus, "but I can't say much for our results."

They were all anxious, Tom included, to hurry into the tunnel to see how much rock had been loosened by the blast, but it was not safe to venture in until the fumes had been allowed to disperse. In about an hour, however, Tim Sullivan, venturing part way in, sniffed the air and called:

"It's all right, byes! Air's clear. Now come on!"

They all hurried eagerly into the shaft, Mr. Damon stumbling along at Tom's side, as anxious as the lad himself. Before they reached the face of the cliff against which the bore had been driven, and which was as a solid wall of rock to further progress, they began to tread on fragments of stone.

"Well, it blew some as far back as here," said Walter Titus. "That's a good sign."

"I hope so," Tom remarked.

There were still some fumes noticeable in the tunnel, and Mr. Damon complained of a slight feeling of illness, while Koku, who kept at Tom's side, murmured that it made his eyes smart. But the sensations soon passed.

They came to a stop as the face of the cliff loomed into view in the glare of a searchlight which Job Titus switched on. Then a murmur of wonder came from every one, save from Tom Swift. He, modestly, kept silent.

"Bless my breakfast orange!" cried Mr. Damon. "What a big hole!"

There was a great gash blown in the hard rock which had acted as a bar to the further progress of the tunnel. A great heap of rock, broken into small fragments, was on the floor of the shaft, and there was a big hole filled with debris which would have to be removed before the extent of the blast could be seen.

"That's doing the work!" cried Job Titus.

"It beats any two blasts we ever set off," declared his brother.

"Much fine!" muttered the Peruvian foreman, Serato.

"It's a lalapaloosa, lad! Thot's what it is!" enthusiastically exclaimed Tim Sullivan. "Now the black beggars will have some rock to shovel! Come on there, Serato, git yer lazy imps t' work cartin' this stuff away. We've got a man on th' job now in this new powder of Tom Swift's. Git busy!"

"Um!" grunted the Indian, and he called to his men who were soon busy with picks and shovels, loading the loosened rock and earth into the mule-hauled dump cars which took it to the mouth of the tunnel, whence it was shunted off on another small railroad to fill in a big gulch to save bridging it.

Tom's first blast was very successful, and enough rock was loosed to keep the laborers busy for a week. The contractors were more than satisfied.

"At this rate we'll finish ahead of time, and earn a premium," said Job to his brother.

"That's right. You didn't make any mistake in appealing to Tom Swift. But I wonder if Blakeson & Grinder have given up trying to get the job away from us?"

"I don't know. I'd never trust them. We must watch out for Waddington. That bomb on the vessel had a funny look, even if it was not meant to kill Tom or me. I won't relax any."

"No, I guess it wouldn't be safe."

But a week went by without any manifestation having been made by the rival tunnel contractors. During that week more of Tom's explosive arrived, and he busied himself getting ready another blast which could be set off as soon as the debris from the first should have been cleared away.

Meanwhile, Professor Bumper, with his Indian guides and helpers, had made several trips into the mountain regions about Rimac, but each time that he returned to the tunnel camp to renew his supplies, he had only a story of failure to recite.

"But I am positive that somewhere in this vicinity is the lost Peruvian city of Pelone," he said. "Every indication points to this as the region, and the more I study the plates of gold, and read their message, the more I am convinced that this is the place spoken of.

"But we have been over many mountains, and in more valleys, without finding a trace of the ancient civilization I feel sure once flourished here. There are no relics of a lost race -- not so much as an arrow or spear head. But, somehow or other, I feel that I shall find the lost city. And when I do I shall be famous!"

"Mr. Damon and I will help you all we can," Tom said. "As soon as I get ready the next blast I'll have a little time to myself, and we will go with you on a trip or two."

"I shall be very glad to have you," the bald-headed scientist remarked.

Tom's second blast was even more successful than the first, and enough of the hard rock was loosed and pulverized to give the Indian laborers ten days' work in removing it from the tunnel.

Then, as the services of the young inventor would not be needed for a week or more, he decided to go on a little trip with Professor Bumper.

"I'll come too," said Mr. Damon. "One of the sub-contractors whose men are gathering the cinchona bark for our firm has his headquarters in the region where you are going, and I can go over there and see why he isn't up to the mark."

Accordingly, preparations having been made to spend a week in camp in the forests of the Andes, Tom and his party set off one morning. Professor Bumper's Indian helpers would do the hard work, and, of course, Koku, who went wherever Tom went, would be on hand in case some feat of strength were needed.

It was a blind search, this hunt for a lost city, and as much luck might be expected going in one direction as in another; so the party had no fixed point toward which to travel. Only Mr. Damon stipulated that he wanted to reach a certain village, and they planned to include that on their route.

Tom Swift took his electric rifle with him, and with it he was able to bring down a couple of deer which formed a welcome addition to the camp fare.

The rifle was a source of great wonder to the Peruvians. They were familiar with ordinary firearms, and some of them possessed old-fashioned guns. But Tom's electric weapon, which made not a sound, but killed with the swiftness of light, was awesome to them. The interpreter accompanying Professor Bumper confided privately to Tom that the other Indians regarded the young inventor as a devil who could, if he wished, slay by the mere winking of an eye.

Mr. Damon located the quinine-gathering force he was anxious to see, and, through the interpreter, told the chief that more bark must be brought in to keep up to the terms of the contract.

But something seemed to be the matter. The Indian chief was indifferent to the interpreted demands of Mr. Damon, and that gentleman, though he blessed any number of animate and inanimate objects, seemed to make no impression.

"No got men to gather bark, him say," translated the interpreter.

"Hasn't got any men!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "Why, look at all the lazy beggars around the village."

This was true enough, for there were any number of able-bodied Indians lolling in the shade.

"Him say him no got," repeated the translator, doggedly.

At that moment screams arose back of one the grass huts, and a child ran out into the open, followed by a savage dog which was snapping at the little one's bare legs.

"Bless my rat trap!" gasped Mr. Damon. "A mad dog!"

Shouts and cries arose from among the Indians. Women screamed, and those who had children gathered them up in their arms to run to shelter. The men threw all sorts of missiles at the infuriated animal, but seemed afraid to approach it to knock it over with a club, or to go to the relief of the frightened child which was now only a few feet ahead of the animal, running in a circle.

"Me git him!" cried Koku, jumping forward.

"No, Wait!" exclaimed Tom Swift. "You can kill the dog all right, Koku," he said, "but a scratch from his tooth might be fatal. I'll fix him!"

Snatching his electric rifle from the Indian bearer who carried it, Tom took quick aim. There was no flash, no report and no puff of smoke, but the dog suddenly crumpled up in a heap, and, with a dying yelp, rolled to one side. The child was saved.

The little one, aware that something had happened, turned and saw the stretched out form of its enemy. Then, sobbing and crying, it ran toward its mother who had just heard the news.

While the mothers gathered about the child, and while the older boys and girls made a ring at a respectful distance from the dog, there was activity noticed among the men of the village. They began hurrying out along the forest paths.

"Where are they going?" asked Tom. "Is there some trouble? Was that a sacred dog, and did I get in bad by killing it?"

The interpreter and the native chief conversed rapidly for a moment and then the former, turning to Tom, said:

"Men go git cinchona bark now. Plenty get for him," and he pointed to Mr. Damon. "They no like stay in village. T'ink yo' got lightning in yo' pocket," and he pointed to the electric rifle.

"Oh, I see!" laughed Tom. "They think I'm a sort of wizard. Well, so I am. Tell them if they don't get lots of quinine bark I'll have to stay here until all the mad dogs are shot."

The interpreter translated, and when the chief had ceased replying, Tom and the others were told:

"Plenty bark git. Plenty much. Yo' go away with yo' lightning. All right now."

"Well, it's a good thing I keeled over that dog," Tom said. "It was the best object lesson I could give them."

And from then on there was no more trouble in this district about getting a supply of the medicinal bark.

A week passed and Professor Bumper was no nearer finding the lost city than he had been at first. Reluctantly, he returned to the tunnel camp to get more provisions.

"And then I'll start out again," he said.

"We'll go with you some other time," promised Tom. "But now I expect I'll have to get another blast ready."

He found the debris brought down by the second one all removed, and in a few days, preparations for exploding more of the powder were under way.

Many holes had been drilled in the face of the cliff of hard rock, and the charges tamped in. Electric wires connected them, and they were run out to the tunnel mouth where the switch was located.

This was done late one afternoon, and it was planned to set off the blast at the close of the working day, to allow all night for the fumes to be blown away by the current of air in the tunnel.

"Get the men out, Tim," said Tom, when all was ready.

"All right, sor," was the answer, and the Irish foreman went back toward the far end of the bore to tell the last shift of laborers to come out so the blast could be set off.

But in a little while Tim came running back with a queer look on his face.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom. "Why didn't you bring the men with you?"

"Because, sor, they're not there!"

"Not in the tunnel? Why, they were working there a little while ago, when I made the last connection!"

"I know they were, but they've disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Yis sir. There's no way out except at this end an' you didn't see thim come out: did you?"

"Then they've disappeared! That's all there is to it! Bad goin's on, thot's what it is, sor! Bad!" and Tim shook his head mournfully.



Chapter XV

Frightened Indians


"There must be some mistake," said Tom, wondering if the Irish foreman were given to joking. Yet he did not seem that kind of man.

"Mistake? How can there be a mistake, sor? I wint in there to tell th' black imps t' come out, but they're not there to tell!"

"What's the trouble?" asked Job Titus, coming out of the office near the tunnel mouth. "What's wrong, Tom?"

"Why, I sent Tim in to tell the men to come out, as I was going to set off a blast, but he says the men aren't in there. And I'm sure the last shift hasn't come out."

By this time Koku, Mr. Damon and Walter Titus had come up to find out what the trouble was.

"The min have disappeared -- that's all there is to it!" Tim said.

"Perhaps they have missed their way -- the lights may have gone out, and they might have wandered into some abandoned cutting," suggested Tom.

"There aren't any abandoned cuttin's," declared Tim. "It's a straight bore, not a shaft of any kind. I've looked everywhere, and th' min aren't there I tell ye!"

"Are the lights going?" asked Job. "You might have missed them in the dark, Tim."

"The lights are going all right, Mr. Titus," said the young man in charge of the electrical arrangements. "The dynamo hasn't been stopped to-day."

"Come on, we'll have a look," proposed Walter Titus. "There must be some mistake. Hold back the blast, Tom."

"All right," and the young inventor disconnected the electrical detonating switch. "I'll come along and have a look too," he added. "Don't let anybody meddle with the wires, Jack," he said to the young Englishman who was in charge of the dynamo.

Into the dimly-lit tunnel advanced the party of investigators, with Tim Sullivan in the lead.

"Not a man could I find!" he said, murmuring to himself. "Not a man! An' I mind th' time in Oireland whin th' little people made vanish a whole village like this, jist bekase ould Mike Maguire uprooted a bed of shamrocks."

"That's enough of your superstitions, Tim," warned Job Titus. "If some of the other Indians hear you go on this way they'll desert as they did once before."

"Did they do that?" asked Tom.

"Yes, we had trouble that way when we first began the work. The place here was a howling wilderness then, and there were lots of pumas around.

"A puma is a small sized lion, you know, not specially dangerous unless cornered. Well, some of the men had their families here with them, and a couple of children disappeared. The story got started that there was a big puma -- the king of them all -- carrying off the little ones, and my brother and I awoke one morning to find every laborer missing. They departed bag and baggage. Afraid of the pumas."

"What did you do?"

"Well, we organized ourselves and our white helpers into a hunting party and killed a lot of the beasts. There wasn't any big one though."

"And what had become of the children?"

"They weren't eaten at all. They had wandered off into the woods, and some natives found them and took care of them. Eventually, they got back home. But it was a long while before we could persuade the Indians to come back. Since then we haven't had any trouble, and I don't want Tim, with his superstitious fancies, to start any."

"But the min are gone!" insisted the Irish foreman, who had listened to this story as he and the others walked along.

"We'll find them," declared Mr. Titus.

But though they looked all along the big shaft, and though the place was well lighted by extra lamps that were turned on when the investigation started, no trace could be found of the workmen, who had been left in the tunnel to finish tamping the blast charges. The party reached the rocky heading, in the face of which the powerful explosive had been placed, and not an Indian was in sight. Nor, as far as could be told, was there any side niche, or blind shaft, in which they could be hiding.

Sometimes, when small blasts were set off, the men would go behind a projecting shoulder of rock to wait until the charge had been fired, but now none was in such a refuge.

"It is queer," admitted Walter Titus. "Where can the men have gone?"

"That's what I want to know!" exclaimed Tim.

"Are you sure they didn't come out the mouth of the tunnel?" asked Job Titus.

"Positive," asserted Tom. I was there all the while, rigging up the fires."

"We'll call the roll, and check up," decided Job Titus. "Get Serato to help."

The Indian foreman had not been in the tunnel with the last shift of men, having left them to Tim Sullivan to get out in time. The Indian foreman was called from his supper in the shack where he had his headquarters, and the roll of workmen was called.

Ten men were missing, and when this fact became known there were uneasy looks among the others.

"Well," said Mr. Titus, after a pause. "The men are either in the tunnel or out of it. If they're in we don't dare set off the blast, and if they're out they'll show up, sooner or later, for supper. I never knew any of 'em to miss a meal."

"If such a thing were possible," said Walter Titus, "I would say that our rivals had a hand in this, and had induced our men to bolt in order to cripple our force. But we haven't seen any of Blakeson & Grinder's emissaries about, and, if they were, how could they get the ten men out of the tunnel without our seeing them? It's impossible!"

"Well, what did happen then?" asked Tom.

"I'm inclined to think that the men came out and neither you, nor any one else, saw them. They ran away for reasons of their own. We'll take another look in the morning, and then set off the blast."

And this was done. There being no trace of the men in the tunnel it was deemed safe to explode the charges. This was done, a great amount of rock being loosened.

The laborers hung back when the orders were given to go in and clean up. There were mutterings among them.

"What's the matter?" asked Job Titus.

"Them afraid," answered Serato. "Them say devil in tunnel eat um up! No go in."

"They won't go in, eh?" cried Tim Sullivan. "Well, they will thot! If there's a divil inside there's a worse one outside, an' thot's me! Git in there now, ye black-livered spalapeens!" and catching up a big club the Irishman made a rush for the hesitating laborers. With a howl they rushed into the tunnel, and were soon loading rock into the dump cars.



Chapter XVI

On the Watch


The mystery of the disappearance of the ten men -- for mystery it was -- remained, and as no side opening or passage could be found within the tunnel, it came to be the generally accepted explanation that the laborers had come out unobserved, and, for reasons of their own, had run away.

This habit on the part of the Peruvian workers was not unusual. In fact, the Titus brothers had to maintain a sort of permanent employment agency in Lima to replace the deserters. But they were used to this. The difference was that the Indians used to vanish from camp at night, and invariably after pay-day.

"And that's the only reason I have a slight doubt that they walked out of the tunnel," said Job Titus. "There was money due em."

"They never came out of the front entrance of the tunnel," said Tom. "Of that I'm positive."

But there was no way of proving his assertion.

The third blast, while not as successful as the second in the amount of rock loosened, was better than the first, and made a big advance in the tunnel progress. Tom was beginning to understand the nature of the mountain into which the big shaft was being driven and he learned how better to apply the force of his explosive.

That was the work which he had charge of -- the placing of the giant powder so it would do the most effective work. Then, when the fumes from the blast had cleared away, in would surge the workmen to clear away the debris.

Under the direction of Mr. Swift, left at Shopton to oversee the manufacture of the explosive, new shipments came on promptly to Lima, and were brought out to the tunnel on the backs of mules, or in the case of small quantities, on the llamas. But the latter brutes will not carry a heavy load, lying down and refusing to get up if they are overburdened, whereas one has yet to find a mule's limit.

After his first success in getting the natives to take a more active interest in the gathering of the cinchona bark, Mr. Damon found it rather easy, for the story of Tom's electric rifle and how it had killed the mad dog spread among the tribes, and Mr. Damon had but to announce that the "lightning shooter," as Tom was called, was a friend of the drug concern to bring about the desired results. Mr. Damon, by paying a sort of bribe, disguised under the name "tax," secured the help of Peruvian officials so he had no trouble on that score.

Koku was in his element. He liked a wild life and Peru was much more like the country of giants where Tom had found him, than any place the big man had since visited. Koku had great strength and wanted to use it, and after a week or so of idleness he persuaded Tom to let him go in the tunnel to work.

The giant was made a sort of foreman under Tim, and the two became great friends. The only trouble with Koku was that he would do a thing himself instead of letting his men do it, as, of course, all proper foremen should do. If the giant saw two or three of the Indians trying to lift a big rock into the little dump cars, and failing because of its great weight, he would good-naturedly thrust them aside, pick up the big stone in his mighty arms, and deposit it in its place.

And once when an unusually big load had been put in a car, and the mule attached found it impossible to pull it out to the tunnel mouth, Koku unhitched the creature and, slipping the harness around his waist, walked out, dragging the load as easily as if pulling a child on a sled.

Professor Bumper kept on with his search for the lost city of Pelone. Back and forth he wandered among the wild Andes Mountains, now hopeful that he was on the right trail, and again in despair. Tom and Mr. Damon went with him once more for a week, and though they enjoyed the trip, for the professor was a delightful companion, there were no results. But the scientist would not give up.

Tom Swift was kept busy looking after the shipments of the explosive, and arranging for the blasts. He had letters from Ned Newton in which news of Shopton was given, and Mr. Swift wrote occasionally. But the mails in the wilderness of the Andes were few and far between.

Tom wrote a letter of explanation to Mr. Nestor, in addition to the wireless he had sent regarding the box labeled dynamite, but he got no answer. Nor were his letters to Mary answered.

"I wonder what's wrong?" Tom mused. "It can't be that they think I did that on purpose. And even if Mr. Nestor is angry at me for something that wasn't my fault, Mary ought to write."

But she did not, and Tom grew a bit despondent as the days went by and no word came.

"I suppose they might be offended because I left Rad to do up that package instead of attending to it myself," thought Tom. "Well, I did make a mistake there, but I didn't mean to. I never thought about Eradicate's not reading. I'll make him go to night school as soon as I get back. But maybe I'll never get another chance to send Mary anything. If I do, I'll not let Rad deliver it -- that's sure."

The feeling of alarm engendered among the Indians by the disappearance of their ten fellow-workers seemed to have disappeared. There were rumors that some of the mysterious ten had been seen in distant villages and settlements, but the Titus brothers could not confirm this.

"I don't think anything serious happened to them, anyhow," said Job Titus one day. "And I should hate to think our work was responsible for harm to any one."

"Your rivals don't seem to be doing much to hamper you," observed Tom. "I guess Waddington gave up.

"I won't be too sure of that," said Mr. Titus.

"Why, what has happened?" Tom asked.

"Well, nothing down here -- that is, directly -- but we are meeting with trouble on the financial end. The Peruvian government is holding back payments."

"Why is that?"

"They claim we are not as far advanced as we ought to be."

"Aren't you?"

"Practically, yes. There was no set limit of work to be done for the intermediate payments. We bonded ourselves to have the tunnel done at a certain date.

"If we fail, we lose a large sum, and if we get it done ahead of time we get a big premium. There was no question as to completing a certain amount of footage before we received certain payments. But Senor Belasdo, the government representative, claims that we will not be done in time, and therefore he is holding back money due us. I'm sure the rival contractors have set him up to this, because he was always decent to us before.

"Another matter, too, makes me suspicious. We have tried to raise money in New York to tide us over while the government is holding up our funds here. But our New York office is meeting with difficulties. They report there is a story current to the effect that we are going to fail, and while that isn't so, you know how hard it is to borrow money in the face of such rumors. We are doing all we can to fight them, of course, and maybe we'll beat out our rivals yet.

"But that isn't all. I'm sure some one is on the ground here trying to make trouble among our workers. I never knew so many men to leave, one after another. It's keeping the employment agency in Lima busy supplying us with new workers. And so many of them are unskilled. They aren't able to do half the work of the old men, and poor Tim Sullivan is in despair."

"You think some one here is causing dissensions and desertions among your men?"

"I'm sure of it! I've tried to ferret out who it is, but the spy, for such he must be, keeps his identity well hidden."

Tom thought for a moment. Then he said:

"Mr. Titus, with your permission, I'll see if I can find out about this for you."

"Find out what, Tom?"

"What is causing the men to leave. I don't believe it's the scare about the ten missing ones."

"Nor do I. That's past and gone. But how are you going to get at the bottom of it?"

"By keeping watch. I've got nothing to do now for the next week. We've just set off a big blast, and I've got the powder for the following one all ready. The men will be busy for some time getting out the broken rock. Now what I propose to do is to go in the tunnel and work among them until I can learn something.

"I can understand the language pretty well now, though I can't speak much of it. I'll go in the tunnel every day and find out what's going on."

"But you'll be known, and if one of our men, or one who we suppose is one, turns out to be a spy, he'll be very cautious while you're in there."

"He won't know me," Tom said. "This is how I'll work it. I'll go off with Professor Bumper the next time he starts on one of his weekly expeditions into the woods. But I won't go far until I turn around and come back. I'll adopt some sort of disguise, and I'll apply to you for work. You can tell Tim to put me on. You might let him into the secret, but no one else."

A few days later Tom was seen departing with Professor Bumper into the interior, presumably to help look for the lost city. Mr. Damon was away from camp on business connected with the drug concern, and Koku, to his delight, had been given charge of a stationary hoisting engine outside the tunnel, so he would not come in contact with Tom. It was not thought wise to take the giant into the secret.

Then one day, shortly after Professor Bumper and Tom had disappeared into the forest, a ragged and unkempt white man applied at the tunnel camp for work. There was just the barest wink as he accosted Mr. Titus, who winked in turn, and then the new man was handed over to Tim Sullivan, as a sort of helper.

And so Tom Swift began his watch.



Chapter XVII

The Condor


Left to himself, with only the rather silent gang of Peruvian Indians as company, Tom Swift looked about him. There was not much active work to be done, only to see that the Indians filled the dump cars evenly full, so none of the broken rock would spill over the side and litter the tramway. Then, too, he had to keep the Indians up to the mark working, for these men were no different from any other, and they were just as inclined to "loaf on the job" when the eye of the "boss" was turned away.

They did not talk much, murmuring among themselves now and then, and little of what they said was intelligible to Tom. But he knew enough of the language to give them orders, the main one of which was:

"Hurry up!"

Now, having seen to it that the gang of which he was in temporary charge was busily engaged, Tom had a chance to look about him. The tunnel was not new to him. Much of his time in the past month had been spent in its black depths, illuminated, more or less, by the string of incandescent lights.

"What I want to find," mused Tom, as he walked to and fro, "is the place where those Indians disappeared. For I'm positive they got away through some hole in this tunnel. They never came out the main entrance."

Tom held to this view in spite of the fact that nearly every one else believed the contrary -- that the men had left by the tunnel mouth, near which Tom happened to be alone at the time.

Now, left to himself, with merely nominal duties, and so disguised that none of the workmen would know him for the trim young inventor who oversaw the preparing of the blast charges, Tom Swift walked to and fro, looking for some carefully hidden passage or shaft by means of which the men had got away.

"For it must be well hidden to have escaped observation so long," Tom decided. "And it must be a natural shaft, or hole, for we are boring into native rock, and it isn't likely that these Indians ever tried to make a tunnel here. There must be some natural fissure communicating with the outside of the mountain, in a place where no one would see the men coming out."

But though Tom believed this it was another matter to demonstrate his belief. In the intervals of seeing that the natives properly loaded the dump cars, and removed as much of the debris as possible, Tom looked carefully along the walls and roof of the tunnel thus far excavated.

There were cracks and fissures, it is true, but they were all superficial ones, as Tom ascertained by poking a long pole up into them.

"No getting out that way," he said, as he met with failure after failure.

Once, while thus engaged, he saw Serato, the Indian foreman looking narrowly at him, and Serato said something in his own language which Tom could not understand. But just then along came Tim Sullivan, who, grasping the situation, exclaimed:

"Thot's all roight, now, Serri, me lad!" for thus he contracted the Indian's name. "Thot's a new helper I have, a broth of a bye, an' yez kin kape yer hands off him. He's takin' orders from me!"

"Um!" grunted the Indian. "Wha for he fish in tunnel roof?" for Tom's pole was one like those the Indians used when, on off days, they emulated Izaak Walton.

"Fishin' is it!" exclaimed Tim. "Begorra 'tis flyin' fish he's after I'm thinkin'. Lave him alone though, Serri! I'm his boss!"

"Um!" grunted the Indian again, as he moved off into the farther darkness.

"Be careful, Tom," whispered the Irishman, when the native had gone. "These black imps is mighty suspicious. Maybe thot fellah had a hand in th' disappearances hisself."

"Maybe," admitted Tom. "He may get a percentage on all new hands that are hired."

Tom kept on with his search, always hoping he might find some hidden means of getting out of the tunnel. But as the days went by, and he discovered nothing, he began to despair.

"The queer thing about it," mused Tom, "is what has become of the ten men. Even if they did find some secret means of leaving, what has become of them? They couldn't completely disappear, and they have families and relatives that would make some sort of fuss if they were out of sight completely this long. I wonder if any inquiries have been made about them?"

When Tom came off duty he asked the Titus brothers whether or not any of the relatives of the missing men had come to seek news about them. None had.

"Then," said Tom, "you can depend on it the men are all right, and their relatives know it. I wonder how it would do to make inquiries at that end? Question some of the relatives."

"Bless my hat band!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, who was at the conference. "I never thought of that. I'll do it for you."

The odd man had gotten his quinine gathering business well under way now, and he had some spare time. So, with an interpreter who could be trusted, he went to the native village whence had come nearly all of the ten missing men. But though Mr. Damon found some of their relatives, the latter, with shrugs of their shoulders, declared they had seen nothing of the ones sought.

"And they didn't seem to worry much, either," reported Mr. Damon.

"Then we can depend on it," remarked Tom, "that the men are all right and their relatives know it. There's some conspiracy here."

So it seemed. But who was at the bottom of it?

"I can't figure out where Blakeson & Grinder come in," said Job Titus. "They would have an object in crippling us, but they seem to be working from the financial end, trying to make us fail there. I haven't seen any of their sneaking agents around here lately, and as for Waddington he seems to have stayed up North."

Tom resumed his vigil in the tunnel, poking here and there, but with little success. His week was about up, and he would soon have to resume his character as powder expert, for the debris was nearly all cleaned up, and another blast would have to be fired shortly.

"Well, I'm stumped!" Tom admitted, the day when he was to come on duty for the last time as a pretended foreman. "I've hunted all over, and I can't find any secret passage."

It was warm in the tunnel, and Tom, having seen one train of the dump cars loaded, sat down to rest on an elevated ledge of rock, where he had made a sort of easy chair for himself, with empty cement bags for cushions.

The heat, his weariness and the monotonous clank-clank of a water pump near by, and the equally monotonous thump of the lumps of rocks in the cars made Tom drowsy. Almost before he knew it he was asleep.

What suddenly awakened him he could not tell. Perhaps it was some influence on the brain cells, as when a vivid dream causes us to start up from slumber, or it may have been a voice. For certainly Tom heard a voice, he declared afterward.

As he roused up he found himself staring at the rocky wall of the tunnel. And yet the wall seemed to have an opening in it and in the opening, as if it were in the frame of a picture, appeared the face Tom had seen at his library the day Job Titus called on him -- the face of Waddington!

Tom sat up so quickly that he hit his head sharply on a projecting rock spur, and, for the moment he "saw stars." And with the appearance of these twinkling points of light the face of Waddington seemed to fade away, as might a vision in a dream.

"Bless my salt mackerel, as Mr. Damon would say!" cried Tom. "What have I discovered?"

He rubbed his head where he had struck it, and then passed his hand before his eyes, to make sure he was awake. But the vision, if vision it was, had vanished, and he saw only the bare rock wall. However, the echo of the voice remained in his ears, and, looking down toward the tunnel floor Tom saw Serato, the Indian foreman.

"Were you speaking to me?" asked Tom, for the man understood and spoke English fairly well.

"No, sar. I not know you there!" and the foreman seemed startled at seeing Tom. Clearly he was in a fright.

"You were speaking!" insisted Tom.

"No, sar!" The man shook his head.

"To some one up there!" went on the young inventor, waving his hand toward the spot where he had seen the face in the rock.

"Me speak to roof? No, sar!" Serato laughed.

Tom did not know what to believe.

"You hear me tell um lazy man to much hurry," the Indian went on. "Me not know you sleep there, sar!"

"Oh, all right," Tom said, recollecting that he must keep up his disguise. "Maybe I was dreaming."

"Yes, sar," and the foreman hurried on, with a backward glance over his shoulder.

"Now was I dreaming or not?" thought Tom. "I'm going to have a look at that place though, where I saw Waddington's face. Or did I imagine it?"

He got a long pole and a powerful flash lamp, and when he had a chance, unobserved, he poked around in the vicinity where he had seen the face.

But there was only solid rock.

"It must have been a dream," Tom concluded. "I've been thinking too much about this business. I'll have to give up. I can't solve the mystery of the missing men."

The next day, much disappointed, he resumed his own character as explosive expert, and prepared for another blast. The net result of his watch was that he became suspicious of Serato, and so informed the Titus Brothers.

"Oh, but you're mistaken," said Job. "We have had him for years, on other contracts in Peru, and we trust him."

"Well, I don't," Tom said, but he had to let it go at that.

Another blast was set off, but it was not very successful.

"The rock seems to be getting harder the farther in we go," commented Walter Titus. "We're not up to where we ought to be."

"I'll have to look into it," answered Tom. "I may have to change the powder mixture. Guess I'll go up the mountain a way, and see if there are any outcroppings of rock there that would give me an idea of what lies underneath."

Accordingly, while the men in the tunnel were clearing away the rock loosened by the blast, Tom, one day, taking his electric rifle with him, went up the mountain under which the big bore ran.

He located, by computation, the spot beneath which the end of the tunnel then was, and began collecting samples of the outcropping ledge. He wanted to analyze these pieces of stone later. Koku was with him, and, giving the giant a bag of stones to carry, Tom walked on rather idly.

It was a wild and desolate region in which he found himself on the side of the mountain. Beyond him stretched towering and snow-clad peaks, and high in the air were small specks, which he knew to be condors, watching with their eager eyes for their offal food.

As Tom and Koku made their way along the mountain trail they came unexpectedly upon an Indian workman who was gathering herbs and bark, an industry by which many of the natives added to their scanty livelihood. The woman was familiar with the appearance of the white men, and nodded in friendly fashion.

Tom passed on, thinking of many things, when he was suddenly startled by a scream from the woman. It was a scream of such terror and agony that, for the moment, Tom was stunned into inactivity. Then, as he turned, he saw a great condor sweeping down out of the air, the wind fairly whistling through the big, outstretched wings.

"Jove!" ejaculated Tom. "Can the bird be going to attack the woman?"

But this was not the object of the condor. It was aiming to strike, with its fierce talons, at a point some paces distant from where the woman stood, and in the intervals between her screams Tom heard her cry, in her native tongue:

"My baby! My baby! The beast-bird will carry off my baby!"

Then Tom understood. The woman herb-gatherer had brought her infant with her on her quest, and had laid it down on a bed of soft grass while she worked. And it was this infant, wrapped as Tom afterward saw in a piece of deer-skin, at which the condor was aiming.

"Master shoot!" cried Koku, pointing to the down-sweeping bird.

"You bet I'll shoot!" cried Tom.

Throwing his electric rifle to his shoulder, Tom pressed the switch trigger. The unseen but powerful force shot straight at the condor.

The outstretched wings fell limp, the great body seemed to shrivel up, and, with a crash, the bird fell into the underbrush, breaking the twigs and branches with its weight. The electric rifle, a full account of which was given in the volume entitled "Tom Swift and His Electric Rifle," had done its work well.

With a scream, in which was mingled a cry of thanks, the woman threw herself on the sleeping child. The condor had fallen dead not three paces from it.

Tom Swift had shot just in time.



Chapter XVIII

The Indian Strike


Snatching up in her arms the now awakened child, the woman gazed for a moment into its face, which she covered with kisses. Then the herb-gatherer looked over to the dead, limp body of the great condor, and from thence to Tom.

In another moment the woman had rushed forward, and knelt at the feet of the young inventor. Holding the baby in one arm, in her other hand the woman seized Tom's and kissed it fervently, at the same time pouring forth a torrent of impassioned language, of which Tom could only make out a word now and then. But he gathered that the woman was thanking him for having saved the child.

"Oh, that's all right," Tom said, rather embarrassed by the hand-kissing. "It was an easy shot."

An Indian came bursting through the bushes, evidently the woman's husband by the manner in which she greeted him, and Tom recognized the newcomer as one of the tunnel workers. There was some quick conversation between the husband and wife, in which the latter made all sorts of motions, including in their scope Tom, his rifle, the dead condor and the now smiling baby.

The man took off his hat and approached Tom, genuflecting as he might have done in church.

"She say you save baby from condor," the man said in his halting English. "She t'ank you -- me, I t'ank you. Bird see babe in deer skin -- t'ink um dead animal. Maybe so bird carry baby off, drop um on sharp stone, baby smile no more. You have our lives, senor! We do anyt'ing we can for you."

"Thanks," said Tom, easily. "I'm glad I happened to be around. I supposed condors only went for things dead, but I reckon, as you say, it mistook the baby in the deer skin for a dead animal. And I guess it might have carried your little one off, or at least lifted it up, and then it might have dropped it far enough to have killed it. It sure is a big bird," and Tom strolled over to look at what he had bagged.

The condor of the Andes is the largest bird of prey in existence. One in the Bronx Zoo, in New York, with his wings spread out, measured a little short of ten feet from tip to tip. Measure ten feet out on the ground and then imagine a bird with that wing stretch.

This same condor in the park was made angry by a boy throwing a feather boa up into the air outside the cage. The condor raised himself from the ground, and hurled himself against the heavy wire netting so that the whole, big cage shook. And the breeze caused by the flapping wings blew off the hats of several spectators. So powerful was the air force from the condor's wings that it reminded one of the current caused when standing behind the propellers of an aeroplane in motion. The condor rarely attacks living persons or animals, though it has been known to carry off big sheep when driven by hunger.

It was one of these animals Tom Swift had shot with his electric rifle.

"We do anyt'ing you want," the man gratefully repeated.

"Well, I've got about all I want," Tom said. "But if you could tell me where those ten missing men are, and how they got out of the tunnel, I'd be obliged to you."

The woman did not seem to comprehend Tom's talk, but the man did. He started, and fear seemed to come over him.

"Me -- I -- I can not tell," he murmured.

"No, I don't suppose you can," said Tom, musingly. "Well, it doesn't matter, I guess I'll have to cross it off my books. I'll never find out."

Again the Indian and his wife expressed their gratitude, and Tom, after letting the little brown baby cling to his finger, and patting its chubby cheek, went on his way with Koku.

"Well, that was some excitement," mused Tom, who made little of the shot itself, for the condor was such a mark that he would have had to aim very badly indeed to miss it. And perhaps only the electric rifle could have killed quickly enough to prevent the baby's being injured in some way by the big bird, even though it was dying.

"Master heap good shot!" exclaimed Koku, admiringly.

The tunnel work went on, though not so well as when Tom's explosive was first used. The rock was indeed getting harder and was not so easily shattered. Tom made tests of the pieces he had obtained from the outcropping ledge on the mountain where he had shot the condor, and decided to make a change in the powder.

Shipments were regularly received from Shopton, Mr. Swift keeping things in progress there. Mr. Damon's business was going on satisfactorily, and he lent what aid he could to Tom. As for Professor Bumper he kept on with his search for the lost city of Pelone, but with no success.

The scientist wanted Tom and Mr. Damon to go on another trip with him, this time to a distant sierra, or fertile valley, where it was reported a race of Indians lived, different from others in that region.

"It may be that they are descendants from the Pelonians," suggested the professor. Tom was too busy to go, but Mr. Damon went. The expedition had all sorts of trouble, losing its way and getting into a swamp from which escape was not easy. Then, too, the strange Indians proved hostile, and the professor and his party could not get nearer than the boundaries of the valley.

"But the difficulties and the hostile attitude of these natives only makes me surer that I am on the right track," said Mr. Bumper. "I shall try again."

Tom was busy over a problem in explosives one day when he saw Tim Sullivan hurrying into the office of the two brothers. The Irishman seemed excited.

"I hope there hasn't been another premature blast," mused Tom. "But if there had been I think I'd have heard it."

He hastened out to see Job and Walter Titus in excited conversation with Tim.

"They didn't come out, an' thot's all there is to it," the foreman was saying. "I sint thim in mesilf, and they worked until it was time t' set off th' blast. I wint t' get th' fuse, an' I was goin' t' send th' black imps out of danger, whin -- whist -- they was gone whin I got back -- fifteen of 'em this time!"

"Do you mean that fifteen more of our men have vanished as the first ten did?" asked Job Titus.

"That's what I mean," asserted the Irishman.

"It can't be!" declared Walter.

"Look for yersilf!" returned Tim. "They're not in th' tunnel!"

"And they didn't come out?"

"Ask th' time-keeper," and Tim motioned to a young Englishman who, since the other disappearance, had been stationed at the mouth of the tunnel to keep a record of who went in and came out.

"No, sir! Nobody kime hout, sir!" the Englishman declared. "Hi 'aven't been away frim 'ere, sir, not since hi wint on duty, sir. An' no one kime out, no, sir!"

"We've got to stop this!" declared Job Titus.

"I should say so!" agreed his brother.

With Tom and Tim the Titus brothers went into the tunnel. It was deserted, and not a trace of the men could be found. Their tools were where they had been dropped, but of the men not a sign.

"There must be some secret way out," declared Tom.

"Then we'll find it," asserted the brothers.

Work on the tunnel was stopped for a day, and, keeping out all natives, the contractors, with Tom and such white men as they had in their employ, went over every foot of roof, sides and floor in the big shaft. But not a crack or fissure, large enough to permit the passage of a child, much less a man, could be found.

"Well, I give up!" cried Walter Titus in despair. "There must be witchcraft at work here!"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed his brother. "It's more likely the craft of Blakeson & Grinder, with Waddington helping them."

"Well, if a human agency made these twenty-five men disappear, prove it!" insisted Walter.

His brother did not know what to say.

"Well, go on with the work," was Job's final conclusion. "We'll have one of the white men constantly in the tunnel after this whenever a gang is working. We won't leave the natives alone even long enough to go to get a fuse. They'll be under constant supervision."

The tunnel was opened for work, but there were no workers. The morning after the investigation, when the starting whistle blew there was no line of Indians ready to file into the big, black hole. The huts where they slept were deserted. A strange silence brooded over the tunnel camp.

"Where are the men, Serato?" asked Tom of the Indian foreman.

"Men um gone. No work any more. What you call a hit."

"You mean a strike?" asked Tom.

"Sure -- strike -- hit -- all um same. No more work -- um 'fraid!"



Chapter XIX

A Woman Tells


"Well, if this isn't the limit!" cried Tom Swift. "As if we didn't have trouble enough without a strike on our hands!"

"I should say yes!" chimed in Job Titus.

"Do you mean that the men won't work any more?" asked his brother of the native foreman.

"Sure, no more work -- um much 'fraid big devil in tunnel carry um off an' eat um."

"Well, I don't know that I blame 'em for being a bit frightened," commented Job. "It is a queer proceeding how twenty-five men can disappear like that. Where have the men gone, Serato?"

"Gone home. No more work. Go on hit -- strike -- same like white men."

"They waited until pay day to go on strike," commented the bookkeeper, a youth about Tom's age.

This was true. The men had been paid off the day before, and usually on such occasions many of them remained away, celebrating in the nearest village. But this time all had left, and evidently did not intend to come back.

"We'll have to get a new gang," said Job. "And it's going to delay us just at the wrong time. Well, there's no help for it. Get busy, Serato. You and Tim go and see how many men you can gather. Tell them we'll give them a sol a week more if they do good work. (A sol is the standard silver coin of Peru, and is worth in United States gold about fifty cents.)

"Half a dollar a day more will look mighty big to them," went on the contractor. "Get the men, Serato, and we'll raise your wages two sols a week."

The eyes of the Indian gleamed, and he went off, saying.

"Um try, but men much 'fraid."

Whether Serato used his best arguments could not, of course, be learned, but he came back at the close of the day, unaccompanied by any workers, and he shook his head despondently.

"Indians no come for one sol, mebby not for two," he said. "I no can git."

"Then I'll try!" cried Job. "I'll get the workers. I'll make our old ones come back, for they'll be the best."

Accompanied by his brother and Tom he went to the various Indian villages, including the one whence most of the men now on strike had come. The fifteen missing ones were not found, though, as before, their relatives, and, in some cases, their families, did not seem alarmed. But the men who had gone on strike were found lolling about their cabins and huts, smoking and taking their ease, and no amount of persuasion could induce them to return.

Some of them said they had worked long enough and were tired, needing a rest. Others declared they had money enough and did not want more. Even two more sols a week would not induce them to return.

And many were frankly afraid. They said so, declaring that if they went back to the tunnel some unknown devil might carry them off under the earth.

Job Titus and his brother, who could speak the language fairly well, tried to argue against this. They declared the tunnel was perfectly safe. But one native worker, who had been the best in the gang, asked:

"Where um men go?"

The contractors could not answer.

"It's a trick," declared Walter. "Our rivals have induced the men to go on strike in order to hamper us with the work so they'll get the job."

But the closest inquiry failed to prove this statement. If Blakeson & Grinder, or any of their agents, had a hand in the strike they covered their operations well. Though diligent inquiry was made, no trace of Waddington, or any other tool, could be found.

Tom, who had some sort of suspicion of the bearded man on the steamer, tried to find him, even taking a trip in to Lima, but without avail.

The tunnel work was at a standstill, for there was little use in setting off blasts if there were no men to remove the resulting piles of debris. So, though Tom was ready with some specially powerful explosive, he could not use it.

Efforts were made to get laborers from another section of the country, but without effect. The contractors heard of a big force of Italians who had finished work on a railroad about a hundred miles away, and they were offered places in the tunnel. But they would not come.

"Well, we may as well give up," said Walter, despondently, to his brother one day. "We'll never get the tunnel done on time now."

"We still have a margin of safety," declared job. "If we could get the men inside of a couple of weeks, and if Tom's new powder rips out more rock, we'll finish in time."

"Yes, but there are too many ifs. We may as well admit we've failed."

"I'll never do that!"

"What will you do?"

But Job did not know.

"If we could git a gang of min from the ould sod -- th' kind I used t' work wit in N'Yark," said Tim Sullivan, "I'd show yez whot could be done! We'd make th' rock fly!"

But that efficient labor was out of the question now. The tunnel camp was a deserted place.

"Come on, Koku, we'll go hunting," said Tom one day. "There's no use hanging around here, and some venison wouldn't go bad on the table."

"I'll come, too," said Mr. Damon. "I haven't anything to do."

The Titus brothers had gone to a distant village, on the forlorn hope of getting laborers, so Tom was left to his own devices, and he decided to go hunting with his electric rifle.

The taruco, or native deer, had been plentiful in the vicinity of the tunnel until the presence of so many men and the frequent blasts had driven them farther off, and it was not until after a tramp of several miles that Tom saw one. Then, after stalking it a little way, he managed to kill it with the electric rifle.

Koku hoisted the animal to his big shoulders, and, as this would provide meat enough for some time, Tom started back for camp.

As he and Mr. Damon, with Koku in the rear, passed through a little clearing, they saw, on the far side, a native hut. And from it rushed a woman, who approached Tom, casting herself on her knees, while she pressed his free hand to her head.

"Bless my scarf pin!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "What does this mean, Tom?"

"Oh, this is the mother of the child I saved from the condor," said Tom. "Every time she sees me she thanks me all over again. How is the baby?" he asked in the Indian tongue, for he was a fair master of it by now.

"The baby is well. Will the mighty hunter permit himself to enter my miserable hovel and partake of some milk and cakes?"

"What do you say, Mr. Damon?" Tom asked. "She's clean and neat, and she makes a drink of goat's milk that isn't bad. She bakes some kind of meal cakes that are good, too. I'm hungry."

"All right, Tom, I'll do as you say."

A little later they were partaking of a rude, but none the less welcome, lunch in the woman's hut, while the baby whose life Tom had saved cooed in the rough log cradle.

"Say, Masni," asked Tom, addressing the woman by name, "don't you know where we can get some men to work the tunnel?" Of course Tom spoke the Indian language, and he had to adapt himself to the comprehension of Masni.

"Men no work tunnel?" she inquired.

"No, they've all skipped out -- vamoosed. Afraid of some spirit."

The woman looked around, as though in fear. Then she approached Tom closely and whispered:

"No spirit in tunnel -- bad man!"

"What!" cried Tom, almost jumping off his stool. "What do you mean, Masni?"

"Me tell mighty hunter," she went on, lowering her voice still more. "My man he no want to tell, he 'fraid, but I tell. Mighty hunter save Vashni," and she looked toward the baby. "Me help friends of mighty hunter. Bad man in tunnel -- no spirit!

"Men go. Spirit no take um -- bad man take um."

"Where are they now?" asked Tom. "Jove, if I could find them the secret would be solved!"

The woman looked fearfully around the hut and then whispered:

"You come -- me show!"

"Bless my toothbrush!" cried Mr. Damon. "What is going to happen, Tom Swift?"

"I don't know," was the answer, "but something sure is in the wind. I guess I shot better than I knew when I killed that condor."



Chapter XX

Despair


Calling to a girl of about thirteen years to look after her baby, Masni slipped along up a rough mountain trail, motioning to Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku to follow. Or rather, the woman gave the sign to Tom, ignoring the others, who, naturally, would not be left behind. Masni seemed to have eyes for no one but the young inventor, and the manner in which she looked at him showed the deep gratitude she felt toward him for having saved her baby from the great condor.

"Come," she said, in her strange Indian tongue, which Tom could interpret well enough for himself now.

"But where are we going, Masni?" he asked. "This isn't the way to the tunnel."

"Me know. Not go to tunnel now," was her answer. "Me show you men."

"But which men do you mean, Masni?" inquired Tom. "The lost men, or the bad ones, who are making trouble for us? Which men do you mean?"

Masni only shook her head, and murmured: "Me show."

Probably Tom's attempt to talk her language was not sufficiently clear to her.

"My man -- he good man," she said, coming to a pause on the rough trail after a climb which was not easy.

"Yes, I know he is," Tom said. "But he went on a strike with the others, Masni. He no work. He go on a 'hit,' as Serato calls it," and Tom laughed.

"My man he good man -- but he 'fraid," said the wife. "He want to tell you of bad mans, but he 'fraid. You save my baby, I no 'fraid. I tell."

"Oh, I see," said Tom. "Your husband would have given away the secret, only he's afraid of the bad men. He likes me, too?"

"Sure!" Masni exclaimed. "He want tell, but 'fraid. He go 'way, I tell."

Tom was not quite sure what it all meant, but it seemed that after his slaying of the condor both parents were so filled with gratitude that they wanted to reveal some secret about the tunnel, only Masni's husband was afraid. She, however, had been braver.

"Something is going to happen," said Tom Swift. "I feel it in my bones!"

"Bless my porous plaster!" cried Mr. Damon. "I hope it isn't anything serious."

"We'll see," Tom went on.

They resumed their journey up the mountain trail. It wound in and out in a region none of them had before visited. Though it could not be far from the tunnel, it was almost a strange country to Tom.

Suddenly Masni stopped in a narrow gorge where the walls of rock rose high on either hand. She seemed looking for something. Her sharp, black eyes scanned the cliff and then with an exclamation of satisfaction she approached a certain place. With a quick motion she pulled aside a mass of tangled vines, and disclosed a path leading down through a V shaped crack in the cliff.

"Mans down there," she said. "You go look."

For a moment Tom hesitated. Was this a trap? If he and his friends entered this narrow and dark opening might not the Indian woman roll down some rock back of them, cutting off forever the way of escape?

Tom turned and looked at Masni. Then he was ashamed of his suspicion, for the honest black face, smiling at him, showed no trace of guile.

"You go -- you see lost men," the woman urged.

"Come on!" cried Tom. "I believe we're on the track of the mystery!"

He led the way, followed by Mr. Damon, while Koku came next and then Masni. It could be no trap since she entered it herself.

The path widened, but not much. There was only room for one to walk at a time. The trail twisted and turned, and Tom was wondering how far it led, when, from behind him, came the cry of the woman:

"Watch now -- no fall down."

Tom halted around a sharp turn, and stood transfixed at the sight which met his gaze. He found himself looking out through a crack in the face of a sheer stone cliff that went straight down for a hundred feet or more to a green-carpeted valley.

Tom was standing in a narrow cleft of rock -- the same rock through which they had made their way. And at the foot of the cliff was a little encampment of Indians. There were a dozen huts, and wandering about them, or sitting in the shade, were a score or more of Indians.

"There men from tunnel," said Masni, and, as he looked, wondering, Tom saw some of the workers he knew. One especially, was a laborer who walked with a peculiar limp.

"The missing men!" gasped the young inventor.

"Bless my almanac!" cried Mr. Damon. "Where?"

"Here," answered Tom. "If you squeeze past me you can see them."

Mr. Damon did so.

"How did they get here?" asked the odd man, as he looked down in the little valley where the missing ones were sequestered.

"That's what we've got to find out," Tom said. "At any rate here they are, and they seem to be enjoying life while we've been worrying as to what had become of them. How did they get here, Masni?"

"Me show you. Come."

"Wait until I take another look," said Tom.

"Be careful they don't see you," cautioned Mr. Damon.

"They can't very well. The cleft is screened by bushes."

Tom looked down once more on the group of men who had so mysteriously disappeared. The little valley stretched out away from the face of the cliff, through which, by means of the crack, or cleft in it, Tom and the others had come. Tom looked down the wall of rock. It was as smooth as the side of a building, and offered no means of getting down or up. Doubtless there was an easier entrance to the valley on the other side. It was like looking down into some vast hall through an upper window or from a balcony.

"And those men have been in hiding, or been hidden here, ever since they disappeared from the tunnel," said Mr. Damon.

"It doesn't look as though they were detained by force," Tom remarked. "I think they are being paid to stay away. How did they get here, Masni?"

"Me show you. Come!"

They went back along the trail that led through the split in the rock, until they had come to the place where the natural curtain of vines concealed the entrance. Tom took particular notice of this place so he would know it again.

Then Masni led them over the mountain, and this time Tom saw that they were approaching the tunnel. He recognized some places where he had taken samples of rock from the outcropping to test the strength of his explosive.

Reaching a certain wild and desolate place, Masni made a signal of caution. She seemed to be listening intently. Then, as if satisfied there was no danger, she parted some bushes and glided in, motioning the others to follow.

"Now I wonder what's up," Tom mused.

He and the others were soon informed.

Masni stopped in front of a pile of brush. With a few vigorous motions of her arms she swept it aside and revealed a smooth slab of rock. In the centre was what seemed to be a block of metal Masni placed her foot on this and pressed heavily.

And those watching saw a strange thing.

The slab of rock tilted to one side, as if on a pivot, revealing a square opening which seemed to lead through solid stone. And at the far end of the opening Tom Swift saw a glimmer of light.

Stooping down, he looked through the hole thus strangely opened and what he saw caused him to cry out in wonder.

"It's the tunnel!" he cried. "I can look right down into the tunnel. It's the incandescent lights I see. I can look right at the ledge of rock where I kept watch that day, and where I saw -- where I saw the face of Waddington!" he cried. "It wasn't a dream after all. This is a shaft connecting with the tunnel. We didn't discover it because this rock fits right in the opening in the roof. It must have been there all the while, and some blast brought it to light. Is this how the men got out, or were taken out of the tunnel, Masni?" Tom asked.

"This how," said the Indian woman. "See, here rope!"

She pawed aside a mound of earth, and disclosed a rope buried there, a rope knotted at intervals. This, let down through the hole in the roof of the tunnel, provided a means of escape, and in such a manner that the disappearance of the men was most mysterious.

"I see how it is!" cried Tom. "Some one interested, Waddington probably, who knew about this old secret shaft going down into the earth, used it as soon as our blasting was opened that far. They got the men out this way, and hid them in the secret valley."

"But what for?" cried Mr. Damon.

"To cripple us! To cause the strike by making our other workers afraid of some evil spirit! The men were taken away secretly, and, doubtless, have been kept in idleness ever since -- paid to stay away so the mystery would be all the deeper. Our rivals finding they couldn't stop us in any other way have taken our laborers away from us."

"Bless my meal ticket! It does look like that!" cried Mr. Damon.

"Of course that's the secret!" cried Tom. "Blakeson & Grinder, or some of their tools -- probably the bearded man or Waddington -- found out about this shaft which led down into our tunnel. They induced the first ten men to quit, and when Tim went to get the fuse the rope was let down, and the men climbed up here, one after the other. Those Indians can climb like cats. Once the ten were out the shaft was closed with the rock, and the ten men taken off to the valley to be secreted there.

"The same was done with the next fifteen, and, I suppose, if the strike hadn't come, more of our workers would have been induced to leave in this way. They're probably being better paid than when earning their wages; and their relatives must know where they are, and also be given a bonus to keep still. No wonder they didn't make a fuss.

"And no wonder we couldn't find any opening in the tunnel roof. This rock must fit in as smoothly as a secret drawer in the kind of old desk where missing wills are found in stories."

"You say you saw Waddington, or the bearded man?" asked Mr. Damon.

"At the time," replied Tom, "I thought it was a dream. Now I know it wasn't. He must have opened the shaft just as I awakened from a doze. He saw me and closed it again. He may have been getting ready then to take off more of our men, so as to scare the others. Well, we've found out the trick."

"And what are you going to do next?" asked Mr. Damon.

"Get those missing men back. That will break the hoodoo, and the others will come back to work. Then we'll get on the trail of Waddington, or Blakeson & Grinder, and put a stop to this business. We know their secret now."

"You mean to get the men out of the secret valley, Tom?"

"Yes. There must be some other way into it than down the rock where we were. How about it, Masni?" and he inquired as to the valley. The Indian woman gave Tom to understand that there was another entrance.

"Well, close up this shaft now before some one sees us at it -- the bearded man, for example," Tom suggested. He took another look down into the tunnel, which was now deserted on account of the strike, and then Masni pressed on the mechanism that worked the stone. She showed Tom how to do it.

"Just a counter-balanced rock operating on the same principle as does a window," Tom explained, after a brief examination. "Probably some of the old Indian tribes made this shaft for ceremonial purposes. They never dreamed we would drive a tunnel along at the bottom of it. The shaft probably opened into a cave, and one of our blasts made it part of the tunnel. Well, this is part of the secret, anyhow. Much obliged to you, Masni!"

The Indian woman had indeed revealed valuable information. They covered the secret rock with brush, as it had been, hid the rope and came away. But Tom knew how to find the place again.

Events moved rapidly from then on. The Titus brothers were more than astonished when Tom told them what he had learned. Masni had told him how to get into the secret valley by a round about, but easy trail, and thither Tom, the contractors, Mr. Damon and some of the white tunnel workers went the next day.

The sequestered men, taken completely by surprise, tried to bolt when they saw that they were discovered, and then, shamefacedly enough, admitted their part in the trick.

They would not, however, reveal who had helped them escape from the tunnel. Threats and promises of rewards were alike unavailing, but Tom and his employers knew well enough who it was. The tunnel workers seemed rather tired of living in comparative luxury and idleness, and agreed to come back to their labors.

They packed up their few belongings, mostly cooking pots and pans, and marched out of the valley to the village at Rimac.

And so the strike was broken.

The reappearance of the missing men, in better health and spirits than when they went away, acted like magic. The other men, who had missed their wages, crowded back into the shaft, and the sounds of picks and shovels were heard again in the tunnel.

Whether the missing ones told the real story, or whether they made up some tale to account for their absence, Tom and his friends could not learn. Nor did the bearded man (if he it were who had helped in the plot), nor any representative of Blakeson & Grinder appear. The work on the tunnel was resumed as if nothing had happened. But Tom arranged a bright light so it would reflect on the spot in the roof where the moving rock was, so that if the evil face of the bearded man, or of Waddington, appeared there again, it would quickly be seen. A search of the neighborhood, and diligent inquiries, failed to disclose the presence of any of the plotters.

And then, as if Fate was not making it hard enough for the tunnel contractors, they encountered more trouble. It was after Tom had set off a big blast that Tim Sullivan, after inspecting what had happened, came out to ask.

"I soy, Mr. Swift, why didn't yez use more powder?"

"More powder!" cried Tom. "Why, this is the most I have ever set off."

"Then somethin's wrong, sor. Fer there's only a little rock down. Come an' see fer yersilf."

Tom hastened in. As the foreman had said, the effect of the blast was small indeed. Only a little rock had been shaled off. Tom picked up some of this and took it outside for examination.

"Why, it's harder than the hardest flint we've found yet," he said. "The powder didn't make any impression on it at all. I'll have to use terrific charges."

This was done, but with little better effect. The explosive, powerful as it was, ate only a little way into the rock. Blast after blast had the same poor effect.

"This won't do," said Job Titus, despairingly, one day. "We aren't making any progress at all. There's a half mile of this rock, according to my calculations, and at this rate we'll be six months getting through it. By that time our limit will be up, and we'll be forced to give up the contract What can we do, Tom Swift?"



Chapter XXI

A New Explosive


The young inventor was idly handling some pieces of the very hard rock that had cropped out in the tunnel cut. Tom had tested it, he had pulverized it (as well as he was able), he had examined it under the microscope, and he had taken great slabs of it and set off under it, or on top of it, charges of explosive of various power to note the effect. But the results had not been at all what he had hoped for.

"What's to be done, Tom?" repeated the contractor.

"Well, Mr. Titus," was the answer, "the only thing I see to do is to make a new explosive."

"Can you do it, Tom?"

The reply was characteristic.

"I can try."

And in the days that followed, Tom began work on a new line. He had brought from Shopton with him much of the needful apparatus, and he found he could obtain in Lima what he lacked.

A message to his father brought the reply that the new ingredients Tom needed would be shipped.

"The kind of explosive we need to rend that very hard rock," the young inventor explained to the Titus brothers, "is one that works slowly."

"I thought all explosions had to be as quick as a flash," said Walter.

"Well, in a sense, they do. Yet we have quick burning and slow-burning powders, the same as we have fuses. A quick-burning explosive is all right in soft rock, or in soil with rock and earth mingled. But in rock that is harder than flint if you use a quick explosive, only the outer surface of the rock will be scaled off.

"If you take a hammer and bring it down with all your force on a hard rock you may chip off a lot of little pieces, or you may crack the rock, but you won't, under ordinary circumstances, pulverize it as we want to do in the tunnel.

"On the other hand, if you take a smaller hammer, and keep tapping the rock with comparatively gentle blows, you will set up a series of vibrations, that, in time, will cause the hard rock to break up into any number of small pieces.

"Now that is the kind of explosive I want -- one that will deal a succession of constant blows at the hard rock instead of one great big blast."

"Can you make it, Tom?"

"Well, I don't know. I'll do the best I can."

From then on Tom was busy with his experiments.

Work on the tunnel did not cease while he was searching for a new explosive. There was plenty of the old explosive left and charges of this were set off as fast as holes could be drilled to receive it. But comparatively little was accomplished. Sometimes more rock would be loosed than at others, and the native laborers, now seemingly perfectly contented, would be kept busy. Again, when a heavy blast would be set off hardly a dozen dump cars could be filled.

But the work must go on. Already the time limit was getting perilously close, and the contractors did not doubt that their rivals were only waiting for a chance to step in and take their places.

Nothing more had been seen or heard of the bearded man, Waddington, or Blakeson & Grinder. But that the rival firm had not given up was evidenced by the efforts made in New York to cripple, financially, the firm in which Tom was interested. In fact, at one time the Titus brothers were so tied up that they could not get money enough to pay their men. But Tom cabled his father, who was quite wealthy, and Mr. Swift loaned the contractors enough to proceed with until they could dispose of some securities.

It might be mentioned that Tom was to get a large sum if the tunnel were completed on time, so it was to his interest and his father's, to bring this about if he could.

Tom kept on with his powder experiments. Mr. Damon helped him, for that gentleman had succeeded in putting the affairs of the wholesale drug business on a firm foundation, and there was no more trouble about getting the supplies of cinchona bark to market. The natives seemed to have taken kindly to the eccentric man, or perhaps it was the reputation of Tom Swift and his electric rifle that induced them to work hard.

It must not be supposed that Professor Bumper was idle all this while.

He came and went at odd times, accompanied by his little retinue of Indians, a guide and a native cook. He would come back to the tunnel camp, where he made his headquarters, travel stained, worn and weary, with disappointment showing on his face.

"No luck," he would report. "The hidden city of Pelone is still lost."

Then he would retire to his tent, to pour over his note-books, and make a new translation of the inscription on the golden plates. In a day or so, refreshed and rested, he would prepare for another start.

"I'll find it this time, surely!" he would exclaim, as he marched off up the mountain trail. "I have heard of a new valley, never before visited by a white man, in which there are some old ruins. I'm sure they must be those of Pelone."

But in a week or so he would come back, worn out and discouraged again.

"The ruins were only those of a native village," he would say. "No trace of an ancient civilization there."

The professor took little or no interest in the tunnel, though he expressed the hope that Tom and his friends would be successful. But industrial pursuits had no charm for the scientist. He only lived to find the hidden city which was to make him famous.

He heard the story of the queer shaft leading down into the bore under the mountain, and, for a time, hoped that might be some clue to the lost Pelone. But, after an examination, he decided it was but the shaft to some ancient mine which had not panned out, and so had been abandoned after having been fitted with a balanced rocky door, perhaps for some heathen religious rite.

There seemed to be no further trouble among the Indian tunnel workers. Those who had disappeared -- who had, seemingly, gone willingly up the knotted rope to hide themselves in the valley -- kept on with their work. If they told their fellows why and where they had gone, the others gave no sign. The evil spirits of the tunnel had been exorcised, and there was now peace, save for the blasts that were set off every so often.

Tom tried combination after combination, testing them inside and outside the tunnel, always seeking for an explosive that would give a slow, rending effect instead of a quick blow, the power of which was soon lost. And at last he announced:

"I think I have it!"

"Have you? Good!" cried Job Titus.

"Yes," Tom went on, "I've got a mixture here that seems to give just the effect I want. I tried it on some small pieces of rock, and now I want to test it on some large chunks. Have you brought any down lately?"

"Yes, we have some big slabs in there."

Some large pieces of the hard rock, which had been brought down in a recent blast, were taken outside the tunnel, and in them one afternoon Tom placed, in holes drilled to receive it, some of his new explosive. The rocks were set some distance away from the tunnel camp, and Tom attached the electric wires that were to detonate the charge.

"Well, I guess we're ready," announced the young inventor, as he looked about him.

The tunnel workers had been allowed to go for the day, and in a log shack, where they would be safe from flying pieces of rock, were Tom, Mr. Damon and the two Titus brothers.

Tom held the electric switch in his hand, and was about to press it.

"This explosive works differently from any other," he explained. "When the charge is fired there is not instantly a detonation and a bursting. The powder burns slowly and generates an immense amount of gas. It is this gas, accumulating in the cracks and crevices of the rock, that I hope will burst and disintegrate it. Of course, an explosion eventually follows, as you will see. Here she goes!"

Tom pressed the switch and, as he did so, there was a cry of alarm from Mr. Damon.

"Bless my safety match, Tom!" cried the old man. "Look! Koku!"

For, as the charge was fired, the giant emerged from the woods and calmly took a seat on the rock that was about to be broken up into fragments by Tom's new explosive.



Chapter XXII

The Fight


"Get off there, Koku!"

"Stand up!"

"Run!"

"Get out of the way! That's going up!"

Thus cried Tom and his friends to the big, good-natured, but somewhat stupid, giant who had sat down in the dangerous spot. Koku looked toward the hut, in front of which the young inventor and the others stood, waving their hands to him and shouting.

"Get up! Get up!" cried Tom, frantically. The powder is going off, Koku!"

"Can't you stop it?" asked Job Titus.

"No!" answered Tom. "The electric current has already ignited the charge. Only that it's slow-burning it would have been fired long ago. Get up, Koku!"

But the giant did not seem to understand. He waved his hand in friendly greeting to Tom and the others, who dared not approach closer to warn him, for the explosion would occur any second now.

Then Mr. Damon had an inspiration.

"Call him to come to you, Tom!" shouted the odd man. "He always comes to you in a hurry, you know. Call him!"

Tom acted on the suggestion at once.

"Here, Koku!" he cried. "Come here, I want you! Kelos!"

This last was a word in the giant's own language, meaning "hurry." And Koku knew when Tom used that word that there was need of haste. So, though he had sat down, evidently to take his ease after a long tramp through the woods, Koku sprang up to obey his master's bidding.

And, as he did so, something happened. The first spark from the fuse, ignited by the electric current, had reached the slow-burning powder. There was a crackle of flame, and a dull rumble. Koku sprang up from the big stone as though shot. What he saw and heard must have alarmed him, for he gave a mighty jump and started to run, at the same time shouting:

"Me come, Master!"

"You'd better!" cried the young inventor.

Koku got away only just in time, for when he was half way between the group of his friends and the big rock, the utmost force of the explosion was felt. It was not so very loud, but the power of it made the earth tremble.

The rock seemed to heave itself into the air, and when it settled back it was seen to be broken up into many pieces. Koku looked back over his shoulder and gave another tremendous leap, which carried him out of the way of the flying fragments, some of which rattled on the roof of the log hut.

"There!" cried Tom. "I guess something happened that time! The rock is broken up finer than any like it we tried to shatter before. I think I've got the mixture just right!"

"Bless my handkerchief!" cried Mr. Damon. "Think of what might have happened to Koku if he had been sitting there."

"Well," said Tom, "he might not have been killed, for he would probably have been tossed well out of the way at the first slow explosion, but afterward -- well, he might have been pretty well shaken up. He got away just in time."

The giant looked thoughtfully back toward the place of the experimental blast.

"Master, him do that?" he asked.

"I did," Tom replied. "But I didn't think you'd walk out of the woods, just at the wrong time, and sit down on that rock."

"Um," murmured the giant. "Koku -- he -- he -- Oh, by golly!" he yelled. And then, as if realizing what he had escaped, and being incapable of expressing it, the giant with a yell ran into the tunnel and stayed there for some time.

The experiment was pronounced a great success and, now that Tom had discovered the right kind of explosive to rend the very hard rock, he proceeded to have it made in sufficiently large quantities to be used in the tunnel.

"We'll have to hustle," said Job Titus. "We haven't much of our contract time left, and I have reason to believe the Peruvian government will not give any extension. It is to their interest to have us fail, for they will profit by all the work we have done, even if they have to pay our rivals a higher price than we contracted for. It is our firm that will pocket the loss."

"Well, we'll try not to have that happen," said Tom, with a smile.

"If you're going to use bigger charges of this new explosive, Tom, won't more rock be brought down?" asked Walter Titus.

"That's what I hope."

"Then we'll need more laborers to bring it out of the tunnel."

"Yes, we could use more I guess. The faster the blasted rock is removed, the quicker I can put in new charges."

"I'll get more men," decided the contractor. "There won't be any trouble now that the hoodoo of the missing workers is solved. I'll tell Serato to scare up all his dusky brethren he can find, and we'll offer a bonus for good work."

The Indian foreman readily agreed to get more laborers.

"And get some big ones, Serato," urged Job Titus. "Get some fellows like Koku," for the giant did the work of three men in the tunnel, not because he was obliged to, but because his enormous strength must find an outlet in action.

"Um want mans like him?" asked the Indian, nodding toward the giant. He and Koku were not on good terms, for once, when Koku was a hurry, he had picked up the Indian (no mean sized man himself) and had calmly set him to one side. Serato never forgave that.

"Sure, get all the giants you can," Tom said. "But I guess there aren't any in Peru."

Where Serato found his man, no one knew, and the foreman would not tell; but a day or so later he appeared at the tunnel camp with an Indian so large in size that he made the others look like pygmies, and many of them were above the average in height, too.

"Say, he's a whopper all right!" exclaimed Tom. "But he isn't as big or as strong as Koku."

"He comes pretty near it," said Job Titus. "With a dozen like him we'd finish the tunnel on time, thanks to your explosive."

Lamos, the Indian giant, was not quite as large as Koku. That is, he was not as tall, but he was broader of shoulder. And as to the strength of the two, well, it was destined to be tried out in a startling fashion.

In about a week Tom was ready with his first charges of the new explosive. The extra Indians were on hand, including Lamos, and great hopes of fast progress were held by the contractors.

The charge was fired and a great mass of broken rock brought down inside the tunnel.

"That's tearing it up!" cried Job Titus, when the fumes had blown away, the secret shaft having been opened to facilitate this. "A few more shots like that and we'll be through the strata of hard rock."

The Indians, Koku and Lamos doing their share of the work, were rushed in to clear away the debris, so another charge might be fired as soon as possible. This would be in a day or so. The contract time was getting uncomfortably close.

Blast after blast was set off, and good progress was made. But instead of half a mile of the extra hard rock the contractors found it would be nearer three quarters.

"It's going to be touch and go, whether or not we finish on time," said Mr. Job Titus one afternoon, when a clearance had been made and the men had filed out to give the drillers a chance to make holes for a new blast.

Tom was about to make a remark when Tim Sullivan came running out of the tunnel, his face showing fright and wonder.

"What's up now, I wonder," said Mr. Titus. "More men missing?"

"Quick! Come quick!" cried the Irishman. "Thim two giants is fightin' in there, an' they'll tear th' tunnel apart if we don't stop 'em. It's an awful fight! Awful!"



Chapter XXIII

A Great Blast


Hardly comprehending what the Irish foreman had said, Tom Swift, the Titus brothers and Mr. Damon followed Tim Sullivan back into the tunnel. They had not gone far before they heard the murmur of many voices, and mingled with that were roarings like those of wild beasts.

"That's thim!" cried Tim. "They're chawin' each other up!"

"Koku and that Indian giant fighting!" cried Tom. "What's it all about?"

"Don't ask me!" shouted Tim. "They've been on bad terms iver since they met." This was true enough, for one giant was jealous of the other's power, and they were continually trying feats of strength against one another. Probably this had culminated in a fight, Tom concluded.

"And it will be some fight!" mused the young inventor.

Hurrying on, Tom and his companions came upon a strange and not altogether pleasant sight. In an open place in the tunnel, where the lights were brightest, and in front of the rocky wall which offered a bar to further progress and which was soon to be blasted away, struggled the two giants.

With their arms locked about one another, they swayed this way and that -- a struggle between two Titans. Of nearly the same height and bigness, it was a wrestling match such as had never been seen before. Had it been merely a friendly test of strength it would have been good to look upon. But it needed only a glance into the faces of either giant to show that it was a struggle in deadly earnest.

Back and forth they reeled over the rocky floor of the tunnel, bones and sinews cracking. One sought to throw the other, and first, as Koku would gain a slight advantage, his friends would call encouragement, while, when Lamos seemed about to triumph, the Indians favoring him would let out a yell of triumph.

For a few minutes Tom and his friends watched, fascinated. Then they saw Koku slip, while Lamos bent him farther toward the earth. The Indian giant raised his big fist, and Tom saw in it a rock, which the big man was about to bring down on Koku's head.

"Look out, Koku!" yelled Tom.

Tom's giant slid to one side only just in time, for the blow descended, catching him on his muscular shoulder where it only raised a bruise. And then Koku gathered himself for a mighty effort. His face flamed with rage at the unfair trick.

"Bless my bath sponge!" cried Mr. Damon. "This is awful!"

"They must stop!" said Job Titus. "We can't have them fighting like this. It is bad for the others. If it were in fun it would be all right, but they are in deadly earnest. They must stop!"

"Koku, stop!" called Tom. "You must not fight any more!"

"No fight more!" gasped the giant, through his clenched teeth. "This end fight!"

With a mighty effort he broke the hold of Lamos' arms. Then stooping suddenly he seized his rival about the middle, and with a tremendous heave, in which his muscles stood out in great bunches while his very bones seemed to crack, Koku raised Lamos high in the air. Up over his head he raised that mass of muscle, bone and flesh, squirming and wriggling, trying in vain to save itself.

Up and up Koku raised Lamos as the murmur of those watching grew to a shout of amazement and terror. Never had the like been seen in that land for generations. Up and up one giant raised the other. Then calling out something in his native tongue Koku hurled the other from him, clear across the tunnel and up against the opposite rocky wall. The murmuring died to frightened whispers as Lamos fell in a shapeless heap on the floor.

"Ah!" breathed Koku, stretching himself, and extending his brawny arms. "Fight all over, Master."

"Yes, so it seems, Koku," said Tom, solemnly, "but you have killed him. Shame on you!" and he spoke bitterly.

Job Titus had hurried over to the fallen giant.

"He isn't dead," he called, "but I guess he won't wrestle or fight any more. He's badly crippled."

"And him no more try to blow up tunnel, either," said Koku in his hoarse voice. "Me fix: him! No more him take powder, and make tunnel all bust."

"What do you mean, Koku?" asked Tom. "Is that why you fought him? Did he try to wreck the tunnel?"

"So him done, Master. But Koku see -- Koku stop. Then um fight."

"Be jabbers an' I wouldn't wonder but what he was right!" cried Tim Sullivan, excitedly. "I did see that beggar." and he pointed to Lamos, who was slowly crawling away, "at the chist where I kape th' powder, but I thought nothin' of it at th' time. What did he try t' do, Koku?"

Then the giant explained in his own language, Tom Swift translating, for Koku spoke English but indifferently well.

"Koku says," rendered Tom, "that he saw Lamos trying to put a big charge of powder up in the place where the balanced rock fits in the secret opening of the tunnel roof. The charge was all ready to fire, and if the giant had set it off he might have brought down the roof of the tunnel and so choked it up that we'd have been months cleaning it out. Koku saw him and stopped him, and then the fight began. We only saw the end."

"Bless my shoe string!" gasped Mr. Damon. "And a terrible end it was. Will Lamos die?"

"I don't think so," answered Job Titus. "But he will be a cripple for life. Not only would he have wrecked the tunnel, but he would have killed many of our men had he set off that blast. Koku saved them, though it seems too bad he had to fight to do it."

An investigation showed that Koku spoke truly. The charge, all ready to set off, was found where he had knocked it from the hand of Lamos. And so Tom's giant saved the day. Lamos was sent back to his own village, a broken and humbled giant. And to this day, in that part of Peru, the great struggle between Koku and Lamos is spoken of with awe where Indians gather about their council fires, and they tell their children of the Titanic fight.

"It was part of the plot," said Job Titus when the usual blast had been set off that day, with not very good results. "This giant was sent to us by our rivals. They wanted him to hamper our work, for they see we have a chance to finish on time. I think that foreman, Serato, is in the plot. He brought Lamos here. We'll fire him!"

This was done, though the Indian protested his innocence. But he could not be trusted.

"We can't take any chances," said Job Titus. "Our time is too nearly up. In fact I'm afraid we won't finish on time as it is. There is too much of that hard rock to cut through."

"There's only one thing to do," said Tom, after an investigation. "As you say, there is more of that hard rock than we calculated on. To try to blast and take it out in the ordinary way will be useless. We must try desperate means."

"What is that?" asked Walter Titus.

"We must set off the biggest blast we can with safety. We'll bore a lot of extra holes, and put in double charges of the explosive. I'll add some ingredients to it that will make it stronger. It's our last chance. Either we'll blow the tunnel all to pieces, or we'll loosen enough rock to make sufficient progress so we can finish on time. What do you say? Shall we take the chance?"

The Titus brothers looked at one another. Failure stared them in the face. Unless they completed the tunnel very soon they would lose all the money they had sunk in it.

"Take the chance!" exclaimed Job. "It's sink or swim anyhow. Set off the big blast, Tom."

"All right. We'll get ready for it as soon as we can."

That day preparations were made for setting off a great charge of the powerful explosive. The work was hurried as fast as was consistent with safety, but even then progress was rather slow. Precautions had to be taken, and the guards about the tunnel were doubled. For it was feared that some word of what was about to be done would reach the rival firm, who might try desperate means to prevent the completion of the work.

There was plenty of the explosive on hand, for Mr. Swift had sent Tom a large shipment. All this while no word had come from Mr. Nestor, and Tom was beginning to think that his prospective father-in-law was very angry with him. Nor had Mary written.

Professor Bumper came and went as he pleased, but his quest was regarded as hopeless now. Tom and his friends had little time for the bald-headed scientist, for they were too much interested in the success of the big blast.

"Well, we'll set her off to-morrow," Tom said one night, after a hard day's work. "The rocky wall is honeycombed with explosive. If all goes well we ought to bring down enough rock to keep the gangs busy night and day."

Everything was in readiness. What would the morrow bring -- success or failure?



Chapter XXIV

The Hidden City


Gathered beyond the mouth of the tunnel, far enough away so that the wind of the great blast would not bowl them over like ten pins, stood Tom Swift and his friends. In his hand Tom held the battery box, the setting of the switch in which would complete the electrical circuit and set off the hundreds of pounds of explosive buried deep in the hard rock.

"Are all the men out?" asked the young inventor of Tim Sullivan, who had charge of this important matter. Tim was in sole charge as foreman now, having picked up enough of the Indian language to get along without an interpreter.

"All out, sor," Tim responded. "Yez kin fire whin ready, Mr. Swift."

It was a portentous moment. No wonder Tom Swift hesitated. In a sense he and his friends, the contractors, had staked their all on a single throw. If this blast failed it was not likely that another would succeed, even if there should be time to prepare one.

The time limit had almost expired, and there was still a half mile of hard rock between the last heading and the farther end of the big tunnel. If the blast succeeded enough rock might be brought down to enable the work to go on, by using a night and day shift of men. Then, too, there was the chance that the hard strata of rock would come to an end and softer stone, or easily-dug dirt, be encountered.

"Well, we may as well have it over with," said Tom in a low voice. Every one was very quiet -- tensely quiet.

The young inventor looked up to see Professor Bumper observing him.

"Why, Professor!" Tom exclaimed, "I thought you had gone off to the mountains again, looking for the lost city."

"I am going, Tom, very soon. I thought I would stop and see the effect of your big blast. This is my last trip. If I do not find the hidden city of Pelone this time, I am going to give up."

"Give up!" cried Mr. Damon. "Bless my fountain pen!"

"Oh, not altogether," went on the bald-headed scientist. "I mean I will give up searching in this part of Peru, and go elsewhere. But I will never completely give up the search, for I am sure the hidden city exists somewhere under these mountains," and he looked off toward the snow-covered peaks of the Andes.

Tom looked at the battery box. He drew a long breath, and said:

"Here she goes!"

There was a contraction of his hand as he pressed the switch over, and then, for perhaps a half second, nothing happened. Just for an instant Tom feared something had gone wrong that the electric current had failed, or that the wires had become disconnected -- perhaps through some action of the plotting rivals.

And then, gently at first, but with increasing intensity, the solid ground on which they were all standing seemed to rock and sway, to heave itself up, and then sink down.

"Bless my -- " began Mr. Damon, but he got no further, for a mighty gust of wind swept out of the tunnel, and blew off his hat. That gust was but a gentle breeze, though, compared to what followed. For there came such a rush of air that it almost blew over those standing near the opening of the great shaft driven under the mountain. There was a roar as of Niagara, a howling as in the Cave of the Winds, and they all bent to the blast.

Then followed a dull, rumbling roar, not as loud as might have been expected, but awful in its intensity. Deep down under the very foundations of the earth it seemed to rumble.

"Run! Run back!" cried Tom Swift. "There's a back-draft and the powder gas is poisonous. Stoop down and run back!"

They understood what he meant. The vapor from the powder was deadly if breathed in a confined space. Even in the open it gave one a terrible headache. And Tom could see floating out of the tunnel the first wisps of smoke from the fired explosive. It was lighter than air, and would rise. Hence the necessity, as in a smoke-filled room, of keeping low down where the air is purer.

They all rushed back, stooping low. Mr. Damon stumbled and fell, but Koku picked him up and, tucking him under one arm, as he might have done a child, the giant followed Tom to a place of safety.

"Well, Tom, it went off all right," said Mr. Job Titus, as they stood among the shacks of the workmen and watched the smoke pouring out of the tunnel mouth.

"Yes, it went off. But did it do the work? That's what we've got to find out."

They waited impatiently for the deadly vapor to clear out of the tunnel. It was more than an hour before they dared venture in, and then it was with smarting eyes and puckered throats. But the atmosphere was quickly clearing.

"Switch on the lights," cried Tom to Tim, for the illuminating current had been cut off when the blast was fired. "Let's see what we've brought down."

Following the eager young inventor came the contractors, some of the white workers, Mr. Damon and Professor Bumper. The little scientist said he would like to see the effect of the big blast.

Along they stumbled over pieces of rock, large and small.

"Some force to it," observed Job Titus, as he observed pieces of rock close to the mouth of the tunnel. "If it only exerted the force the other way, against the face of the rock, as well as back this way, we'll be all right."

"The greater force was in the opposite direction," Tom said.

A big search-light had been got ready to flash on the place where the blast had been set off. This was to enable them to see how much rock had been torn away. And, as they reached the place where the flint-like wall had been, they saw a strange sight.

"Bless my strawberry short-cake!" gasped Mr. Damon. "What a hole!"

"It is a hole," admitted Tom, in a low voice. "A bigger hole than I dared hope for."

For a great cave, seemingly, had been blown in the face of the rock wall that had hindered the progress of the tunnel. A great black void confronted them.

"Shift the light over this way," called Tom to Walter Titus, who was operating it. "I can't see anything."

The great beam of light flashed into the void, and then a murmur of awe came from every throat.

For there, revealed in the powerful electrical rays, was what seemed to be a long tunnel, high and wide, as smooth as a paved street. And on either side of it were what appeared to be buildings, some low, others taller. And, branching off from the main tunnel, or street, were other passages, also lined with buildings, some of which had crumbled to ruins.

"Bless my dictionary!" cried Mr. Damon. "What is it?"

Professor Bumper had crawled forward over the mass of broken rock. He gazed as if fascinated at what the searchlight showed, and then he cried:

"I have found it! I have found it! The hidden city of Pelone!"



Chapter XXV

Success


Had it not been for Tom Swift, the excited professor would have rushed pellmell over the jagged pile of rocks into the great cave which had been opened by the blast, the cave in which the scientist declared was the lost city for which he had been searching. But the young inventor grasped Mr. Bumper by the arm.

"Better wait a bit," Tom suggested. "There may be powder gas in there. Some of it must have blown forward."

"I don't care!" excitedly cried the professor. "That is the hidden city! I'm sure of it! I have found it at last! I must go in and examine it!"

"There'll be plenty of time," said Tom. "It isn't going to run away. Wait until I make a test Tim, hand me one of those torches."

Some torches of a very inflammable wood were used to test for the presence of the deadly smoke-gas. Lighting one of these, Tom tossed it into the big excavation.

It fell to the stone floor -- to the stone street to be more exact -- and, flaring up brightly, further revealed the rows of houses as they stood, silent and uninhabited.

"It's all right," Tom announced. "There's no danger so long as the torch burns. You can go on, Professor."

And Professor Bumper rushed forward, scrambling over the pile of blasted rock, followed by Tom and the others. Some of the debris from the explosion had fallen into the cave, and was scattered for some distance along the main street of what had been Pelone. But beyond that the way was clear.

"Yes, it is Pelone," cried Professor Bumper. "See!"

He pointed to inscriptions in queer characters over the doorway of some of the houses, but he alone could read them.

"I have found Pelone!" he kept repeating over and over again.

And that is just what had happened. That last great blast Tom Swift had set off had broken down the rock wall that hid the lost city from view. There it was, buried deep down under the mountain, where it had been covered from sight ages ago by some mighty earthquake or landslide; perhaps both. And the earth and rocks had fallen over the main portion of the city of Pelone in such a way -- in such an arch formation -- that the greater part of it was preserved from the pressure of the mountain above it.

The outlying portions were crushed into dust by the awful pressure of the mountain -- millions of tons of stone -- but where the natural arch had formed the weight was kept off the buildings, most of which were as perfect as they had been before the cataclysm came.

The buildings were of stone block construction, mostly only one story in height, though some were two. They were simply made, somewhat after the fashion of the Aztecs. A look into some of them by the light of portable electric lamps showed that the houses were furnished with some degree of taste and luxury. There were traces of an ancient civilization.

But of the inhabitants, there was not a trace: either they had fled before the earthquake or the volcanic eruption had engulfed the city, or the countless centuries had turned their very bones to dust.

"Oh, what a find! What a find!" murmured Professor Bumper. "I shall be famous! And so will you, Tom Swift. For it was your blast that revealed the lost city of Pelone. Your name will be honored by every archeological society in the world, and all will be eager to make you an honorary member."

"That's all very nice," said Tom, "but what pleases me better is that this tunnel is a success."

"Success!" cried Mr. Damon. "I should call it a failure, Tom Swift. Why, you've run smack into an old city, and you'll have either to curve the tunnel to one side, or start a new one."

"Nothing of the sort!" laughed Tom. "Don't you see? The tunnel comes right up to the main street of Pelone. And the street is as straight as a die, and just the width and height of the tunnel. All we will have to do will be to keep on blasting away, where the main street comes to an end, and our tunnel will be finished. The street is over half a mile long, I should judge, and we'll save all that blasting. The tunnel will be finished in time!"

"So it will!" cried Job Titus. "We can use the main street of the hidden city as part of the tunnel."

"Use the street all you like," said Mr. Bumper, "but leave the houses to me. They are a perfect mine of ancient lore and information. At last I have found it! The ancient, hidden city of Pelone, spoken of on the Peruvian tablets, of gold."

The story of the discoveries the scientist made in Pelone is an enthralling one. But this is a story of Tom Swift and his big tunnel, and no place for telling of the archeological discoveries.

Suffice it to say that Professor Bumper, though he found no gold, for which the contractors hoped, made many curious finds in the ancient houses. He came upon traces of a strange civilization, though he could find no record of what had caused the burial of Pelone beneath the mountains. He wrote many books about his discovery, giving Tom Swift due credit for uncovering the place with the mighty blast. Other scientists came in flocks, and for a time Pelone was almost as busy a place as it had been originally.

Even when the tunnel was completed and trains ran through it, the scientists kept on with their work of classifying what they found. An underground station was built on the main street of the old city, and visitors often wandered through the ancient houses, wherein was the bone-dust of the dead and gone people.

But to go back to the story of Tom Swift. Tom's surmise was right. He and the contractors were able to use the main street of Pelone as part of their tunnel, and a good half mile of blasting through solid rock was saved. The flint came to an end at the extremity of Pelone, and the last part of the tunnel had only to be dug through sand-stone and soft dirt, an easy undertaking.

So the big bore was finished on time -- ahead of time in fact, and Titus Brothers received from Senor Belasdo, the Peruvian representative, a large bonus of money, in which Tom Swift shared.

"So our rivals didn't balk us after all," said Walter Titus, "though they tried mighty hard."

The big tunnel was finished -- at least Tom Swift's work on it. All that remained to do was to clear away the debris and lay the connecting rails. Tom and Mr. Damon prepared to go back home. The latter's work was done. As for Professor Bumper, nothing could take him from Pelone. He said he was going to live there, and, practically, he did.

Tom, Koku and Mr. Damon returned to Lima, thence to go to Callao to take the steamer for San Francisco. One day the manager of the hotel spoke to them.

"You are Americans, are you not?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Tom. "Why?"

"Because there is another American here. He is friendless and alone, and he is dying. He has no friends, he says. Perhaps -- "

"Of course we'll do what we can for him," said Tom, impulsively. "Where is he?"

With Mr. Damon he entered the room where the dying man lay. He had caught a fever, the hotel manager said, and could not recover. Tom, catching sight of the sufferer, cried:

"The bearded man! Waddington!"

He had recognized the mysterious person who had been on the Bellaconda, and the man whose face had stared at him through the secret shaft of the tunnel.

"Yes, the 'bearded man' now," said the sufferer in a hoarse voice, "and some one else too. You are right. I am Waddington!"

And so it proved. He had grown a beard to disguise himself so he might better follow Tom Swift and Mr. Titus. And he had followed them, seeking to prevent the completion of the tunnel. But he had not been successful.

Waddington it was who had thrown the bomb, though he declared he only hoped to disable Tom and Mr. Titus, and not to injure them. He was fighting for delay. And it was Waddington, working in conjunction with the rascally foreman Serato, who had induced the tunnel workers to desert so mysteriously, hoping to scare the other Indians away. He nearly succeeded too, had it not been for the gratitude of the woman whose baby Tom had saved from the condor.

Waddington had been an actor before he became involved with the rival contractors. He was smooth shaven when first he went to Shopton, to spy on Mr. Titus, whose movements he had been commanded to follow by Blakeson & Grinder. Then he disappeared after Mr. Titus chased him, only to reappear, in disguise, on board the Bellaconda, as Senor Pinto.

Waddington, meanwhile, had grown a beard and this, with his knowledge of theatrical makeup, enabled him to deceive even Mr. Titus. Of course it was comparatively easy to deceive Tom, who had not known him. Waddington had really been ill when he called for help on the ship, and he had not noticed that it was Tom and Mr. Titus who came into his stateroom to his aid. When he did recognize them, he relied on his disguise to screen him from recognition, and he was successful. He had only pretended to be ill, though, the time he slipped out and threw the bomb.

Reaching Peru he at once began his plotting. Serato told him about the secret shaft leading into the tunnel, and with the knotted rope, and with the aid of the faithless foreman, the men were got out of the tunnel and paid to hide away. Waddington was planning further disappearances when Tom saw him, but thought it a dream.

Masni, the Indian woman, out herb-hunting one day, had seen Waddington, 'the bearded man' as he then was -- working the secret stone. Hidden, she observed him and told her husband, who was afraid to reveal what he knew. But when Tom saved the baby the woman rewarded him in the only way possible. And it was Serato, who, at Waddington's suggestion, caused the "hit" among the men by working on their superstitious fears.

Waddington, knowing that he was dying, confessed everything, and begged forgiveness from Tom and his friends, which was granted, in as much as no real harm had been done. Waddington was but a tool in the hands of the rival contractors, who deserted him in his hour of need. His last hours, however, were made as comfortable as possible by the generosity of Tom and Mr. Damon.

No effort was made to bring Blakeson & Grinder to justice, as there was no evidence against them after Waddington died. And, as the tunnel was finished, the Titus brothers had no further cause for worry.

"But if it had not been for Tom's big blast, and the discovery of the hidden city of Pelone just in the right place, we might be digging at that tunnel yet," said Job Titus.

The day before the steamer was to sail, Tom Swift received a cable message. Its receipt seemed to fill him with delight, so that Mr. Damon asked:

"Is it from your father, Tom?"

"No it's from Mary Nestor. She says her father has forgiven me. They have been away, and Mary has been ill, which accounts for no letters up to now. But everything is all right now, and they feel that the dynamite trick wasn't my fault. But, all the same, I'm going to teach Eradicate to read," concluded Tom.

"I think it would be a good idea," agreed Mr. Damon.

Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku, bidding farewell to the friends they had made in Peru, went aboard the steamer, Job Titus and his brother coming to see them off.

"Give us an option on all that explosive you make, Tom Swift!" begged Walter Titus. "We were so successful with this tunnel, thanks to you, that the government is going to have us dig another. Will you come down and help?"

"Maybe," said Tom, with a smile. "But I'm going home first," and once more he read the message from Mary Nestor.

And as Tom, on the deck of the steamer, waved his hands to Professor Bumper and his other friends whom he was leaving in Peru, we also, will say farewell.

<eob>

Andy Grant's Pluck

By

Horatio Alger, Jr.



Chapter I.

The Telegram.


"A telegram for you, Andy!" said Arthur Bacon, as he entered the room of Andy Grant in Penhurst Academy.

"A telegram!" repeated Andy, in vague alarm, for the word suggested something urgent -- probably bad news of some kind.

He tore open the envelope and read the few words of the message:

"Come home at once. Something has happened.

"Mother."

"What can it be?" thought Andy, perplexed. "At any rate, mother is well, for she sent the telegram."

"What is it?" asked Arthur.

"I don't know. You can read the telegram for yourself."

"Must you go home?" asked Arthur, in a tone of regret.

"Yes. When is there a train?"

"At three this afternoon."

"I will take it. I must go and see Dr. Crabb."

"But won't you come back again?"

"I don't know. I am all in the dark. I think something must have happened to my father."

Dr. Crabb was at his desk in his library -- it was Saturday afternoon, and school was not in session -- when Andy knocked at the door.

"Come in!" said the doctor, in a deep voice.

Andy opened the door and entered. Dr. Crabb smiled, for Andy was his favorite pupil.

"Come in, Grant!" he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Give me permission to go home. I have just had a telegram. I will show it to you."

The doctor was a man of fifty-five, with a high forehead and an intellectual face. He wore glasses, and had done so for ten years. They gave him the appearance of a learned scholar, as he was.

"Dear me!" he said. "How unfortunate! Only two weeks to the end of the term, and you are our primus!"

"I am very sorry, sir; but perhaps I may be able to come back."

"Do so, by all means, if you can. There is hardly a pupil I could not better spare."

"Thank you, sir," said Andy gratefully. "There is a train at three o'clock. I would like to take it."

"By all means. And let me hear from you, even if you can't come back."

"I will certainly write, doctor. Thank you for all your kindness."

Penhurst Academy was an endowed school. On account of the endowments, the annual rate to boarding scholars was very reasonable -- only three hundred dollars, including everything.

The academy had a fine reputation, which it owed in large part to the high character and gifts of Dr. Crabb, who had been the principal for twenty-five years. He had connected himself with the school soon after he left Dartmouth, and had been identified with it for the greater part of his active life.

Andy had been a pupil for over two years, and was an excellent Latin and Greek scholar. In a few months he would be ready for college.

Dr. Crabb was anxious to have him go to Dartmouth, his own alma mater, being convinced that he would do him credit and make a brilliant record for scholarship. Indeed, it was settled that he would go, his parents being ready to be guided by the doctor's advice.

From Penhurst to Arden, where Andy's parents lived, was fifty miles. Starting at three o'clock, the train reached Arden station at five.

As Andy stepped on the platform he saw Roland Hunter, the son of a neighbor.

"How are you, Andy?" said Roland, with a cheerful greeting. "How do you happen to be coming home? Is it vacation?"

"No; I was summoned home by a telegram. Is -- are they all well at home?"

"Yes, so far as I know."

Andy breathed a sigh of relief.

"I am glad of that," he said. "I was afraid some one in the family might be sick."

"I don't think so. I would have heard, living so near."

"Father is well, then?"

"Come to think of it, I heard he had a bad headache."

"At any rate, it isn't anything serious. Are you going home? If you are, I'll walk along with you."

"We can do better than that; I've got uncle's buggy on the other side of the depot. I'll take you, bag and baggage."

"Thank you, Roland. My bag is rather heavy, and as it is a mile to the house, I shall be glad to accept your offer."

"Bundle in, then," said Roland, merrily. "I don't know but I ought to charge you a quarter. That's the regular fare by stage."

"All right! charge it if you like," rejoined Andy, smiling. "Are your folks all well?"

"Oh, yes, especially Lily. You and she are great friends, I believe."

"Oh, yes," answered Andy, with a smile.

"She thinks a good deal more of you than she does of me."

"Girls don't generally appreciate their brothers, I believe. If I had a sister, I presume she would like you better than me."

Roland dropped Andy at his father's gate.

It may be said here that Mr. Grant owned a farm of fifty acres, that yielded him a comfortable living when supplemented by the interest on three thousand dollars invested in government bonds. On the farm was a house of moderate size which had always been a pleasant home to Andy and his little brother Robert, generally called Robbie.

Andy opened the gate and walked up to the front door, valise in hand.

The house and everything about it seemed just as it did when he left at the beginning of the school term. But Andy looked at them with different eyes.

Then he had been in good spirits, eager to return to his school work. Now something had happened, he did not yet know what.

Mrs. Grant was in the back part of the house, and Andy was in the sitting room before she was fully aware of his presence. Then she came in from the kitchen, where she was preparing supper.

Her face seemed careworn, but there was a smile upon it as she greeted her son.

"Then you got my telegram?" she said. "I didn't think you would be here so soon."

"I started at once, mother, for I felt anxious. What has happened? Are you all well?"

"Yes, thank God, we are in fair health, but we have met with misfortune."

"What is it?"

"Nathan Lawrence, cashier of the bank in Benton, has disappeared with twenty thousand dollars of the bank's money."

"What has that to do with father? He hasn't much money in that bank."

"Your father is on Mr. Lawrence's bond to the amount of six thousand dollars."

"I see," answered Andy, gravely, "How much will he lose?"

"The whole of it."

This, then, was what had happened. To a man in moderate circumstances, it must needs be a heavy blow.

"I suppose it will make a great difference?" said Andy, inquiringly.

"You can judge. Your father's property consists of this farm and three thousand dollars in government bonds. It will be necessary to sacrifice the bonds and place a mortgage of three thousand dollars on the farm."

"How much is the farm worth?"

"Not over six thousand dollars."

"Then father's property is nearly all swept away."

"Yes," said his mother, sadly. "Hereafter he will receive no help from outside interest, and will, besides, have to pay interest on a mortgage of three thousand dollars, at six per cent."

"One hundred and eighty dollars."

"Yes."

"Altogether, then, it will diminish our income by rather more than three hundred dollars."

"Yes, Andy."

"That is about what my education has been costing father," said Andy, in a low voice.

He began to see how this misfortune was going to affect him.

"I am afraid," faltered Mrs. Grant, "that you will have to leave school."

"Of course I must," said Andy, speaking with a cheerfulness which he did not feel. "And in place of going to college I must see how I can help father bear this burden."

"It will be very hard upon you, Andy," said his mother, in a tone of sympathy.

"I shall be sorry, of course, mother; but there are plenty of boys who don't go to college. I shall be no worse off than they."

"I am glad you bear the disappointment so well, Andy. It is of you your father and I have thought chiefly since the blow fell upon us."

"Who will advance father the money on mortgage, mother?"

"Squire Carter has expressed a willingness to do so. He will be here this evening to talk it over."

"I am sorry for that, mother. He is a hard man. If there is a chance to take advantage of father, he won't hesitate to do it."



Chapter II.

Squire Carter.


When Mr. Grant entered the room, he seemed to Andy to have grown five years older. His face was sad, and he had lost the brisk, cheerful manner which was habitual to him.

"Has your mother told you?" he asked.

"Yes, father." Then he added with indignation: "What a wicked man Mr. Lawrence must be!"

"I suppose he was tempted," said Mr. Grant, slowly. "Here is a note I received from him this morning."

Andy took the envelope from his father's hand, and, opening it, read the following lines:

"OLD FRIEND: Perhaps by the time you receive this letter you will have heard of the wrong I have done you and yours, and the loss I have brought upon you. It is to me a source of the greatest sorrow, for I fear you will never recover from it. I am just ready to go away. I cannot stay here to receive punishment, for it would tie my hands, and prevent my making reparation, as I hope some day to do. Why did I go wrong? I can't explain, except that it was infatuation. In a moment of madness I took some of the funds of the bank and risked them in Wall Street. I lost and went in deeper, hoping to be more fortunate and replace the stolen money. That is the way such things usually happen.

"I can say no more, except that it will be my earnest effort to give you back the money you will lose by me. It may take years, but I hope we both shall live long enough for me to do it.

"Nathan Lawrence."

Andy read this letter in silence and gave it back to his father.

"Do you believe he is sincere?" he asked.

"Yes; he has many good points, and I believe he really feels attached to me."

"He has taken a strange way to show it."

"He was weak, and yielded to temptation. There are many like him."

"Do you believe he will ever be able to make up the loss?"

"I don't know. He is a man of fine business talent, and may be able in time to do something, but his defalcation amounts to twenty thousand dollars."

"We must try to make the best of it, father. You have been spending three hundred dollars a year for me, besides the expense of my clothes. If that is saved, it will make up your loss of income."

"But, my dear boy, I don't like to sacrifice your prospects."

"It won't be sacrificing them," said Andy, with forced cheerfulness. "It will only change them. Of course, I must give up the thought of a college education, but I may make a success in business."

"It will be very hard upon you," said Mr. Grant, sadly.

"No, father. I won't deny that I shall be sorry just at first, but it may turn out better for me in the end."

"You are a good boy, to take it so well, Andy. I had no right to risk so much, even for a friend like Lawrence."

"You have known Mr. Lawrence for many years, have you not, father?"

"Yes; we were schoolboys together. I thought him the soul of honor. But I ought not to have risked three-quarters of my estate, even for him."

"You can't be blamed, father. You had full confidence in him."

"Yes, I had full confidence in him," sighed Mr. Grant.

"And he may yet be able to make up the loss to you."

Though Andy said this, he only said it to mitigate his father's regret, for he had very little confidence in the missing cashier or his promises. He was repaid by seeing his father brighten up.

"You have cheered me, Andy," he said. "I don't care so much for myself, but I have been thinking of you and your mother."

"And we have been thinking of you, father," said Mrs. Grant. "It might be worse."

"I don't see very well how that could be."

"We are in good health, thank God! and your reputation is unblemished. Compare your position with that of Nathan Lawrence, forced to flee in disgrace under a load of shame."

"You are right, wife. He is more to be pitied than I am."

"Is he a married man, father?"

"No; that is, he is a widower."

"While we are spared to each other. We must trust in God and hope for the best."

"Mother tells me you expect to get part of the money you need from Squire Carter," said Andy.

"Yes, he has promised to take a mortgage of three thousand dollars on the old place."

"I have heard he is a hard man, father. I don't think he is influenced by kindness."

"I can't afford to inquire into his motives. It is enough that he will furnish the money. But for that I might have to sell the farm, and then we should be quite helpless."

About seven o'clock Squire Carter made his appearance. Andy opened the door for him.

He was a tall, florid-faced man, with an air of consequence based upon his knowledge that he was the richest man in the town.

"Good-evening, Andrew," he said, for he was always formal. "So you are home from school?"

"Yes, sir."

"When did you come?"

"This afternoon, sir."

"I suppose you heard of your father's misfortune?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ha! it is very sad -- very sad, indeed. I quite feel for your father. I am trying to help him out of his trouble. He was a very foolish man to risk so much on that rascal, Lawrence."

Andy was disposed to agree with the squire, but he did not like to hear his father blamed.

"I think he realizes that he was unwise, Squire Carter," said Andy. "Won't you walk in?"

"I suppose your father is at home?" said the squire, as he stepped into the front entry.

"Yes, sir; he was expecting you."

Andy opened the door of the sitting room, and the squire entered. Mr. Grant rose from the rocking-chair in which he was seated and welcomed his visitor.

"I am glad to see you, squire," he said. "Take a seat by the fire."

"Thank you," said the squire, with dignity. "I came, as I said I would. I do not desert an old neighbor because he has been unfortunate."

But for his patronizing tone his words would have awakened more gratitude. As it was, his manner seemed to say: "See how kind-hearted I am."

Somehow, Andy felt more and more sorry to think his father must be indebted to such a man.

"It is getting quite fallish," said the squire, rubbing his hands. "I suppose I am more sensitive to cold, as my home is heated throughout with steam."

"I hope we shall be able to make you comfortable, Squire Carter," returned Mrs. Grant, who had entered the room in time to hear this last speech.

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Grant. I always adapt myself to circumstances."

"That is very kind in you," Andy was tempted to say, but he forbore. It would not do to offend the village magnate.

"I see you have sent for Andrew," observed the squire, with a wave of his hand toward the boy.

"Yes; I shall not be able to keep him at Penhurst Academy any longer."

"Very sensible decision of yours. No doubt it cost you a pretty penny to keep him there?"

"The school charge is three hundred dollars a year."

"Bless my soul! How extravagant! You will excuse my saying so, but I think you have been very unwise. It really seems like a wasteful use of money."

"Don't you believe in education, squire?" asked Mrs. Grant.

"Yes; but why couldn't he get all the education he needs here?"

"Because there is no one here who teaches Latin and Greek."

"And what good would Latin and Greek do him? I don't know anything of Latin and Greek, and yet I flatter myself I have succeeded pretty well. I believe I am looked up to in the village, eh?"

"No doubt you occupy a prominent position, squire, but the boy had a fancy for the languages and wanted to go to college."

"I shall not send my son to college, though, of course, I can afford it."

"Perhaps he doesn't care to go."

"No the boy is sensible. He will be satisfied with the advantages his father enjoyed. Supposing your boy had gone to college, what would you have made of him?"

"He thought he would have liked to prepare himself for a teacher or professor."

"It's a poor business, Neighbor Grant. A schoolmate of mine became a teacher -- the teacher of an academy -- and I give you my word, he's as poor as poverty."

"Money isn't everything, squire."

"It's a good deal, as in your present circumstances you must admit. But we may as well come to business."



Chapter III.

Andy Leaves The Academy.


"You need to raise three thousand dollars, I believe, Neighbor Grant?" began the squire.

"Yes, squire."

"Three thousand dollars is a good deal of money."

"I realize that," said Mr. Grant, sadly.

"I was about to say it is a good deal to raise on the security of the farm."

"The farm cost me six thousand dollars."

"It would fetch only five thousand now. It wouldn't fetch that at a forced sale."

"But for my losses, I wouldn't consider an offer of less than six thousand."

"Of course, you are attached to it, and that gives it a fancy value in your eyes."

"It is good land and productive. Then, it is well situated, and the buildings are good."

"Well, tolerable," said the squire, cautiously. "However, that's neither here nor there. You want three thousand dollars, and I have agreed to let you have it. I will take a mortgage for two years, the interest being, as usual, six per cent."

"Two years?" repeated Farmer Grant, uneasily.

"Yes. I am not sure that I can spare the money longer than two years. I give you that time to pay it off."

"But it will be impossible for me to pay it off in two years. In fact, it will take all my income to live and pay the interest."

"Of course that isn't my lookout."

"Do you mean that you will foreclose in two years?"

"Not necessarily. I may not need the money so soon. Besides, you may find some one else to take it off my hands."

"Can't you say five years, squire?" pleaded the farmer.

Squire Carter shook his head.

"No; you can take it or leave it. I am not at all anxious to take the mortgage, and if my terms are not agreeable, we will consider the negotiations at an end."

"I won't make any difficulty, squire; I accept your terms."

"That is sensible. I can't, for my part, see how five years would have been more favorable to you than two."

"My son Andrew is sixteen. By the time he is twenty-one he might help me."

"There's not much chance of that -- unless he marries a fortune," said the squire, jocosely. "I suppose you will keep him at home to help you on the farm?"

"We haven't talked the matter over yet. I will consult his wishes as far as I can. He can't earn much money on the farm. What are you going to do with your son?"

"Conrad will probably be a merchant, or a banker," said the squire, pompously.

"With your means you can select any path in life for him."

"True; as my son he will have a great advantage. Well, as our business is arranged, I will leave you. If you will call at Lawyer Tower's office to-morrow at noon the papers can be drawn up, and I will give you a check for the money."

"Thank you, squire. I will meet the appointment."

"If you don't want Andrew to work on the farm I will turn over his case in my mind and see if I can get him a position."

"Thank you. I should be glad to have him well started in some business where he can raise himself."

As the term of the academy was so nearly completed, Andy went back with his father's permission, to remain till vacation. He sought an interview at once with Dr. Crabb, the principal, and informed him of the necessity he was under of leaving the institution.

"I am really sorry, Andrew," said the doctor. "You are one of my best pupils. I am not sure but the best. There is scarcely one that I would not sooner lose. I shall be willing to take you for half price -- that is, for one hundred and fifty dollars -- till you are ready for college."

"Thank you, Dr. Crabb," replied Andy, gratefully. "You are very kind, but even that sum my father, in his changed circumstances, would be unable to pay. Besides, it would be quite out of my power to go to college even if I were prepared."

"It is a thousand pities," said the principal, with concern. "If you must leave, you must. I am not sure but I should be willing to take you gratuitously."

"Thank you; but I feel that I ought to go to work at once to help my father. It is not enough that I free him from expense."

"No doubt you are right. I respect you for your determination. You need not hesitate to apply to me at any time in the future if you see any way in which I can be of service to you."

"I think it will help me if you will give me a letter of recommendation, which I can show to any one from whom I seek employment."

"I will give you such a letter with great pleasure;" and the doctor, sitting down at his desk, wrote a first-class recommendation of his favorite pupil.

There was general regret in the academy when it was learned that Andy must leave them. One little boy of twelve -- Dudley Cameron, a special favorite of Andy -- came to him to ask if there was no way by which he could manage to stay.

"No, Dudley! I am too poor," said Andy.

"If I write to papa and ask him to send you a thousand dollars, will you stay?" asked the little boy, earnestly.

"No, Dudley; you mustn't do anything of the kind. Even if your father liked me as well as you do, and would give me the money, I could not take it. I must go to work to help my father."

"You will write to me sometimes, Andy?"

"Yes; I will be sure to do that."

The little fellow's warm-hearted offer, and the expressions of sympathy and regret on the part of his schoolmates, cheered Andy. It was pleasant to think that he would be missed.

On the closing day he received the first prize for scholarship from the hands of Dr. Crabb.

"You will take my best wishes with you, Andy," said the venerable principal. "Let me hear from you when you have made any business arrangement."

The farewells were said, and Andy set out on his return home.

He was leaving the old life behind him. A new one lay before him, but what it was to be he could not foresee.

He reached Arden in due course and set out to walk home. He had barely started when he heard his name called.

Looking around, he saw Conrad Carter, the squire's only son, on his bicycle.

"So you've come home from the academy?" said Conrad, curiously.

"Yes," answered Andy, briefly.

He never could bring himself to like Conrad, who made himself offensive and unpopular by his airs of superiority. Indeed, there was no boy in Arden so thoroughly disliked as Conrad.

"You'll have a pretty long vacation," went on Conrad, with a significant laugh.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Oh, well, it's the best thing for you. I thought it foolish when your father sent you off to the academy. If the Arden grammar school is good enough for me it is good enough for you."

"There is nothing to prevent your going to the academy."

"I know that. My father could afford it, even if it cost a good deal more. You wanted to go to college, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"It was very foolish for a poor boy like you."

"Of course your age and experience make your opinion of value," said Andy, with a sarcasm which he did not care to conceal.

"I advise you not to be too independent," returned Conrad, displeased. "Are you going to work on the farm?"

"I may till I get a situation."

"I'll speak to father. He might take you for an errand boy."

"I don't think that place would suit me."

"Why not?"

"I want to go into some mercantile establishment and learn business."

"That's what I am going to do when I get through school. Of course there is no hurry in my case."

"I suppose not."

"I suppose you know that my father has taken a mortgage on your father's farm?"

"Yes, I know that."

"If your father can't pay the mortgage when it is due, father will have to take the farm."

Andy made no answer, but thought Conrad more disagreeable than ever. By way of changing the conversation, he said:

"That's a new bicycle, isn't it?"

"Yes; I got tired of the old one. This is a very expensive one. Wouldn't you like to own a bicycle?"

"Yes."

"Of course, you never will."

"Then I must be content without one."

"Well, I must leave you. I'll come around soon and see you ride a horse to plow."

As Conrad sped away on his wheel, Andy said to himself:

"I shouldn't like to be rich if it made me as disagreeable as Conrad."



Chapter IV.

Preparing For The Picnic.


The change in his father's circumstances had come so suddenly that Andy could not immediately decide upon a plan of securing employment.

He was not idle, however. There was work to do on the farm, and he took off his uniform, for Penhurst Academy was a military school, and donned, instead, a rough farm suit, in which he assisted his father.

If he felt a pang of regret he did not show it, for he did not wish to add to his father's grief over his imprudent act of friendship.

It was while he was at work hoeing corn that Conrad Carter came up one day, and leaning against the fence, looked at Andy with an amused expression.

"Oho, you've turned farmer in earnest!" he said.

"Yes, for the time being," answered Andy, composedly.

"You look fine in your overalls."

"Do you think so? Thank you for the compliment."

"You might as well keep on. You will probably succeed better as a farmer than in business."

"I mean to succeed in anything I undertake."

"You've got a comfortable opinion of yourself."

"While you, on the contrary, are modest and unassuming."

"What do you mean?" asked Conrad, coloring.

"I meant to compliment you, but if you don't like it I will take it back. Suppose I say that you are neither modest nor unassuming."

"If that is the way you are going to talk to me I will go away," said Conrad, haughtily. "It is a little imprudent, considering -- "

"Considering what?"

"That my father can turn you all out at the end of two years."

"If that is the way you are going to talk to me I shall be glad to have you go away, as you just threatened."

"Pride and poverty don't go together very well," said Conrad, provoked.

"I don't want to be either proud or poor," returned Andy, smiling.

"That fellow provokes me," thought Conrad. "However, he'll repent it some time."

In five minutes his place was taken by Valentine Burns, an intimate friend of Andy's. His father kept the village store, and was one of the leading citizens of Arden.

"Hard at work, I see, Andy," he said.

"Don't you want to help me?"

"No, I'm too lazy. I have to work in the store out of school hours, you know. Are you going to the picnic?"

"What picnic?"

"There's a Sunday-school picnic next Thursday afternoon. Both churches unite in it. All the young people will be there. You would have heard of it if you hadn't been absent at school."

"I will certainly go. There are so few amusements in Arden that I can't afford to miss any. I suppose there will be the usual attractions?"

"Yes, and an extra one besides. There's a gentleman from the city staying at the hotel, who has offered a prize of ten dollars to the boy who will row across the pond in the shortest time."

"The distance is about half a mile, isn't it?"

"Yes; a little more."

"I suppose you will go in for the prize, Val. You have a nice boat to practice in."

"No amount of practice would give me the prize. I don't excel as a rower."

"Who is expected to win?"

"Conrad Carter confidently counts on securing the prize. There is no boy in Arden that can compete with him, except -- "

"Well, except whom?"

"Andy Grant."

"I don't know," said Andy, thoughtfully. "I can row pretty well -- that is, I used to; but I am out of practice."

"Why don't you get back your practice?"

"I have no boat."

"Then use mine," said Valentine, promptly.

"You are very kind, Val. How many days are there before the picnic?"

"Five. In five days you can accomplish a great deal."

"I should like to win the ten dollars. I want to go to the city and look for a place, and I don't want to ask father for the money."

"Ten dollars would carry you there nicely, and give you a day or two to look around."

"True; well, Val, I will accept your kind offer. Is Conrad practicing?"

"Yes; he is out every afternoon."

"I can't go till after supper."

"Then begin this evening. You know where I keep my boat. I will be at the boathouse at half-past six, and you can meet me there."

"All right. You are a good friend, Val."

"I try to be, but it isn't all friendship."

"What else, then?"

"I want Conrad defeated. He is insufferable now, and if he wins the prize he will be worse than ever."

Prospect Pond was a little distance out of the village. It was a beautiful sheet of water, and a favorite resort for picnic parties. Conrad Carter, Valentine Burns, and two or three other boys and young men had boats there, and a man named Serwin kept boats to hire.

But the best boats belonged to Valentine and Conrad. It was rather annoying to Conrad that any one should have a boat as good as his own, but this was something he could not help. He consoled himself, however, by reflecting that he was a better oarsman than Valentine.

He had been out practicing during the afternoon, accompanied by John Larkin, a neighbor's son. John stood on the bank and timed him.

"Well, John, how do I row?" he asked, when he returned from his trial trip.

"You did very well," said John.

"There won't be any one else that can row against me, eh?"

"I don't think of any one. Valentine has as good a boat -- "

"I don't admit that," said Conrad, jealously.

"I would just as soon have his as yours," said John, independently; "but he can't row with you."

"I should think not."

"Jimmy Morris is a pretty good rower, but he has no boat of his own, and would have to row in one of Serwin's boats. You know what they are."

"He couldn't come up to me, no matter in what boat he rowed," said Conrad.

"Well, perhaps not; I don't know."

"Well, you ought to know, John Larkin."

"My opinion's my own, Conrad," said John, manfully.

"All the same, you are mistaken."

"If Valentine would lend his boat to Jimmy we could tell better."

"He won't do it. He will want it himself," said Conrad.

"As matters stand now, I think you will win the prize."

"I think so myself."

It may be thought surprising that nothing was said of Andy Grant and his chances, but, in truth, his boy friends in Arden had never seen him row during the last two years.

As a matter of fact, he had been the champion oarsman of Penhurst Academy, but this they did not know. During his vacations at home he had done very little rowing, his time being taken up in other ways.

"I wonder whether Andy Grant can row?" said John Larkin.

Conrad laughed.

"He can hoe corn and potatoes better than he can row, I fancy," he said.

"He's a first-rate fellow," said Larkin, warmly.

"He's poor and proud, that's what he is. I called at the farm this morning and he insulted me."

"Are you sure it wasn't the other way?"

"Look here, John Larkin, if you don't treat me with more respect I won't associate with you."

"Do as you like," said John, independently. "I'd just as soon associate with Valentine or Andy."

"My father can buy out both their fathers."

"That don't make you any the better fellow. Why are you so anxious to win this prize? Is it the money you are after?"

"No. If I want ten dollars my father will give it to me. It isn't the money, but the glory that I think of."

"If I had your practice I'd go in for it myself. I shouldn't mind pocketing ten dollars."

"No doubt it would be welcome to you."

"Let me try your boat for a few minutes."

"You can have it for ten minutes."

"I would like it long enough to row over the course."

"You can have it that long. I'm going over it again myself as soon as I have got rested from the last trial."

John Larkin got into the boat and rowed very creditably, but was soon called in by the owner of the craft.

John began to ask himself what benefit he got from associating with Conrad, who showed his selfishness on all occasions.

"I wish he would get beaten, after all," thought John; "but I don't know who there is to do it. Valentine is only a passable rower, and Jimmy Morris has no boat of his own."

Conrad came back in good spirits. He had beaten his former record by three-quarters of a minute.

"I'm sure of the prize," he said, in exultation.



Chapter V.

The Boat Race.


As Andy rowed only in the evening, and Conrad practiced in the afternoon, it chanced that the coming rivals never met; nor was Conrad aware that Andy proposed to dispute the prize with him.

Even at first Valentine was surprised and pleased to observe how Andy handled the oars. Before the evening was over he demonstrated the fact that he was a first-class oarsman, much to the satisfaction of his friend.

"You must have had a good deal of practice at the gymnasium," said Valentine.

"Yes; the director of the gymnasium, who is an all-around athlete, gave the boys special instruction, by which we all profited. He was a graduate of Harvard, and an old member of the University crew."

"That accounts for it. Your rowing has a style to it that Conrad cannot show."

"Probably he has never had any instructions."

"Whatever he has accomplished has come by practice. He pulls a strong oar, but there is a roughness and lack of smoothness about his work. Still, he gets over the water pretty fast."

"And that counts. How does his speed compare with mine?"

"As you rowed to-night, I think the race would be a close one. But this is only the first evening. Keep on practicing daily, and I will bet on you every time."

Andy looked pleased.

"I am glad to hear you say this," he said. "I shall not row for glory, but for the ten dollars, which I shall find very useful. You have a fine boat, Val. How does Conrad's compare with yours?"

"I should hardly know how to choose between them. His boat is a fine one, but mine is quite as good."

"And I suppose there is no other on the pond as fine."

"No; Serwin's boats are old style, and have been in use for years. If you rowed in one of those against Conrad you would be sure to be beaten."

"Then if I win I shall be indebted to you for the victory."

Valentine smiled.

"I should be glad to think I had anything to do with gaining the prize for you, even indirectly; but it will be due in a large measure to your own good rowing. Only, keep up your practicing."

"I will do so."

"I want you to win; and, besides, I want Conrad to lose. I hope he won't hear anything of your entering the race."

Two days before the picnic Valentine happened to meet Conrad at his father's store.

"Are you going to enter the boat race at the picnic?" asked the latter.

"I am not certain."

"You have the only boat that can compare with mine. Have you been practicing any?"

"I have been rowing a little."

"I shall have to look out," said Conrad, but his manner did not indicate apprehension. "Probably the prize will go either to you or me."

"Thank you for the compliment."

"Suppose we have a little trial by ourselves? It may do us both good."

"I don't mind. When shall it be?"

"Say to-morrow afternoon."

"Very well. I will be at the pond at four o'clock."

"All right."

The two boys met according to agreement, and the race took place.

Conrad beat easily by eight lengths, although Valentine exerted himself to the best of his ability.

"That settles it," said Conrad, triumphantly. "You can't row against me."

"I am afraid you are right," returned Valentine, with an air of chagrin.

"You will need more practice, though you row fairly well. I think you pull the best oar next to me," said Conrad, in a patronizing tone.

"Yes, I see that I must practice more."

"There will be no need for me to practice," said Conrad to himself. "I've got a dead sure thing."

It might have been supposed that Conrad would be indifferent to the money value of the prize offered, but he had extravagant tastes, and found his allowance from his father, though a liberal one, insufficient for his needs. He began to consider in what way he would spend the money, which he considered as good as won.

At length the day for the picnic dawned. The day previous had been unpleasant, and there had been considerable anxiety lest the weather should prove unpleasant. But greatly to the general satisfaction it was bright with sunshine, and the temperature was delightful.

The young people of both societies turned out en masse and looked forward to a good time.

The race had been fixed for half-past three o'clock. At that hour the superintendent of the Sunday school came forward and said:

"Owing to the liberality of Mr. Gale, of New York, a boarder at the hotel, a prize of ten dollars has been offered to the best oarsman who may compete for it. Boats will start from the pier, and the course will be to the opposite bank of the pond and back. I am sure that this will prove a very attractive feature of our picnic. Boys who intend to compete will now present themselves."

The first to come forward was Conrad Carter. He was dressed in a handsome boating costume, and his manner indicated great confidence. He looked around for Valentine, but the latter made no motion toward the shore, though his boat was in the pond drawn up with the rest.

"Aren't you going to row, Valentine?" asked Conrad, in surprise.

"No; I have lent my boat to Andy Grant."

At the same time Andy, in his ordinary attire, came forward, and stepped into Valentine's boat.

Conrad arched his brows in surprise. He had been disappointed to find that Valentine would not row, but he was quite as well pleased at the prospect of beating Andy.

He was rather surprised, however, as he had never heard that Andy could row.

"He must be a fool to think of rowing against me," he said to himself.

Next came Jimmy Morris, who took his place in one of Serwin's boats.

Two other boys also appeared in hired boats, one of them being Dennis Carlyle, a friend of John Larkin.

When the boats were in line, a superintendent gave the signal.

Conrad got the first start. The others kept together, a length or two behind Conrad. Andy did not appear to be exerting himself, but his strokes showed a smoothness that was lacking in any of the rest.

Mr. Gale, the donor of the prize, who was himself a good rower, took notice of him.

"Who is that boy?" he asked, pointing to Andy. "I don't think I have seen him before."

"It is Andy Grant, the son of Farmer Grant."

"Why haven't I seen him before?"

"He has been absent at school -- at Penhurst Academy."

"He knows how to row. See how he handles his oars."

"I didn't know he was a rower."

"He is, and a good one. I shouldn't be surprised if he wins the race."

"What, against Conrad Carter?" asked the superintendent, incredulously.

"Yes. It is easy to see that he has been trained, while Conrad, though he pulls a strong oar, rows like a country amateur."

Conrad was so intent upon his own work that he had not had an opportunity of watching his competitors. When he had nearly reached the point selected on the other bank, he turned about and saw Andy close behind him.

Andy was not apparently exerting himself, but pulled a strong, steady stroke, and seemed quite free from excitement. For the first time Conrad saw that he was a competitor not to be despised.

After the turn Conrad and Andy led the procession. Next came Jimmy Morris, and last of all Dennis Carlyle.

The latter managed to catch a crab, and in his attempt to right himself tumbled into the water.

"Don't mind me!" he called out humorously. "I am only taking a bath."

So the other contestants kept on, in the same order.

But this was not to continue. Suddenly Andy made a spurt and forged ahead of Conrad. The young aristocrat could hardly believe his eyes when he saw Valentine's boat, impelled by a competitor whom he had despised, take the leading place.

He flushed with vexation and made a desperate effort to regain his lost position. But he was excited, and did not use his strength to the best advantage.

To his great annoyance he saw that Andy was continuing to gain upon him, and that without any great effort. His smooth, steady stroke was most effective. Even the unpracticed eye could see his superiority to any of his competitors.

When the goal was reached he was five lengths ahead of Conrad, and twelve lengths ahead of Jimmy Morris.

It was a genuine surprise to the spectators, and a great shout went up.

"Three cheers for Andy Grant!"

Andy smiled, and he raised his hat in acknowledgment of the compliment.

Mr. Gale pressed forward and greeted the young victor.

"You have done yourself credit," he said. "You know how to row. Where did you learn?"

"At Penhurst Academy; I was trained by a Harvard oarsman."

"He understood his business, and so do you. I have great pleasure in presenting you with the prize."

With a sullen look Conrad listened to those words. Without a word he sprang on shore, and, as soon as he could, turned his back upon the picnic.

"Conrad is terribly disappointed!" said Valentine. "You have made yourself famous, Andy."



Chapter VI.

A Liberal Offer.


Thoroughly mortified and crestfallen, Conrad went home. He hoped to go up to his room without observation, but his father noticed his entrance.

"Well, Conrad," he said, with a smile, "did you carry off the honors at the picnic?"

"No, I didn't," answered Conrad, bitterly.

"Did Valentine Burns defeat you?"

"No."

"Who did win the prize?"

"Andy Grant."

Squire Carter was amazed.

"Can he row?" he ejaculated.

"Yes, a little."

"But he beat you?"

"I tell you how it was, father," said Conrad, who had decided upon his story. "I was well ahead till we got halfway back, when I got a terrible pain in my arm. I must have strained it, I think. Of course I couldn't do anything after that, and Andy, who was next to me, went in and won."

Squire Carter never thought of doubting Conrad's story. His pride extended to his family and all connected with him, and he felt satisfied that Conrad was the best rower in the village.

"Where did the Grant boy learn to row?" he asked.

"I heard him tell Mr. Gale that he learned at the academy."

"You don't think he is equal to you?"

"Of course he isn't. I am miles ahead of him."

"It was very unfortunate that your arm gave out. You had better speak to your mother, and she will put some arnica on it."

"I will," said Conrad cunningly. "I would rather have had any boy beat me than that upstart, Andy Grant. He will put on no end of airs. Besides, I shall miss the money."

"That, at any rate, I can make up to you. Here are two five-dollar bills."

"Thank you, father," said Conrad, as, with much satisfaction, he pocketed the bills. "It was lucky I thought about the strain," he said to himself. "All the same, it is awfully humiliating to be beaten by that beggar."

"How do you think Conrad accounts for his defeat, Andy?" said Valentine the next day.

"I can't tell."

"He says he strained the muscles of his arm."

Andy smiled.

"If it will make him feel any better, I have no objection to that explanation."

"His father has given him ten dollars, so he will not lose any money. But he won't get any of the boys to believe his story."

"The money is very acceptable to me," said Andy. "If I had lost, my father couldn't have made it up to me."

At five o'clock, on his way to the post office, Andy met Mr. Gale.

Walter Gale was a young man about twenty-five. He had a pleasant face, and his manner was genial. He had a strong sympathy with boys, and he was a favorite with them.

"Well, Andrew," he said; "have you recovered from your exertions in the boat race?"

"Oh, yes; I am used to rowing, and felt very little fatigue."

"I hear that Conrad is very much mortified by his defeat."

"I believe he is. He felt sure of winning."

"And he would have done so if you had remained out of the list."

"He told Valentine Burns that he strained the muscles of his arm, and that this defeated him."

"I should think better of him if he would acknowledge that he was fairly beaten. Are you at leisure this evening?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then call upon me at the hotel. I shall be glad to know you better."

This invitation Andy was very glad to accept. He was drawn to the young man, and felt that he was likely to prove a sincere friend.

At seven o'clock he left the farmhouse, and on arriving at the hotel found Mr. Gale sitting on the piazza.

"I was looking for you," said the young man. "Come up to my room."

He led the way to a front corner apartment on the second floor. It was the best room in the hotel, and he had furnished it in the most comfortable and attractive manner. Pictures hung on the walls, and there was a bookcase containing a goodly array of volumes.

"What a pleasant room!" exclaimed Andy.

"Yes; I have tried to make myself comfortable. What I lack most is society."

"I wonder that you are content to live in the country. Are you not accustomed to the city?"

"Yes; but I had a severe sickness in the spring, and the doctors recommended me to absent myself for a time from the excitement of the town and take up my residence in the country."

"Didn't that interfere with your business?"

Walter Gale smiled.

"Fortunately, or unfortunately," he answered, "I have no business. Until two years since I was employed in an insurance office in the city. The death of an uncle has made me pecuniarily independent, so that I had leisure to be sick."

"You look in good health now."

"Yes; but I have a nervous temperament, and am obliged to be careful. Now tell me about yourself. You have been for some time at Penhurst Academy?"

"Yes; for two years."

"Do you go back there?"

"No; my father has met with serious losses, and can no longer afford to send me. I must stay at home and help him."

"And this is a disappointment to you?"

"Yes; I was expecting to go to college in a few months."

"I believe your father is a farmer?"

"Yes."

"Do you expect to assist him on the farm?"

"Till I can get something to do. I shall try to get some business situation. Business pays better than farming."

"I suppose you are a good Latin and Greek scholar?"

"Yes; that is, I like the languages, and stood high in my classes."

"My own education is limited. Though I am rich now, I was a poor boy. At sixteen I had made some progress in Latin and commenced Greek, when my father's failure obliged me to seek employment. The uncle who has now made me rich would do nothing for me; so I left school half educated."

"You would be able to make up deficiencies now," suggested Andy.

"That is what I have been thinking of, if I can get a satisfactory teacher."

"I don't think you can find a classical teacher in Arden."

"I know of one, if he would be willing to undertake the task."

"Who is it?" asked Andy, puzzled.

"Andrew Grant," answered this young man, with a smile.

"Do you mean me?" asked Andy, with a wondering face.

"Certainly. You are fresh from school, and I am sure you would be competent to teach me."

"But I am only a boy."

"Age has nothing to do with a teacher's qualifications, except as to discipline. You wouldn't find me a very advanced pupil. I had read one book in Caesar when I was compelled to leave school, and had begun to translate Greek a little. Now the question is, are you willing to teach me?"

"If you think I am competent, Mr. Gale."

"I don't doubt that. We will begin, if you like, next Monday. Perhaps, in order to avoid village gossip, it will be well to pass yourself off as my private secretary. Indeed, I will employ you a little in that way also."

"I shall be very glad to serve you in any way."

"Then come to-morrow morning at nine and remain with me till twelve. Now about the compensation."

"Fix that to suit yourself, Mr. Gale. I am almost ashamed to ask anything."

"The laborer is worthy of his hire, Andy. Suppose I pay you six dollars a week to begin with?"

"The money will be very acceptable, but I am afraid you will be overpaying me."

"I will take my risk of that. On the whole, I will call it nine dollars a week, and we will spend the afternoon together also. I will send to the city for a boat, and you shall give me lessons in rowing."

Andy's eyes sparkled. Nothing would please him better, and the prospect of earning nine dollars a week made him feel like a millionaire.



Chapter VII.

An Encounter With A Tramp.


It is hardly necessary to say that Andy's parents were equally surprised and pleased at his new engagement.

"You will like that better than working on the farm, I expect, Andy?" said Sterling Grant.

"Yes, father. I am willing to work, but I don't feel much interest in farming."

"It is hard work and poor pay, Andy, but I like it. I was brought up to it when a boy, and there is nothing else I can do."

"Andy is already beginning to get some advantage from his education," said Mrs. Grant.

Andy reported for duty, and during the first morning made up his mind that he should enjoy his new employment. Mr. Gale really desired to acquire a knowledge of Latin and Greek, and worked faithfully.

To Andy it was like a review of his own studies, and he experienced a satisfaction in the rapid progress of his pupil.

He felt quite at home with Mr. Gale, though their acquaintance had been so brief. When twelve o'clock came he was really sorry.

"What time shall I come over this afternoon, Mr. Gale?" he asked.

"At two o'clock. Can you borrow your friend Valentine's boat? I have sent for one, but it may be several days before it arrives."

"Oh, yes; I am sure Val will let me have it. He is a very good-natured boy."

"I will be glad to pay for its use."

"I don't think he'd accept anything."

"Then I will make him a present."

Before he returned to the hotel, Andy saw Valentine and obtained the loan of his boat.

At three o'clock Mr. Gale and Andy started from the boathouse, and again Andy became a teacher.

The young man was a good rower, but Andy was able to give him some points. Sometimes they sat idle and let the boat float at will.

About four o'clock Conrad came down for his usual afternoon row. He was surprised and not altogether pleased at meeting Andy and his companion.

"Why are you not hoeing potatoes?" he asked.

"I've got a vacation," answered Andy, with a smile.

"Are you out for a row?" inquired Mr. Gale, pleasantly.

"Yes," answered Conrad, sullenly.

Though Walter Gale had nothing to do with his defeat, he could not quite forgive him for awarding the prize to Andy. He felt mortified whenever he thought of it, and wished Mr. Gale to understand that he was not inferior to Andy.

"I was unlucky the other day," he said. "I strained my muscles or I would not have been beaten."

"That was lucky for me, then," said Andy, good-naturedly.

"I didn't care so much for the money, but if I had been in my usual form I should have gained the prize."

"Then you wouldn't object to a second race?" said Walter Gale, quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"If you would like to try it again over the same course, I will put up five dollars."

Conrad hesitated.

He would not object to winning five dollars. Indeed, he wished very much to have that sum, but he was not quite so sure that he could beat Andy as he claimed to be.

Should Andy win again, he would be obliged to concede his superiority.

"No," he said, after a pause; "I don't think I care to race again."

"Then I will make you another offer, but not so good a one. I row a little myself -- indeed, Andy is training me, so that I hope soon to row better. If you will row against me, I will pay you two dollars. That will be the prize."

"But suppose you win?"

"Then I keep the two dollars myself. It will cost you nothing."

"I'll row," said Conrad, eagerly.

"Very well. We will appoint Andy umpire, or referee, whatever you call it."

Conrad was not altogether pleased with this selection, but he waived his objections and the race was rowed, Andy giving the signal.

Conrad won by a dozen lengths, Mr. Gale making a very good second.

"You have won, Conrad," said the young man, good-naturedly. "Here is the prize."

Conrad pocketed the bill with a good deal of satisfaction.

"I will row you any day," he said.

Walter Gale shook his head.

"I must wait till I have improved," he said, "or you will beat me every time."

Conrad would much prefer to have beaten Andy, but the two dollars gave him not a little satisfaction.

"Mr. Gale must be rich," he reflected. "I wish I could get in with him."

"As Andy has to work on the farm," he said, "I shall be glad to go out with you any afternoon."

"Thank you; but I have made an arrangement with Andy that will save him from the necessity of farm work."

Conrad opened his eyes in surprise.

Later in the evening, when he met Andy at the village store, he asked:

"How much does Mr. Gale pay you for going with him?"

"The arrangement is private, Conrad, or I would tell you."

"How much are you with him?"

"I go to the hotel at nine o'clock in the morning."

"What do you do then?"

"He calls me his private secretary."

"Do you get as much as three dollars a week?"

"I am sorry, I can't tell you."

"Oh, well, if it is such a profound secret. You seem to have got in with him."

"He treats me very kindly."

"Is he rich?"

"I don't know, but I presume he is."

"I don't see what keeps him in such a dull hole as Arden, when he could live in the city and be in the midst of things."

"At any rate, it is lucky for me that he chooses to stay here."

"What on earth does he want of a private secretary?" demanded Conrad.

"Perhaps you had better ask him."

"Probably he only hires you out of pity."

"I won't trouble myself about his motives, as long as he appears to like having me with him."

Several days passed. The mornings were spent in study, the afternoons on the pond.

There had been no change in the program, so that Andy was surprised when, one morning, Mr. Gale said:

"We will omit our lessons this morning; I am going to send you to Benton on an errand."

"Very well, sir."

"I have an account with the bank, and will send a check by you to be cashed."

"All right, sir."

"I will engage a top buggy for you at the hotel stable. I suppose you are used to driving?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"And I suppose you know the way to Benton?"

"I have been there a good many times."

"Then there will be no trouble."

"When do you want me to start?"

"At eleven o'clock. That would get you home late to dinner. You may, therefore, stop and dine at the hotel in Benton."

This would make it a day's excursion. Andy liked driving, and the visit to Benton would be a pleasure to him.

"I will run home and tell mother I shall not be back to dinner," he said.

"Very well. Be back here at eleven o'clock."

"All right, sir."

When Andy reached the hotel on his return he found the buggy ready. Harnessed to it was the best horse in the hotel stable.

"A pleasant journey to you!" said Walter Gale, smiling at Andy from the piazza.

"Thank you, sir."

Andy drove off at good speed. It was a bright, clear morning. The air was invigorating, and his spirits rose.

He reflected upon his good luck in having found such a friend as Walter Gale. He had been unfortunate, to be sure, in being compelled to leave school, but the hardship was very much mitigated by Mr. Gale's friendship.

He had gone two-thirds of the way when he overtook a man whose bloated look and shabby clothing proclaimed him to belong to the large class of tramps whose business seems to be to roam through the country in quest of plunder.

The man looked up as Andy reached him.

"I say, boy," he called out, "give me a lift, won't you?"

Andy was kind-hearted, but he was repelled by the unsavory look of the man who asked him this favor. He felt that it would be very unpleasant to have such a man sitting beside him in the buggy.

"I think you must excuse me," he said.

"What for?" asked the man, with a scowl. "Are you too proud to take in a poor man?"

"I don't object to you being poor," answered Andy; "but you look as if you had been drinking."

The man replied by an oath, and, bending over, he picked up a good-sized stone and flung it at the young driver. Fortunately his condition made his aim unsteady, and the stone flew wide of the mark.

Andy whipped up the horse, and was soon out of danger.



Chapter VIII.

A Moment Of Danger.


Andy did not examine the check till he reached the bank in Benton. Then, glancing at it before he presented it to the paying-teller, he found that it was for one hundred and twenty-five dollars.

"How will you have it?" asked the teller.

"Twenty-five dollars in small bills; the rest in fives and tens," answered Andy, as instructed by Mr. Gale.

The bills were counted out and placed in his hands. To Andy they seemed a large sum of money, and, indeed, the roll was big enough to convey that impression.

As he left the bank he saw the familiar but not welcome face of the tramp who had stopped him glued against the pane. He had attended to some errands before going to the bank, which allowed the fellow time to reach it in season to watch him.

"I wonder if he saw me putting away the bills?" thought Andy.

However, in a town like Benton, there was little chance of robbery.

The tramp looked at him with evil significance as he left the bank.

"Give me a dollar," he said.

"I can't," answered Andy.

"I saw you with a big roll of bills."

"They are not mine."

"Give me enough to buy a dinner, then," growled the tramp.

"Why should I give you anything? You threw a stone at me on the road."

The tramp turned away muttering, and the glance with which he eyed Andy was far from friendly.

As directed, Andy went over to the hotel and got dinner. He took the opportunity to dispose of the bills, putting all the large ones in his inside vest pocket. The small bills he distributed among his other pockets.

Andy started for home at two o'clock. He felt some responsibility, remembering that he had a considerable sum of money with him.

This made him anxious, and he felt that he should be glad to get home safe and deliver his funds to Mr. Gale. Probably he would not have thought of danger if he had not met the tramp on his way over.

The road for the most part was clear and open, but there was one portion, perhaps a third of a mile in length, bordered by trees and underbrush. It was so short, however, that it would be soon passed over.

But about the middle of it a man sprang from the side of the road and seized the horse by the bridle. It did not require a second look to satisfy Andy that it was the tramp.

The crisis had come! Andy's heart was in his mouth. He was a brave boy, but it might well make even an older person nervous to be stopped by an ill-looking tramp, who was without doubt a criminal.

"Let go that bridle!" called Andy in a tone which, in spite of his nervousness, was clear and resolute.

"So I will when I have got what I want," answered the tramp.

"What do you want?"

"Look at me and you can tell what I want."

"I presume you want money, but I have none to give you."

"You are lying. You have plenty of money about your clothes."

"I said I had no money to give you."

"Didn't I see you get a roll of bills at the bank?"

"Very likely you did, but what about that?"

"I want some of them. I won't take all, but I am a poor man, and I need them more than the man you are taking them to."

"Whom do you think I am taking them to?"

"Squire Carter. He is the only man in Arden that keeps no much money in the bank."

"You are mistaken; the money is not his."

"Whose, then?"

"I don't feel called upon to tell you."

"Well, that's neither here nor there. I want some of it. I'll be content with half, whoever owns it."

"You won't get any. Let go the horse, or I'll run you down."

"You're a smart kid, but you are no match for me. I don't scare worth a cent."

"Listen to me," said Andy; "if you should succeed in robbing me, you would be caught and sent to jail. How will that suit you?"

"It wouldn't be the first time I've been in jail. I'd just as soon be there as to tramp around without a cent of money."

Andy was not surprised to hear that he had to deal with an ex-convict. He understood that this man was a desperate character. He saw that he was a strong, powerful man, in the full vigor of life.

Any contest between them would be most unequal. He was but sixteen and the tramp was near forty. What could he do?

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, willing to try an experiment. "I've got two dollars of my own. I'll give you that if you'll let go my horse's bridle and give me no more trouble."

The tramp laughed mockingly.

"Do you take me for a fool?" he asked.

"Why?"

"Do you think I will be satisfied with two dollars, when you have a hundred in your pocket? Two dollars wouldn't last me a day."

"I have nothing to do with that. It is all I mean to give you."

"Then I shall have to help myself."

His cool impudence made Andy angry, and he brought down the whip forcibly on the horse's back.

Naturally the animal started, and nearly tore himself from the grasp of the tramp.

"So that is your game," said the fellow between his closed teeth. "If you try that again I'll pull you out of the buggy and give you such a beating as you never had before."

Andy remained cool and self-possessed. To carry out his threat the tramp would have to let go of the bridle, and in that case Andy determined to put his horse to his paces.

The tramp relaxed his hold and the horse stood stock-still, finding his attempt to get away futile.

"Well," said the tramp, "you didn't make much by that move, did you?"

"Did you make any more?"

"By Jove! you're a cool kid. But, after all, you're only a kid. Now, do as I tell you."

"What is that?"

"Put your hand in your pocket and take out fifty dollars. You've got as much, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"That's right. Speak the truth. You may have more, but fifty'll do me."

"Do you expect me to give you fifty dollars?"

"Yes, I do."

"I don't mean to do it."

Andy had satisfied himself that the tramp had no weapon, and this encouraged him. He could not hold the horse and attack him at one and the same time, but with a revolver he would have been at his mercy.

Besides, Andy's ears were keen, and he thought he heard the sound of wheels behind him. The tramp's attention was too much occupied, and perhaps his hearing was too dull to catch the sounds, as yet faint.

Thus it was that the other team was almost upon them before the tramp was aware of it. The newcomer was Saul Wheelock, a blacksmith, a strong, powerful man, fully six feet in height, and with muscles of steel.

He had seen the buggy standing still on the highway, and he could not understand the cause until he got near enough to see the tramp at the horse's head.

He sprang from the wagon he was driving, and before the vagabond was fully sensible of his danger he had him by the coat collar.

"What are you about?" he demanded, giving him a rough shake.

The tramp, turning, found he was in the hands of a man whom he was compelled to respect. He cared nothing for rank or learning, but physical force held him in awe.

He stood mute, unprepared, with an excuse.

"Why, it's you, Andy!" said the blacksmith. "Why did this rascal stop you?"

"He wants me to give him money. I've just been to the bank in Benton to draw out some for Mr. Gale at the hotel."

"Why, you scoundrel!" exclaimed the indignant blacksmith, shaking the tramp till his teeth chattered. "So you're a thief, are you?"

"Let me go!" whined the tramp. "I haven't taken anything. I'm a poor, unfortunate man. If I could get any work to do I wouldn't have been driven to this."

"No doubt you're a church member," said the blacksmith, in a sarcastic tone.

"Let me go! I'll promise to lead a good life. This young man says he'll give me two dollars. I'll take it and go."

"Don't give him a cent, Andy. You can go, but I'll give you something to remember me by."

He gave the tramp a vigorous kick that nearly prostrated him, and then, getting into his wagon, said:

"I'll keep along with you, Andy. I don't think you'll have any more trouble."

The tramp slunk into the woods, baffled and disappointed. If looks could have annihilated the sturdy blacksmith, his span of life would have been brief.



Chapter IX.

Conrad's Scheme.


When Andy told Mr. Gale the story of his adventures on the trip to Benton, he received cordial congratulations on his courage.

"You have shown a great deal of pluck, Andy," he said. "The next time you have occasion to go over to the bank for me I will accompany you. Now, if you are not too tired, I want you to go down to the pond. I have something to show you."

They walked side by side till they reached the pond.

Andy's curiosity was not specially excited. He talked with Mr. Gale on different topics, and had hardly time to consider what it was he was to see. But when he reached the boathouse he saw floating at the small pier an elegant rowboat, built of cedar, and much handsomer than either Conrad's or Valentine's.

"Oh, what a beauty!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Mr. Gale, quietly; "you will have quite the best boat on the pond."

"I?" exclaimed Andy, in surprise.

"Yes, for the boat is yours."

"But I don't understand," stammered Andy.

"It is plain enough," said Walter Gale, with a pleasant smile. "The boat is yours. I give it to you."

"How can I thank you?" exclaimed Andy, grasping his friend's hand. "I can't believe that this beautiful boat is mine."

"You will realize it after a while. Let me tell you how I got it. It was built for a rich young man in New York, one of the Four Hundred, I believe, but as he received an unexpected invitation to go abroad for two years, he authorized the builder to sell it for him at a considerable reduction from the price he paid. So it happens that I was able to secure it for you. Now let us go out for a row. It will be the trial trip."

Fifteen minutes later Conrad got into his boat and started out. It was not long before his eyes were attracted to the new boat.

He could see at once, for he was a judge, that it was far more elegant and costly than his own, and he was seized by a pang of envy. His own boat seemed to him quite inferior, though but a short time before he had regarded it with pride.

He was curious to see the craft and pulled up to it.

"That is a fine boat you have there, Mr. Gale," he said.

"So I think," returned the young man. "I feel quite satisfied with it"

"When did it come down?"

"I only received it this morning."

"How much did it cost?" asked Conrad, who was not troubled by bashfulness.

"A small fortune," answered Walter Gale, with a smile. "I am afraid I must decline to give the exact figures."

"I asked because I may ask my father to buy me one like it."

Conrad was perfectly well aware that such a request would be promptly denied. Squire Carter was not disposed to be extravagant, and he had even hesitated for some time before incurring the outlay required for Conrad's present boat.

The new boat was so elegant, so graceful, and so thoroughly finished in every part, that Conrad could not help coveting it. He was not very much to be blamed, for it was one that would captivate the fancy of any boy who was fond of the water.

"I should like to try the boat some time, Mr. Gale," he said.

"If the owner is willing, I am," returned the young man.

"The owner? Why, doesn't it belong to you?" asked Conrad, in surprise.

"No; it belongs to Andy."

"That boat belong to Andy Grant?" exclaimed Conrad, with an incredulous frown.

"Yes; I have given it to him. You will have to ask his permission."

"I shall be glad to have you try it," said Andy, pleasantly.

"Thank you, but I don't think I care for it," replied Conrad, coldly.

He felt a pang of mortification to think that the farmer's son should have a boat so much superior to his own.

"If you change your mind, let me know," said Andy.

"Conrad is jealous," remarked Walter Gale. "He doesn't like to have you own a boat that is superior to his."

"I think you are right, Mr. Gale. If the case were reversed I would not mind."

"Because you are not disposed to be envious or jealous."

When Conrad returned home there was a cloud upon his brow. It was easy for any one to see that he was in bad humor.

"What is the matter, Conrad?" asked his father. "You look as if you had lost your best friend."

"I hate Andy Grant," exploded Conrad, his eyes flashing with anger.

"Why, what has Andy done now? You haven't had a fight, have you?"

"No; I wouldn't demean myself by fighting with him."

"What is it, then?"

"He is always doing something to annoy me."

"I am still in the dark."

"He has got a new boat, far handsomer than mine. I shouldn't wonder if it cost twice as much."

Squire Conrad was surprised.

"Where did he get it?" he inquired.

"It was a present from Mr. Gale, the young man at the hotel."

"He must like young Grant very much?"

"It is ridiculous that a poor boy should own such a boat."

"I don't see how we can help it," said the squire, philosophically.

He did not take the superiority of Andy's boat so much to heart as his son.

"I'll tell you how you can make it right, father."

"How?"

"By buying me a boat as good or better than the new one."

"Why should I buy you another boat? The one you have is only six months old, and it cost me a pretty penny, I assure you."

"That may be, but I shall not feel any more satisfaction in it, now that Andy has a better one."

"All this is foolish, my son."

"Then you won't buy me a new boat?"

"Most certainly I won't," said the squire, firmly.

Conrad's countenance fell, but another idea came to him.

"Suppose Andy is willing to exchange with me for something to boot?"

"You say the boat is a fine one?"

"Elegant."

"You may offer him ten dollars."

"Won't you say fifteen, father? I assure you it is worth much more than that difference."

"You can offer him ten dollars, and see what he has to say to it."

Conrad managed to see Andy the next day, and made him the offer.

"Do you think I would part with Mr. Gale's gift?" said Andy, indignantly.

"He wouldn't care; and ten dollars is a good deal of money," said Conrad, insinuatingly.

"If you offered me fifty dollars I would say the same. I am not particularly in want of money."

"I suppose you say that because you are earning three dollars a week."

"Who told you how much Mr. Gale paid me?" asked Andy, smiling.

"Then he does get three dollars a week," reflected Conrad.

He redoubled his entreaties, but Andy refused firmly.

Half an hour later Conrad met on the street a shabby figure with whom we are already acquainted. It was the tramp who figured in an encounter with Andy when on his way to Benton.

"Young gentleman," said the tramp, with a whine, "you look rich and generous. Can't you spare a poor man a trifle?"

"You look as if you drank," replied Conrad, with brutal frankness. "Your nose is red."

"That's owing to a skin disease. I have belonged to the Temperance Society for five years."

"Humph! you don't look like it. Why don't you work?"

"Because I can find nothing to do."

Here a contemptible suggestion offered itself to Conrad.

"If you will do something for me, and keep mum, I'll give you two dollars."

"I'll do it if it isn't too hard."

"Then I'll tell you what it is. There's a boat on the pond that belongs to an enemy of mine. He is always crowing over me. Now, if you'll manage this evening to set it on fire, I'll give you two dollars."

"How shall I set it on fire? With a match?"

"No; I'll supply you with some shavings, a few pieces of board, and some pitch. There won't be any trouble about it."

"Who owns the boat?"

Conrad described Andy.

"That's the boy who -- but never mind! I'll do it."

Once convinced that in this way he could get revenge on the boy who had humiliated and got the best of him, the tramp was only too willing to help Conrad in his scheme.

When Conrad went home at nine o'clock, after supplying the tramp with combustibles, he said to himself:

"There won't be much left of Andy's boat in the morning."



Chapter X.

The Tramp's Mistake.


Conrad went to bed with the comfortable conviction that before morning Andy's beautiful boat would be ruined. I am sorry to say that the meanness of the act which he had instigated did not strike him.

Whatever feeling he had was of exultation at the injury done to his enemy, as he persisted in regarding Andy.

It did seem a pity that such an elegant boat should be destroyed. If Andy would only have agreed to exchange for ten -- even fifteen -- dollars to boot, this would have been avoided.

"He was a fool not to accept," soliloquized Conrad. "He will regret it when he sees what has happened."

He got up at the usual hour and took breakfast. Every time the bell rang he thought it might be some one to bring him the desired news.

Just after supper Andy met his friend, Valentine, and told him of the beautiful gift he had received.

"Come down and look at it, Val," he said. "It is elegant."

Valentine's curiosity was excited, and he at once accepted the invitation.

He uttered an exclamation of surprise when he saw the new boat.

"It is a little beauty!" he said. "It is far ahead of Conrad's or of mine."

"Conrad wants to exchange. He offered me ten dollars to boot."

"You wouldn't think of accepting?"

"No; it is worth much more than that. Besides, it is Mr. Gale's gift, and even if he had offered fifty dollars I should still refuse."

"And you would do right, too. But are you going to leave it out all night?"

"I shall have to. I have no boathouse to put it in."

"There is room in my boathouse for two boats," said Valentine. "I will help you put it inside."

"Thank you, Val. I will be glad to pay you rent for the use of the place."

"I don't want any money, Andy; I will do it out of friendship."

"Thank you; but you mustn't forget that I am quite able to pay."

"That's true, and I am glad of it; but, all the same, I don't want any money."

"I wonder Conrad doesn't have a boathouse."

"He tells me his father has promised him one. He has not yet decided upon a location."

The two boys got into Andy's boat and rowed it a few rods till they reached the boathouse. There was no difficulty in putting it away. The boathouse was double, and there was room for two boats.

"I will have another key made, Andy, so that you can get at your boat when I am not with you."

"All right! That will be very nice."

"How do you like Mr. Gale?"

"Tiptop. I was very fortunate to fall in with him. It will be a great loss to me when he goes away."

"Is he thinking of going soon?"

"I don't think so -- I hope not."

It was later in the evening when the tramp went down to the pond, provided with the shavings and other combustibles which Conrad had provided.

Conrad, after meeting him, had gone home at once. He thought it more prudent, in view of the plot in which he was engaged, to avoid suspicion by not being seen in company with the tramp.

"Give me the two dollars now," said the tramp, when the fuel was handed him.

"Do you think I am a fool?" answered Conrad, sharply. "If I should do that, you would go off and not do the work."

"I'll do the work fast enough. I want to get even with that young rascal."

"What! Do you know him?"

"I have met him," answered the tramp, evasively. "He played me a mean trick, and I want to get even with him."

"What sort of a trick was it?"

"I will tell you some other time -- I haven't time now. I wish I had a hatchet."

"What for?"

"Then, if the fire didn't spoil the boat, I'd hack it up."

"I think I can get you a hatchet, but you must not leave it on the bank, for my father's initial, 'C,' is on it."

"All right. I'll be careful."

The hatchet was delivered to the tramp a little later.

About eight o'clock the tramp went down to the lake and looked for Andy's boat.

There was but one in sight -- Conrad's -- but he never doubted that this was the one he was to destroy. He waited till half-past eight, when he considered it dark enough for his purpose.

He carefully laid the shavings in one end of the boat, covered them over with pieces of board, which, with the help of the hatchet, he split into smaller pieces, and then set them on fire.

The flames blazed fiercely and did considerable damage to the boat, not ruining it, however. But to finish the work he used the hatchet, and hacked vigorously at the woodwork till it was mutilated and its usefulness and beauty spoiled.

The tramp contemplated this work with satisfaction.

"I've done the job pretty well," he chuckled to himself. "I'd like to be lookin' on when the boy sees it."

Now that he had done the job he wanted his pay. Conrad had agreed to meet him at an old ruined barn not far from his house at eight o'clock in the morning.

"It won't do to call for me earlier," he said, "for it might excite suspicion."

From the breakfast table Conrad directed his steps to the barn.

The tramp was sitting outside, smoking a pipe.

"I've been waiting for you," he said. "I haven't had any breakfast."

"Did you do the job?"

"Did I? Well, I reckon. That boat ain't no good any more."

"Do you think any one saw you do it?"

"No; it was pretty dark, and there wasn't no one round. It may have been found out by now. Give me the two dollars and I'll be off."

"You are sure you did the job? You are not deceiving me?"

"No, I'm not. You can go and see for yourself."

This, however, did not seem prudent. Conrad wished some one else to discover the ruined boat.

After all, there was no reason to doubt the tramp's word. His avowed hostility to Andy made it quite certain that he had done his work.

"Here's the money," he said.

"And here's the hatchet."

"I wish it was back in the toolhouse where it belongs," thought Conrad. "However, I'll manage to get it back without any one seeing me."

He decided to return to the barn at once, carrying the hatchet with him. He was not to do it without observation. Just before he reached the barn he met John Larkin.

"What are you doing with the hatchet, Conrad?"

"Oh, I have been using it in the pasture."

"I didn't know but you were going to imitate George Washington and cut down a cherry tree."

"Perhaps I have," said Conrad, with a smile.

He felt in good humor, for his plan had been carried out. He was aching to see just how badly Andy's boat was injured, and as there was no school, it being Saturday, he proposed to John Larkin to go down to the pond.

"Suppose we have a row, John," he said. "We'll take a trip across the pond."

"All right."

They were perhaps thirty rods from the pond when they met Jimmy Morris, coming from it. He seemed excited. He had been running and was breathless.

"What's the matter, Jimmy?" asked John Larkin.

Jimmy looked toward Conrad, who naturally guessed the cause of his excitement.

"Oh, Conrad," he said. "It is such a pity! I am so sorry for you!"

"Why are you sorry for me?" demanded Conrad, sharply.

"Because your boat is ruined. It is all hacked up, and has been set on fire."

"My boat! You mean Andy Grant's?"

"No, I don't. Come and see for yourself."



Chapter XI.

Conrad's Disappointment.


With his mind in a whirl, and still believing that it was Andy's boat which had been injured instead of his own, Conrad pushed on rapidly toward the pond. Yet he had an instinctive fear that his informant might be correct.

When he reached the point where his boat had been moored, he used his eyes eagerly.

It was all true! His boat -- his beautiful boat -- with which he had been perfectly satisfied till Andy received a better, was scorched and hacked up till it was clear he could never use it again, and Andy's boat was not visible anywhere. Tears of rage filled Conrad's eyes.

"It is a terrible mistake!" he ejaculated.

"Mistake! What do you mean?" asked John Larkin.

Conrad reflected that his words were betraying him.

"I don't know what I am saying," he replied, vaguely. "Yes, I do. I believe Andy Grant did this."

"Andy Grant!" repeated Jimmy Morris. "Why should he injure your boat?"

"Because he hates me."

"Andy isn't that kind of a boy. Besides, he has a newer and much handsomer boat himself."

There it was! That was what stung Conrad. His boat was second to Andy's.

As the three boys stood on the bank, a small boy, named Peter Hill, came up. He lived in the house nearest the boats.

"Did you see any one near the boat, Peter?" asked John Larkin.

"Yes, I seed a big tramp in de boat. He set it on fire."

"That explains it, Conrad!" exclaimed Jimmy Morris. "I saw the tramp myself in the village."

"Pooh!" said Conrad. "I don't believe it."

"But I seed him burnin' de boat!" persisted little Peter.

"Then why didn't you tell somebody?"

"All de folks was away and I didn't dare to go near it. He had a hatchet, too."

"I say, Conrad, let us hunt for the tramp, and, if we find him, have him arrested."

For obvious reasons this proposal of John Larkin did not meet Conrad's approval. He was afraid of what the tramp would tell.

"I'll ask my father what to do," he replied, evasively. "The mischief is done and there is no help for it."

Conrad was already looking more cheerful. An idea had come to him.

Now that the boat was destroyed, his father might be willing to buy him another, and, if so, he might be persuaded to buy one as good as Andy's, perhaps better. He turned to go home, and let the boys know that he did not care for company.

On the way, not far from his own house, he encountered the tramp. At the sight of this man, whose stupid blunder had cost him his boat, his eyes blazed with anger.

But this the tramp did not see. He slouched up to his young employer, saying, with a cunning grin:

"Well, did you see it?"

"Did I see it?" repeated Conrad, boiling over with fury. "Yes, I did."

"I did it pretty well, didn't I? I guess the boat isn't good for much now."

"You stupid fool!" blazed out Conrad. "It is my boat that you ruined. I have a great mind to have you arrested!"

"Your boat? It was the boat you pointed out to me."

"No, it wasn't. It was my own boat."

"Then where was the other boat? I didn't see but one."

"I don't know, but you might have had sense enough to know that you'd got the wrong boat."

The tramp's hopes fell. He had intended to ask for another dollar from Conrad, but he saw now that there was no chance whatever of his obtaining it.

"You'd better get out of town as soon as you can," said Conrad, roughly.

"Why should I?" demanded the tramp, sullenly.

"Because you were seen destroying the boat."

"Who saw me?"

"A small boy who lives at the next house. You might be arrested."

"If I am, I'll tell the truth. I'll tell who put me up to it."

"And I'll deny it. Do you think any one would believe your word against mine, especially as it was my boat that was ruined?"

The tramp saw the logic of this remark and walked away. He was seen no more in the village.

"Now I'll tackle father," thought Conrad.

He directed his steps homeward and informed the squire of what had happened.

His father frowned and looked displeased.

"If you are not smart enough to take care of your boat," he said, coldly, "you will have to suffer the consequences."

"But I don't see how I am to blame?"

"Have you any idea who did the mischief?"

"Perhaps Andy Grant did -- he doesn't like me."

"I don't think that very probable. You can charge him with it if you think best. But I thought you told me he had a new boat of his own?"

"So he has -- a perfect beauty! It is ever so much better than mine. I wish -- "

"Well, what do you wish?"

"That you would buy me one like his."

"Well, I like that. After losing your boat through your own carelessness, you want me to invest a large sum in another."

"Must I go without one, then?" asked Conrad, in dismay.

"It looks that way."

Conrad resorted to earnest entreaties. He was willing, now, to accept any sort of boat, for he was fond of rowing; but Squire Carter had just heard unfavorable reports from his broker about a speculation he had entered into, and he was inflexible.

"What a fool I was!" reflected Conrad, bitterly. "My boat was a good one, even if it wasn't as fine as Andy's, and now I have none. I shall have to borrow his or Valentine's when I want to go out rowing."

Later in the day he met Andy.

Andy had heard of Conrad's loss and was full of sympathy.

"Conrad," he said, "it's a shame about your boat being destroyed."

"Yes, it is pretty hard."

"The boys say a tramp did the mischief."

"I think it very likely. There was a tramp about town yesterday. I saw him myself."

"What could have been his object? Ruining the boat would not benefit him."

"It might have been out of revenge. He asked me for a quarter and I wouldn't give it to him."

This explanation occurred to Conrad on the spur of the moment.

"Can't you have him arrested?"

"He is probably out of town by this time."

"I suppose you will have a new boat?"

"Yes, after a while."

"I will lend you mine any time you wish."

"Thank you," said Conrad, but he spoke coldly and ungraciously.

It seemed to him humiliating to receive any favors from a poor boy like Andy Grant.

Two weeks later, when Andy went over to the hotel, as usual, to meet his employer and pupil, Mr. Gale said:

"I have some news for you."

"I hope it is good news."

"I don't know that you will consider it so. I shall have to leave you for a time."

Andy's face fell. This certainly was bad news.

"I have received a letter this morning," continued Walter Gale, "from an uncle living in the interior of Pennsylvania. He is not an old man -- I don't think he is much over fifty -- but he writes me that he is near his end. The doctor says he may live three months, certainly not over six. He has always been a bachelor, and I believe owns coal mines of considerable value. I was always a favorite of his, and now that he is so sick he wants me to go out and be with him in the closing weeks of his life."

"I suppose you will go?" said Andy, and he looked very sober.

"I think it is my duty -- don't you?"

"Yes, I suppose it is your duty."

Andy began to think what he should do. He had had an easy and profitable engagement with Mr. Gale, but this would now be over, and he would have to go back to farm work, or try to get a place in the village store.

The latter would yield him only two dollars and a half a week, which seemed to him very small compared with what he now received.

"I shall miss you very much, Mr. Gale," he said.

"I hope you will. I shall certainly miss you."

"It will seem very dull going to work on the farm after my pleasant days with you."

"You won't need to go to work on the farm, unless you choose to do so."

"But I must earn something; I cannot be idle."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you what arrangements I propose to make for you."

Andy looked up eagerly.



Chapter XII.

Something Unexpected.


"Our separation will only be temporary," continued Mr. Gale, "but I do not wish to leave you unprovided for during my absence, I shall allow you five dollars a week while I am away."

Andy brightened up.

"How kind you are, Mr. Gale!" he said. "I don't think you ought to do this."

Walter Gale smiled.

"I can very well afford it," he said; "so we will regard the matter as settled."

"How soon must you go?"

"I shall start to-morrow -- my preparations will be easily made. How would you like to go to New York to see me off?"

"I should be delighted," answered Andy. "I have only been to New York twice in my life."

"Then you will enjoy the day. You can take the afternoon train home."

At the farm, Mr. and Mrs. Grant heard with regret of Mr. Gale's departure, but they were pleased to hear that Andy would be in receipt of an income.

"How will you fill up your time, Andy?" asked his father.

"I have my books, and will keep up my Latin and Greek. I will pay you four dollars a week, and you can hire a boy for that to help you. I think I can spend my time more profitably in studying."

"Do you think Mr. Gale will return?"

"He has promised to do so. I am to see him off to-morrow."

"Are you going to trust that boy alone in New York?" asked his Aunt Jane, with asperity.

"Why, what could happen to me?" asked Andy, indignantly.

"You might get run over."

"I am not a little boy, Aunt Jane. I can take care of myself."

"You may meet with an accident for all your smartness."

"I think Andy is old enough to take care of himself," said his father, mildly.

"Oh, well! have it your own way. You can't say but I've warned you," and she sniffed severely.

"I wonder what makes Aunt Jane so disagreeable," thought Andy.

"Perhaps you'd like to go and take care of him," suggested Mr. Grant, with a smile. "You are old enough to take care of yourself."

"You needn't twit me with my age, Sterling," said Jane, with an injured sniff.

"I don't. Old age is honorable."

This made matters worse.

"You talk as if I was seventy-five. I don't consider myself an old person."

In spite of the melancholy presentiment of Aunt Jane, Andy set out for New York with Mr. Gale. An hour and a half brought them to the metropolis.

"I should like to show you something of the city, Andy," said his companion, "but I shall have to spend the time in shopping."

"I shall see something of the city if I go about with you."

"That is true."

At one o'clock they went to the Sinclair House, on Broadway, to dine. They selected a table where there was but one other guest, who seemed known to Walter Gale.

"Good-morning, Mr. Flint," said the young man.

"Ah, it's you, Walter, is it?" returned the other, a stout man, whose hair was beginning to grow gray.

"Yes."

"I haven't seen you for a long time. Where have you been?"

"Rusticating in a Connecticut town."

"Is the young man with you a brother? But, no; I remember that you have no brother."

"He isn't related to me, but I think as much of him as if he were. His name is Andrew Grant."

"A good name. Is he attending school?"

"He has recently left school."

"If he were seeking a position I could find a place for him."

"In your own employ?"

"Yes. I have a boy, but I don't find him reliable or faithful. He will leave me on Saturday night."

"Andy," said his friend, "how would you like to enter Mr. Flint's employ?"

"Very much," answered Andy, eagerly.

At the same time he wondered what was the nature of Mr. Flint's business.

"Then after dinner we will walk together to Mr. Flint's store in Union Square."

"There is my card," said Mr. Flint.

Andy received it and read the name:

F. Flint,

Union Square.

Jewelry.

The two men conversed together, and when dinner was over they walked up Broadway to Fourteenth Street. Turning the left-hand corner, they soon reached a jewelry store of modest appearance, but evidently containing a valuable stock.

A youth with light-brown hair, who seemed to have been born tired, was leaning against the counter. This, doubtless, was the boy who was not satisfactory.

"John," said Mr. Flint, "have you carried the parcel to Forty-eighth Street?"

"No, sir," answered the boy.

"Why not?"

"I thought it would do just as well after lunch."

"There you are mistaken. Put on your hat at once and go," said his employer, sharply.

"You see," went on Mr. Flint, after the boy had started, "the trouble I have with John. He needs to be looked after continually."

"You won't have that trouble with Andy."

"No, I think not."

Walter Gale accompanied Mr. Flint to the back part of the store, where they held a conversation in a low tone. Presently Walter Gale came back, and signified to Andy that they must be going.

"Mr. Flint will expect you to present yourself for duty on Tuesday morning," he said. "You will reach the store at eight o'clock."

"All right, sir."

On returning to the street, Walter Gale said:

"I propose to take the next train for Philadelphia. You may accompany me to the Cortlandt Street station. Can you find your way from there to the Grand Central Depot?"

"Yes, sir."

"You will get there in time to take the afternoon train back to Arden. You haven't asked me what salary you are to receive."

"I should like to know, sir."

"Five dollars a week, which is better than is generally paid to a new boy."

"Will it pay my expenses, Mr. Gale?" asked Andy, doubtfully.

"No; but you remember that I promised you five dollars a week. Instead of paying it to you I will give you a note to Mrs. Norris, who keeps a comfortable boarding house on Clinton Place. She knows me well, and will assign you a room, looking to me for payment. That will leave you five dollars a week for your personal expenses, clothing, etc."

"I shall be rich, Mr. Gale, thanks to your kindness."

"Mind, Andy, I am to have you back whenever I want you. Probably I may spend some weeks with my uncle, and during this time you may as well work for Mr. Flint."

"Do you think I shall suit him?" asked Andy, with some anxiety.

"I feel sure of it. You will find him strict in business, but kind and reasonable. I shall expect to hear from you soon after you enter upon your duties. I shall find life pretty dull at my uncle's house, and your letters will bring something of the excitement of the outside world to me."

"I will write you every week, Mr. Gale."

"If it won't be asking too much of you, I shall be glad to have you do so."

Andy crossed the ferry with Mr. Gale, and then returning at once, took the four o'clock train for Arden.

His news created considerable stir at home. All were pleased except Aunt Jane.

"Brother," she said, "are you going to trust Andy alone in New York?"

"Yes, Jane; he must begin to rely upon himself some time, and he may as well begin now."

"It's temptin' Providence, in my opinion."

"It might be so with some boys, but I have faith in Andy's prudence and good sense."

"He ain't any different from other boys, as you will find."

But in spite of these ominous words Andy made arrangements to leave Arden on Monday morning. He looked forward eagerly to his new life in New York.



Chapter XIII.

Andy Leaves Home.


Conrad was not slow in learning of Mr. Gale's departure from the hotel. The intelligence pleased him, for, as he supposed, it threw Andy out of employment. He sought an early opportunity of speaking to him on the subject.

At five o'clock in the afternoon the mail came in at the post office. Among those who congregated there at the time were Conrad and Andy.

"So you've lost your place?" began Conrad, abruptly.

"What do you mean?" asked Andy.

"Mr. Gale has left town, hasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Where has he gone?"

"To Pennsylvania, to stay with an uncle who is very sick."

"Do you think he will come back to Arden?"

"I don't know, but I think it is doubtful."

"I suppose, then, you will go back to work on the farm?"

Andy smiled.

"Things might be worse," he said.

"Yes. I think it is the best thing you can do."

"Why do you think so?"

"Oh, well, you are a poor boy, and there is nothing else for you to do."

"Did you ever think of becoming a farmer?"

"I should say not," replied Conrad, haughtily. "I shall probably be a lawyer or a merchant."

"I might become a merchant myself -- some day."

Conrad laughed.

"When you do," he said, "let me know."

"I will."

"By the way, you won't want that boat of yours now."

"Why not?"

"You won't get time to use it. I'll give you twenty dollars for it."

"It is not for sale," answered Andy, firmly.

"It will be after a while," said Conrad, in a self-satisfied tone. "I will see the time when you will be glad enough to get the money I offer."

During the few days that Andy remained at home he did some work on the farm. Mr. Grant's boy helper was sick with a cold, and Andy stepped into his place.

The next time of Conrad's meeting him he was at work digging potatoes. Conrad smiled and nodded. He felt quite friendly as he witnessed what he considered Andy's humiliation.

"My father may give you a little job," he said, as he leaned over the fence.

"What is it?"

"He needs some work done round the house. He will pay you fifty cents a day. When can you come?"

"Just at present I am too busy. If I can spare the time I will let you know."

"I like to see upstarts brought down to their level," thought Conrad. "Andy Grant won't be putting on any more airs, I reckon."

On Monday morning Andy stood on the platform of the railroad station with a good-sized gripsack in his hand. He was about starting for New York to enter upon his duties at the jewelry store.

Swinging a light cane, Conrad Carter appeared on the platform with his father, who was going to the city on business. With a good deal of surprise he recognized Andy.

"Where are you going?" he asked, abruptly, with a glance at the gripsack.

"To New York," answered Andy.

"What business have you there?"

"I have a position in a store on Union Square. I shall be pleased to have you call when you are in the city."

Conrad was greatly surprised.

"What kind of a store is it?" he asked.

"A jewelry store. I haven't a card with me, but will send you one."

Conrad didn't appear to be glad at Andy's good fortune. He had made up his mind that his humble rival, as he chose to consider him, would be obliged to work on the farm, and now he had found a way to avoid it.

"I think your father will have to find some one else to assist him," Andy continued; "you see, I shall be otherwise occupied."

"What pay will you receive?"

"If you will excuse me, I would rather not tell."

"Oh, just as you like. Where will you live? Will you sleep in the store?"

"No; I am to board on Clinton Place, with a Mrs. Norris."

"Did you know about this when we were talking the other day?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I would have done so if I had known how much interest you took in my plans."

The rumble of the approaching train was heard, and Andy was obliged to enter a car. It chanced that it was unusually full, and Andy found but one vacant seat -- the one beside Squire Carter.

The squire now noticed Andy for the first time.

"Where are you going, Andrew?" he asked.

"To New York, sir."

"On any special errand?"

"I am going to work there."

"Indeed! What kind of a place?"

"I shall have a place with Mr. Flint, of Union Square, a jeweler."

"I suppose Mr. Gale obtained you the place?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am not sure that you are acting wisely. I doubt if you can make expenses. What are you to be paid?"

"Five dollars a week."

"That is very fair pay for a boy of your age, but it won't go very far in New York."

"I suppose New York is an expensive place to live in," said Andy, noncommittally.

"Yes. You will have to pay all your wages for board. Your other expenses will have to come out of your father's pocket."

"I may be advanced."

"It will be a good while, first. You seem to be acting very injudiciously."

This remark did not trouble Andy. As his board was to be paid by Mr. Gale, his salary would be practically ten dollars a week; but this he did not care to tell.

"Country boys are always in a stew to get work in the city," observed the squire. "If they would only take the advice of their elders, they would see that it is better to stay in the country."

"They think probably that there is more chance of advancement in the city. Horace Greeley never would have risen to distinction if he had remained in his native village."

"Ahem! there are exceptions. What is the number of the store where you will be employed?"

Andy told him.

"I may call in upon you some time. I am often in the city on business."

"I shall be glad if you will," said Andy, sincerely. "It will seem pleasant to me to see an Arden face."

Andy got out of the cars at the Grand Central Depot. He was not quite sure of his way to Clinton Place, but he was not in the least disturbed. He was naturally self-reliant.

He asked the question of a gentleman, and was advised to take a Fourth Avenue car through the tunnel as far as Eighth Street, but he thought he should prefer to walk, as it would enable him to enjoy the sights and scenes of the metropolis. All these were fresh and interesting to him.

He had gone but a dozen steps from the depot when a plausible stranger of thirty-five years, apparently, stopped him.

"Young man, may I have a word with you?" he asked.

"If you wish."

"I speak to you, because I judge from your appearance that you have a good, kind heart."

"I hope you are right, sir."

"I am very awkwardly placed. My sister is very sick in Yonkers and has sent for me. On my way to the depot in a horse car I had my pocket picked, and I have not enough money to get to the bedside of my poor sister. If you would kindly lend me a quarter -- "

Andy was kind-hearted, and he was not versed in city wiles. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a twenty-five-cent silver coin.

"I am glad to help you," he said, as he passed the coin to the applicant.

"You have a noble heart. I thank you," said the stranger, feelingly.

Andy felt pleased to think that he had done the man a favor, but his satisfaction was short-lived.

A stout, pleasant-looking man who had caught sight of the conference addressed him.

"Did you give that man any money?" he asked.

"Yes sir."

"What did he need it for?"

"His pocket had been picked, and he wanted to go to Yonkers to visit his sick sister."

His new friend laughed.

"That's a new story," he said. "The man is an arrant fraud. Your money will be spent for drink. He has no sick sister."

This was quite a shock to Andy. He saw that he had been victimized, and must hereafter be on his guard against plausible strangers.



Chapter XIV.

The First Day In New York.


By dint of a little inquiry Andy found his way to Mrs. Norris' boarding house in Clinton Place. It was a plain three-story-and-basement house of brick and looked thoroughly respectable.

Andy took a general view of it, and thought he should take it. To his country eyes it looked quite aristocratic. It was higher than any house in Arden, even Squire Carter's.

He ascended the steps and rang the bell.

It was answered by a Swedish girl named Eva, a blond girl of the true Scandinavian type.

"Is Mrs. Norris at home?" he asked.

"She is upstairs," was the reply.

"I should like to see her."

"Who shall I tell her calls?"

"She won't know my name. Tell her it is some one with a letter from Mr. Walter Gale."

"Won't you step in?"

She ushered Andy into a small reception room opening from the hall. It was a very small room, provided with a sofa, one chair and a writing desk. Just over the sofa hung an engraving of Washington crossing the Delaware.

Andy sat down on the sofa and placed his gripsack in front of him. There was nothing to occupy his mind, so he sat patiently, wondering what sort of a looking woman the landlady might be.

Soon there was a rustle of garments, and a stout, pleasant-looking lady, of perhaps fifty, wearing a small cap set off with red ribbons, entered the room.

"Mrs. Norris?" said Andy, inquiringly, rising out of respect.

"Yes, I am Mrs. Norris. Eva told me you had a letter from Mr. -- I didn't catch the name."

"Mr. Walter Gale."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Gale. I know him very well."

"Did he ever board here?"

"No; he boarded at one of the hotels. Mr. Gale is a rich man."

She took the letter and read it.

"Mr. Gale asks if I can take you to board, and offers to pay your board. He must be a great friend of yours?"

"He is. I hope the arrangement will be satisfactory."

"Quite so. I couldn't wish any better paymaster than Mr. Gale. Are you going to work in the city?"

"Yes. I have a place in Mr. Flint's jewelry store on Union Square."

"Really? That is quite a high-toned place. I got my best spoons there."

"Have you got a room for me?" asked Andy, a little anxiously.

"Yes, I've got a small hall bedroom. I suppose you didn't expect a square room?"

"It would be too expensive."

"It wouldn't be if you had a roommate. There's a gentleman on the third floor front, a Mr. Warren. He is sickly, and writes for some of the papers. He told me he would like a roommate; but perhaps you would prefer a small room alone?"

"I should."

"Then I've a small room on the same floor. It was occupied till last week by a music teacher, but he was three weeks behind in his rent and I had to let him go. It's a trying business, keeping a boarding house, Mr. -- "

"Grant," suggested Andy.

"Yes. That's a good name. I suppose you're in nowise related to the general?"

"No; I wish I was."

"If you will follow me upstairs I'll show you the room. You can bring your valise."

Andy took it in his hand and followed the landlady up two flights of stairs. She panted a little, being a stout lady, but Andy would have run upstairs if he had been alone.

On the upper floor there were three rooms, the doors of all being open.

"That is Mr. Warren's room," said Mrs. Norris, pointing to the front apartment.

It was a room of about fourteen feet square, and was neatly furnished. It contained a double bed and the usual chamber furniture.

"It will accommodate two gentlemen nicely," said Mrs. Norris. "Perhaps, after you get acquainted with Mr. Warren, you may strike up a bargain to room with him."

"I don't think I should like to room with a sickly gentleman."

"Well, there is something in that. One night Mr. Warren had a fit -- I don't know what kind of one -- and rolled onto the floor. I room just underneath, and I was very much frightened."

"It would have frightened me, too, if I had roomed with him."

"Well, fits ain't very pleasant, I allow."

"Who rooms in the third room, next to mine?"

"A young man of eighteen, named Perkins. I don't rightly know what sort of a place he is in. I think it's a neckwear store on Spring Street."

Andy was rather glad to learn that there was one boarder somewhere near his own age.

He did not think he should enjoy the acquaintance of Mr. Warren. He was prejudiced against him by the knowledge that he was sickly and had fits.

"There are other boarders on my second floor. You will make their acquaintance at the table."

"What are your hours for meals, Mrs. Norris?"

"We have lunch from twelve to one. Breakfast is from seven to nine, and we have dinner from six to seven, though in the case of a boarder who is kept later by business we stretch a point, and try to accommodate him. I hope that will suit you."

"Oh, I am sure it will."

"Shall you be at lunch to-day?"

"No, I don't think so. I am going to explore the city a little."

"Very few of my boarders are present at lunch. Still there is a bite for them, if they do come."

"I would like to wash, if you will send up some water and a towel."

"Eva will bring them right up. Have you soap of your own?"

"Yes."

"Gentlemen often prefer providing their own. If you will give me your name in full, I will enter it on my books."

"My name is Andrew Grant."

"Very well."

"What is your rate of board? Mr. Gale will pay it, but I should like to know what it is."

"Five dollars a week for your room. Mr. Warren pays seven, but he has a large room to himself. If you should decide to room with him, I shall charge you five dollars apiece."

"Thank you; I don't think we shall come to any agreement."

She went downstairs, and Andy surveyed his room with interest.

It was certainly small -- quite the narrowest room he had ever seen. There was one window from which he had a view of the back yard, rather a forlorn-looking space. There was a cat perched on the high, board fence separating the yard from that of the adjoining house.

Andy liked cats, and called out "Pussy." The cat looked up, and mewed her recognition and acknowledgment of the friendly overture. Then Eva came up with a pitcher of water and a towel.

"Will one do you?" she asked. "The rest are in the wash, and I'll bring you another this evening."

"One will be sufficient for the present."

"So you're comin' here to live?" she said, sociably.

"Yes, Eva."

"I hope you don't have fits, like Mr. Warren."

"I don't think I ever had one yet," answered Andy, with a smile.

"I'm glad of that. I'm afraid of gentlemen that have fits."

Eva went downstairs, and Andy proceeded to make his ablutions. It was a dusty day, and the water was refreshing.

After he had washed his face and hands he opened his gripsack and took out his brush and comb, which he placed on a tiny bureau in one corner of the room. It contained two drawers, and in one of them he put away the contents of the valise.

By this time it was half-past ten, and he put on his hat and went downstairs. He went out into the street, and after a moment of indecision walked to Broadway. He thought he could not do better than to walk down this wonderful thoroughfare, of which he had heard so much.

It did occur to him that he might report at the jewelry store, but he would see enough of that hereafter and he preferred to take a little walk about the city.

Andy used his eyes to good advantage. He looked in at the shop windows, and watched the human tide that swept by him.

Finally he found himself accosted by one of the passersby.

"My young friend, could you oblige me with a quarter to take me to Newark? My pocket has been picked, and -- "

All this seemed familiar. Andy looked up and recognized at once the stranger whom he had relieved in front of the Grand Central Depot.

"When did you get back from Yonkers?" he asked, abruptly.

"I never was in Yonkers."

"I gave you a quarter only an hour or two ago to get to your sick sister in Yonkers."

Muttering that there was some mistake, the man hurried away, looking confused.

"I wonder if I shall ever meet him again?" thought Andy.



Chapter XV.

Andy's Opposite Neighbor.


Andy walked about the city, using his eyes industriously. At one o'clock he went into a restaurant on Park Row, where he got a fair lunch for twenty-five cents.

This was more than he intended to pay usually, but on this first day in the city he did not care to go back to the boarding house.

After lunch he made his way to the entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge, and got into one of the cars. He enjoyed the prospect visible from the windows, and felt that this alone would pay him for visiting New York.

Just before they reached the other end there was a cry of alarm from a stout German woman who sat on the other side of the car.

"I've been robbed!" she exclaimed. "My purse is gone!"

Of course this attracted general attention.

"Was there much in the purse, madam?" asked a kind-looking, elderly man.

"Yes, there was six dollars -- it was a great deal to me."

"Are you sure you had it when you entered the car?"

"Yes; I took it out of my pocket when I paid for a ticket."

"I think your pocket must have been picked."

Sitting next to the woman was a man who seemed absorbed in reading a morning newspaper; even the woman's complaint did not appear to excite his attention.

This led Andy to move his head to get a nearer view of him. He started in surprise. It was the adventurer, whom he had already met twice that morning. He had little doubt that he was the thief.

It was perhaps somewhat rash to hazard a charge without proof, but he felt indignant and could not resist the impulse.

"I think that man has your purse," he said, pointing to the individual behind the newspaper.

"This is an outrage!" exclaimed the latter, with assumed anger. "I am a Boston merchant."

He was respectably dressed, and the charge did not seem very plausible.

"My boy, you should be careful how you make such charges," said his next neighbor, reprovingly.

But Andy was not abashed.

"I know something of that man," he said, quietly. "I have met him twice this morning."

"Has he robbed you?"

"No; but he asked me to give him a quarter to take him to his sick sister in Yonkers. This was at the Grand Central Depot; an hour or two later I met him on Broadway, and he wanted money to take him to Newark."

"The boy is entirely mistaken," said the adventurer.

At the same instant, under cover of the newspaper, he adroitly let the stolen purse drop to the floor at his feet.

By this time the cars had reached the Brooklyn end of the bridge.

"Why, there is your purse," exclaimed the adventurer, with a sudden glance downward. "You must have dropped it."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said the poor woman, overjoyed.

"I hope you won't suspect a gentleman again," said the thief, in lofty indignation.

"No, I won't, sir. I was sure you didn't take it."

Andy, who had seen the trick, smiled, but he was satisfied with the recovery of the purse.

The passengers looked puzzled. They had not made up their minds as to the guilt or innocence of the man charge with the theft.

"You see, young man," said Andy's neighbor, in a tone of reproof, "you were mistaken."

Andy smiled again.

"I saw him drop the purse on the floor," he answered, quietly.

"Bless my soul! Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

The passengers left the car, Andy and the thief among them.

Andy lost track of his acquaintance till, as they reached Fulton Street, he heard some one hissing in his ear:

"Boy, you are too fresh! I'll get even with you yet!"

Then the thief, passing him rapidly, got into a Myrtle Avenue car, and this was the last he saw of him for that day.

Andy walked about the streets of Brooklyn for a while and returned by Fulton Ferry. Then he went back to his boarding place, arriving there between three and four o'clock.

As he went up to his room he noticed that the door of the large room opposite was open. A young man, of about thirty, was sitting in a rocking-chair, reading.

He was of medium height and sallow complexion. He wore his hair long, and had a high, narrow forehead.

"I suppose that is the man who has fits," thought Andy.

The young man had noticed Andy's entrance into his own room, and, rising from the rocking-chair, crossed the hall and knocked lightly at the door.

"Come in," said Andy.

"I suppose this is Mr. Grant," began the young man, bowing. "I am Mr. Warren, and live in the room opposite."

"Won't you come in and sit down?" asked Andy, with a glance at the only chair the room contained.

"Don't let me take your only chair. I'll sit on the bed, if you don't mind."

"Make yourself at home, Mr. Warren," said Andy, with easy cordiality.

"So you know my name?"

"Mrs. Norris spoke to me of you."

"Did she? What did she say?" asked the young man, showing some curiosity.

"I think she said you were literary -- that you wrote for some of the magazines."

"Yes; I am very fond of writing. Do you write?"

"Not for publication."

"Ah, yes, I see. You would be rather young for an author."

"Are you connected with any particular magazine?"

"No. I am a free lance. I contribute to several. I have just sent an article to the Century."

Andy was rather surprised, for he knew that the Century held high rank among contemporary magazines. It did not occur to him that any one might send an article to that magazine, but that to have it accepted and published would be a different matter.

"I suppose you enjoy writing?"

"Yes; there is nothing I like so well."

"Perhaps you will show me some of your articles."

"I can show you a poem which appeared last week in the village paper at home."

"Thank you, I should like to see it."

Mr. Warren went up to his room, and speedily returned with a small weekly paper.

On the front page, at the head of the first column, was a short poem by G. Byron Warren. This was the first stanza, which Mr. Warren volunteered to read aloud:

"'I'd like to be a robin, And flit from bough to bough; I'd pour sweet music on the air If God would teach me how.'"

"I don't quite like that last line," he said looking up from the paper. "Can you suggest any improvement?"

"You might say, 'And charm the pensive cow,'" suggested Andy, mischievously.

"True, that might be a striking figure. I will consider it when I revise the poem for publication in book form."

The rest of the poem was of similar quality.

"I don't think they would accept that for the Century," thought Andy.

"Do you devote yourself to literary work, or are you in business?" he asked.

"I may go into business, but at present I only write. I send a letter once a month to the Greenville Banner."

"I suppose they pay?"

"Oh -- ah, yes," answered the poet, in a hesitating voice, "but the terms are strictly confidential. If you ever pick up any incidents in your daily walks, Mr. Grant, I shall be glad if you will communicate them to me, that I may weave them into my correspondence."

"With pleasure."

Then it occurred to Andy to tell his neighbor about the street adventurer whom he had met three times that morning.

"Capital!" exclaimed Warren. "I will get that into my next letter. I see, Mr. Grant, you have an observing eye. You would make a good reporter for one of the city dailies."

"Do you think so?" asked Andy, feeling complimented.

"I am sure of it."

"How long have you lived in the city, Mr. Warren?"

"About three months. Some time I will tell you why I came here," he continued, with an air of mystery.

"I shall be glad to hear."

"I will tell you now, for I see you have a sympathetic soul. I loved, and my love was returned, but a heartless parent interposed and separated two loving hearts."

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Andy hardly knew whether to laugh or to express sympathy.

"I suppose that often happens?" he said, rather lamely. "Perhaps he may yet repent."

"I live in that hope. When I have become famous, I will go back and offer myself again to Sophia. I suppose you have had no heart experiences as yet, Mr. Grant?"

"Not as yet, but I can sympathize with you."

"I am so glad you have come. I shall make you my confidential friend."

Then the conversation drifted into other channels.



Chapter XVI.

Andy At Work.


Punctually as the clock struck eight the next morning Andy entered the store of Mr. Flint on Union Square. He looked for his employer, but the jeweler seldom arrived before nine, his residence being in Harlem.

Behind the counter, arranging the goods in one of the cases, was a man with reddish hair who might at a guess be thirty-five years of age. It was Mr. Flint's head clerk, Simon Rich, who had been absent when Andy made his first call.

"What can I do for you, boy?" he asked, superciliously.

"Is Mr. Flint in?"

"No. You can tell me your business."

"I have come here to work."

"Oh!"

This exclamation was long-drawn out. Mr. Rich then proceeded to examine Andy from head to foot in a manner which was extremely offensive.

Andy understood that for some reason this man would be his enemy. He would have understood his hostility better had he known that the boy just discharged was the head clerk's nephew.

"I suppose you are well acquainted with the business?" remarked Rich, with a sneer.

"I know nothing about it."

"Humph! you stand a chance of being very useful."

"I hope to become familiar with it soon," said Andy, coloring.

"Suppose you sweep out, to begin with."

He pointed out the broom, and Andy went to work.

"I wish he were a more agreeable man," thought Andy. "I am afraid he will make my position unpleasant."

Here a customer came in, and Mr. Rich was occupied for the next ten minutes.

The customer, a lady, bought a gold chain.

"Shall I send it?" asked the clerk.

"Yes, but not till twelve o'clock."

"To what address?"

She gave a number on Fifty-sixth Street.

"Very well."

"There will be an errand for you," said Rich, as he put back the chains not selected.

Andy nodded. He felt that he would rather be absent on an errand than in the company of Simon Rich.

"Where did Mr. Flint pick you up?" inquired Rich.

This was rude, but Andy felt that it would not be politic to get into a quarrel with the head clerk so soon.

"We met at lunch," he said.

"Where?"

"At the Sinclair House."

"Had you never seen him before?"

"No."

"Queer that he should engage you at such short notice!"

"He was acquainted with the gentleman I was with."

"What name?"

"Walter Gale."

"Yes, I have seen him. Are you related to Mr. Gale?"

"No."

"Are you aware that the boy you have displaced -- John Crandall -- is my nephew?"

"No, sir; I didn't know it. I am sorry he has lost his place."

"He is a good boy, but Mr. Flint became prejudiced against him. Did he say anything about him when he engaged you?"

"I believe he said that he was not satisfactory, but as I did not know him I did not notice."

Another customer came in, and at nine o'clock Mr. Flint entered.

"I see you are on hand," he said, pleasantly, to Andy.

"Yes, sir."

"When did you come to the city?"

"Yesterday, sir."

"Have you a boarding place?"

"Yes, sir, in Clinton Place. I was recommended to it by Mr. Gale."

"That is well. Mr. Rich, this is the new boy."

"So he told me," said Rich, coldly.

"Have you had any customers?"

"Yes, sir. There is one article to be sent -- a gold chain -- to Mrs. Mason, of Fifty-sixth Street."

"Any time mentioned?"

"Twelve o'clock."

"You can send Andrew at that time."

"Very well, sir."

Andy was very glad of his employer's presence. It checked any manifestation of rudeness on the part of the clerk.

At quarter to twelve a box containing the chain was handed to Andy, addressed to Mrs. Mason.

"Did you notice the lady who purchased the chain?" asked Mr. Flint.

"Yes, sir."

"I wish this box placed in her hands. Ask her to give you a receipt for it."

"Yes, sir."

"Here is money for car fare. You may go to lunch after delivering the box."

"Yes, sir."

Andy took a Broadway car, and just after twelve reached the house. The door was opened by a man-servant.

"I have a parcel for Mrs. Mason," said Andy.

"All right; I'll take it."

"I am only to deliver it into her hands."

"She isn't at home."

"Then I will wait for her. She said she would be here at twelve."

The man was about to speak rudely, when a lady mounted the steps.

"Are you from Mr. Flint?" she asked.

"Yes, madam."

"I am Mrs. Mason."

"I remember you," said Andy, bowing. "Will you be kind enough to give me a receipt?"

"Certainly. Step into the hall, and I won't keep you waiting long."

Andy sat down.

"Why didn't you give me the parcel, boy?" asked the servant.

"Because you are not Mrs. Mason. I had strict orders to deliver it to her."

"Humph! that is being mighty particular."

"I have nothing to do with Mr. Flint's rules."

Mrs. Mason returned almost immediately.

"Here is the receipt, and thank you," she said, pleasantly.

Andy bowed, and opened the door to go out.

"I am afraid I have interfered with your lunch," she said.

"I am going to it now, thank you."

"My lunch is just ready. Perhaps you will accept an invitation to lunch with me?"

"I shall be very glad to do so."

Andy had been brought up as a gentleman, and was not at all embarrassed, as some boys would have been, by this attention from a lady.

"Follow me, then," she said, as she led the way downstairs to the front basement.

A small table was set there, and Mrs. Mason pointed to a seat.

"You are my only guest," she said. "My boy is out of town just at present. Shall I help you to some cold chicken?"

"Thank you."

Besides the chicken there was bread and butter, some kind of preserve, and hot tea. It was all very plain, but Andy enjoyed it.

"I ought to know the name of my guest," said Mrs. Mason.

"My name is Andrew Grant."

"Have you been long at Mr. Flint's?"

"This is my first day."

"I hope you will find the situation a pleasant one. You are not a city boy?"

"No, I came from Arden."

They were waited upon at table by Gustave, the man who had treated Andy rudely.

He did not look at all pleasant at having to wait upon the boy from "Flint's," and evidently considered his mistress very eccentric.

Mrs. Mason gossiped pleasantly, and evidently enjoyed her young company.

"That is better than eating alone," she said, as she rose from the table. "I feel quite well acquainted with you, Andrew. You must come up sometime when my boy is at home. He is a year or two younger than you, but I think you will get on together."

"I shall be very glad to come," replied Andy, gratefully. "Thank you for all your kindness."

He went back to the store at once.

"You are back early," said Mr. Flint.

"Yes, sir; Mrs. Mason invited me to lunch, and that saved time."

Simon Rich looked surprised. His nephew had never received so much attention from a customer.



Chapter XVII.

Andy's Fellow Boarders.


As time went on, Andy became sensible that Simon Rich was indeed no friend of his. He was watched with a cold vigilance that was nothing less than a lookout for imperfections. Andy saw that it would be necessary for him to be unusually careful and attentive to his duties.

Mr. Flint, on the other hand, was always kind and cordial, notwithstanding the slighting words from Mr. Rich.

One day when Andy returned from lunch he found a boy talking with Simon Rich. He recognized him as his predecessor.

The boy, John Crandall, looked at him with an ill-natured glance. As Simon Rich did not see fit to introduce him he did not speak. When Rich went out to lunch John Crandall accompanied him.

"Don't you think there is any chance of my getting back, Uncle Simon?" asked John.

"Not at present. That boy you saw seems to have the inside track with Mr. Flint."

"What sort of a boy is he?"

"He's too fresh. I don't like him."

"What made Mr. Flint take him on?"

"Heaven knows; I don't."

"Do you think he is likely to stay?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Can't you prejudice Mr. Flint against him?"

"I will if I can. I am looking for a chance to get him into trouble, but it isn't easy, as he is a goody-goody sort of a boy. He tries to get in with people. You know Mrs. Mason, of Fifty-sixth Street?"

"Yes; I have carried purchases there."

"The very first day he was here he went there with a chain, and she invited him to lunch."

"You don't mean it?" exclaimed John, in surprise. "She never took any notice of me."

They went to the Dairy Restaurant, on Union Square, for lunch.

"Uncle Simon," said John, when they were going out, "can't you give me fifty cents? You know I haven't a cent of money, now that my salary is stopped."

"What do you want fifty cents for?" demanded his uncle, frowning.

"I want to go to the Grand Opera House to-night. I haven't been to the theater for two weeks."

"And you can't expect to while you are not earning anything."

"But that isn't my fault," pleaded John.

"Yes, it is. You neglected your duties at Flint's, and he saw it. That is why you lost your place."

"It is pretty hard going about without a cent of money in your pocket."

"Then you should have kept your place. Have you been around to look for another position?"

"No; I thought you would get me back into Flint's."

"I don't think there is much chance, but I will try to get the other boy out."

"I hope you'll do that; I hate the sight of him. I feel as if he had turned me out of my place."

"How do you like the new boy, Mr. Rich?" asked the jeweler at the end of the first week.

"I don't care much for him," said Simon Rich, coldly.

"What is the matter with him? Does he neglect his work?"

"No," Rich admitted, unwillingly.

"What have you against him, then?"

"He has a sneaking way about him."

"On the contrary, he seems to me to be unusually frank and open."

"He is trying to get into your good graces."

"Well, that is proper, isn't it?

"Yes, but -- "

"Well?"

"I think he will bear watching."

"Surely you don't suspect him of dishonesty."

"Still waters run deep," said the clerk, sententiously.

Mr. Flint smiled to himself as he turned away. He understood that the secret of his head clerk's prejudice was the fact that Andy had taken the place of his nephew.

Meanwhile Andy had got well acquainted at his boarding house. Besides Mr. Warren he found his next neighbor, Sam Perkins, quite sociable.

Sam was a youth of eighteen, and was employed in a furnishing-goods store on lower Broadway. He was fortunate in the location of his store, as he finished work at half-past five, and was able to be at supper at the regular hour. He seemed rather fond of dress and indulged in a variety of showy neckties, being able to get them at wholesale rates.

He introduced himself to Andy the first evening.

"What pay do you get?" he asked.

"Five dollars a week."

"I get seven, but it's too small. A man can't live on it. Why, my car fare costs me sixty cents a week."

"It must be rather a tight squeeze."

"The folks at home allow me two dollars a week besides. You see, the governor's got money. But I tell you money melts away in New York."

"No doubt. There are a good many ways of spending money here."

"Suppose we go to the theater to-night."

"I would rather wait a while. This is my first night in the city."

"Have you got acquainted with old Warren?"

"You mean the occupant of the large room opposite?"

"Yes."

"I have talked with him a little."

"How do you like him?"

"I don't know him well enough to judge," said Andy, cautiously.

"He's a crank -- and soft at that. Pretends that he is literary and writes for the magazines."

"He does, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he writes for them, but I don't think his articles get printed. He just sits round and writes, and isn't any company at all. I have tried to get him to go to the theater, but he won't. Once I was hard up -- hadn't but a nickel -- and asked him to lend me a quarter. He wouldn't."

"Very likely he hasn't got much money."

"That's right. Did you ever see such shabby neckties as he wears?"

"He hasn't your advantages about getting new neckties," said Andy, with a smile, for he had already learned where Sam was at work.

"How do you like the tie I have on? It's a stunner, isn't it?" asked Sam, complacently.

"It's very showy."

"I get a new necktie every week. You see, I get them at half price. Girls always notice your necktie."

"Then I don't think they'll pay me much attention."

"Your tie is too sober, that's a fact. Better let me bring you one. I can get it half off. They won't know but it's for me."

"Thank you. I may by and by accept your offer. Now, I don't want to spend any extra money."

At the table Andy was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Osborn, who did not appear to be long married. She was tall, angular and thirty-five. He was at least five years younger. He had married her for her money, but she let him have little advantage of it, dealing it out in small sums.

He occupied a small clerkship at eight dollars a week, out of which he had to pay his own board, while his wife, who had an income from property of a thousand dollars a year, defrayed her own expenses, and occasionally allowed him a dollar or two.

He was much better looking than his wife, and it was this, perhaps, that made her jealous if he looked at another woman. The particular object of her jealousy was a Miss Manson, who held a business position at an uptown milliner's. She was pleasant and piquant.

There was also a Mr. Kimball, who was a salesman at Hearn's. He liked to discuss financial problems, and felt that he should have been a banker, but found no one to talk with, as Mr. Osborn's ideas on finance were elementary.

Indeed, Mrs. Osborn was the only one at the table who was competent to converse with him on his favorite subject.

"Miss Manson, may I pass you the sugar?" asked Mr. Osborn on the first occasion of Andy's appearing at dinner.

"Miss Manson can reach the sugar bowl herself," interposed Mrs. Osborn, with a reproving frown.

"I like to be neighborly, my dear," said her husband, deprecatingly.

"I see you do."

Miss Manson smiled, and so did others at the table, who detected Mrs. Osborn's jealousy.

"Have you read the President's financial message, Mr. Osborn?" asked Mr. Kimball.

"No; I don't take any interest in such things."

"I have read it, Mr. Kimball," said Mrs. Osborn, "and I approve his recommendations."

"So do I, with one exception," returned Mr. Kimball; and they began a conversation in which none of the other boarders took an interest.

When supper was over, Andy and Sam went for a walk. Mr. Warren excused himself on the ground that he was writing a poem for one of the magazines.

"So you are with a jeweler," said Sam. "I may come up and buy a ring some day. Do you allow a discount to friends?"

"I don't know yet. I will favor you if I can."



Chapter XVIII.

A Plot Against Andy.


Some six weeks later, about the middle of the forenoon, a Western Union Telegraph boy entered the store and handed Mr. Flint a telegram.

Tearing it open, the jeweler read the contents and seemed quite agitated.

"Mr. Rich," he said, turning to the head clerk, "I have bad news. My only brother is dangerously sick. This dispatch says that if I wish to see him alive I must start at once."

"Where does he live?"

"In Denver, Colorado."

"That is a long way off."

"Yes. I don't see how I can leave the business, but I cannot bear to think of my brother dying without my seeing him again."

"I think, sir, that I can keep things straight. I have been with you for six years."

"True, and you know the business thoroughly. Besides, you can write or telegraph me, if need be, every day."

"I will do so, sir. You can depend on me."

"Besides, you will have Andrew to help you. He is a good and faithful boy."

To this Simon Rich made no reply, but there was a look on his face that boded no good for Andy.

"I think I will go home at once and get ready. It is necessary that I should start immediately. I shall have no time to give you directions, but I will write you as soon as I reach Denver."

"Very well, sir," said Simon Rich, smoothly. "Make your mind quite easy. All will go well during your absence."

Half an hour later, when Andy returned from an errand, Mr. Flint was gone.

"I have a message for Mr. Flint," said Andy, as he entered the store.

"You can give it to me."

"I was told to deliver it to Mr. Flint personally."

"You will find that rather a hard job, young man," said Rich, with a sneer.

"I don't understand you," returned Andy, in surprise.

"Mr. Flint is on his way to Denver by this time."

"Does he go on business?"

"He has received news that his only brother lies there at the point of death."

"How long will he be gone?" asked Andy, who began to understand that this was likely to prove bad news for him.

"Probably not less than three weeks. Of course, I shall manage the store while he is away. Did you hear that?"

"Yes."

"And I want you to understand," continued Rich, in a bullying tone, "that I won't stand any nonsense from you. You will have to attend strictly to business. I sha'n't be such an easy-going boss as Mr. Flint."

"I always aim to do my duty," said Andy.

"You will find it best to do so while I am in charge. Now, don't stand gaping there, but go to work."

Andy was moved to an angry reply, but thought it prudent to refrain. He realized that for three weeks, and probably longer, he was to be at the mercy of a man who evidently disliked him.

How he should be able to stand it he did not know. He determined, however, to do his duty as well as he knew how, and not to reply when the head clerk was insolent and abusive.

About an hour later Simon Rich gave him a postal, which he directed him to drop in the nearest mail box.

It was addressed to John Crandall, Andy's predecessor, and ran thus:

"DEAR JOHN: Come around as soon as you can. I have news for you.

Your uncle, SIMON RICH."

About four o'clock John Crandall entered the store.

"Andrew," said Rich, "you may go to the branch post office at Ninth Street and get a dollar's worth of postage stamps."

Andy understood that stamps were not needed, and that the errand was devised to get him out of the way. However it was his duty to obey.

When he was fairly out of the store, John asked, with some curiosity:

"What is the news you were going to tell me, Uncle Simon?"

"Mr. Flint has started for Colorado, and I am in full charge of the store," answered Rich, with a triumphant smile.

"Golly! That's great news!" exclaimed John. "Now you can discharge that cub and get me in again."

"I mean to, but you will have to wait a few days."

"Why need I?"

"Because I must have a good excuse for bouncing him. Mr. Flint will inquire, you know."

"I should think it would be easy to invent one."

"Well, not altogether easy, but I have a plan. You see, the boy is one of the goody-goody kind who has no bad habits. If I could catch him playing pool, or anything of that kind, there would be no trouble; but he is one of your model boys."

"Like me," suggested John.

"I never took you for a model boy. Still, you are my nephew, and I must do the best I can for you."

"What is the plan you have thought of?"

"I haven't fully decided; but come in to-morrow, and I may think of something by that time."

"I wish I was here now. It will be good fun, now that old Flint is gone."

"Be careful not to say 'old Flint' before Andrew. He might repeat it to the boss when he returns."

"If he should I would punch his head," said John, promptly.

"I don't think I would advise you to do that," said Simon Rich, shrewdly.

"Why not? I could lick him with one hand."

"If you ever get into a fight with him you will need two. He is strong and muscular."

"You seem to be taking his part, Uncle Simon."

"Not at all, but I won't shut my eyes to facts. Andrew is much stronger than you are."

John did not look well pleased, but his uncle added:

"In this case, however, it is not a matter of strength. We must use cunning."

"All right, uncle. You know best, of course."

"Of course I know best. All you have to do is to be guided by me. We must get rid of him in such a way that Mr. Flint will approve of my action."

"It will be a great day for me when I take his place."

"Exactly. Be patient, and it will come about. Meanwhile I want you to treat him as a friend."

"Why?"

"So that he won't suspect that there is any conspiracy against him."

"I see. You are a smart one, Uncle Simon."

"I flatter myself that I know what I am about," returned Rich, complacently.

Andy was considerably surprised at the kindness with which he was treated, during the next few days, by the head salesman. He had expected something very different. He began to think he had misjudged Mr. Rich.

He was still more surprised when the next day at his lunch hour he was invited to the Dairy Kitchen by John Crandall. He did not care to accept, but John insisted upon it, and he thought it would be rude to refuse.

John chatted very pleasantly during the meal, and Andy was both surprised and pleased.

"Have you got a new place?" he asked.

"No, but uncle thinks he can get me one before long."

"I hope it will be a good one."

"Oh, I think it will," said John, showing his teeth and smiling significantly.

So passed several days, and Andy began to think that Mr. Rich had become his friend. But at length the storm broke.

One day, as he entered the store, he noticed that Simon Rich was looking grave and stern.

"Andrew," he said, without preface, "something very disagreeable has happened."

"What is it, Mr. Rich?"

"A gold watch has disappeared from this case."

"A valuable one?" asked Andy, innocently.

"It is one that retails at fifty dollars. I would not have had this occur during Mr. Flint's absence for twice that sum."

"Have you any idea of what has become of it?"

"Not at present, but as you and my nephew are in the store so much, of course you would have opportunities of taking it."

"Uncle Simon," said John, who was present, "I insist on your searching me."

"I will do so, though I am sure neither you nor Andrew is at fault."

"Search me, too, Mr. Rich," said Andy, fearlessly.

Nothing was found on John, but thrusting his hand into the upper pocket of Andy's vest, Simon Rich drew out a folded paper.

"What is this?" he cried. "A pawn ticket for a gold watch? What does this mean?"

"Let me see it," said Andy, dumfounded.

It was a ticket issued by a Third Avenue pawnbroker for a gold watch, on which ten dollars appeared to have been loaned. The name of the borrower appeared as A. Grant.

"Miserable boy!" said the salesman, severely; "so you have turned thief. What a hypocrite you must be!"

"I don't know what it means," faltered Andy, quite overwhelmed.



Chapter XIX.

Andy Is Discharged.


"You don't know what it means!" repeated Simon Rich in a sarcastic tone. "Probably not. I understand it."

"Do you think I stole a watch and pawned it, Mr. Rich?" demanded Andy, with spirit.

"There seems to be absolute proof of your dishonesty. Will you explain how, otherwise, this pawn ticket is found in your pocket?"

"I can't explain it, nor can I understand it. All I can say is, that I never saw it before."

"You must think I am a fool to be deceived by such a story."

"I can't believe that Andy pawned a watch," said John Crandall, hypocritically.

"Will you be kind enough to inform me who did, then?" asked his uncle, with pretended severity.

"I can't guess."

"Nor any one else, I fancy. Of course, Andrew, after this proof of your dishonesty, I cannot retain you in my, or rather in Mr. Flint's employment."

"Mr. Rich, will you do me a favor?"

"What is it?"

"Will you go with me to the pawnbroker who issued the ticket and ask him if he ever saw me before?"

"I have no time to go on such a foolish errand. Can you give me the ten dollars you obtained for the watch?"

"I didn't obtain a dollar nor a cent for the watch. I know nothing about it."

"Probably you have laid it away somewhere, or spent it."

"That is not true, and I am sure you don't believe it yourself."

"No impudence, young man! I am forced to believe it. I have treated you kindly since Mr. Flint went away, and that is sufficient to show that I wish to do you no injustice. Is this true or not?"

"I have no fault to find with your treatment, except now."

"I shall continue to act as your friend. I might have you arrested, and your conviction would be certain with the evidence I have in my possession. But I will not do it. I will redeem the watch at my own expense and be content with discharging you."

"I believe there is a plot against me," said Andy, pale but firm. "It will come out some time. When do you wish me to go?"

"At once. I will pay you to the end of the week, but I could not feel safe in retaining your services any longer. John, will you oblige me by taking Andrew's place till I have a chance to secure another boy?"

"Yes, Uncle Simon, but I don't want to feel that I have had anything to do with Andy's discharge."

"You have not. No one is responsible for it but himself."

"Then I will stay while you need me. I don't want to leave you in a hole."

Simon Rich went to the money drawer and drew out a five-dollar bill.

"Here is your pay to the end of the week," he said.

"I prefer to accept pay only to to-day," replied Andy.

"As you please."

Andy walked out of the store feeling crushed and overwhelmed. He was all at sea concerning the pawn ticket. He could not understand how it got into his pocket.

He formed a resolution. He would go around to the pawnbroker's and see if he could obtain any information.

He found the pawn shop without difficulty. It was a small apartment, but seemed quite full of goods of all varieties.

A small man of perhaps sixty was behind the counter. Seated in a rocking-chair, sewing, an old lady was to be seen in the rear of the shop.

Andy had never before been in a pawn shop, and would have been interested in examining it if his errand had not been so serious.

He walked up to the counter.

"Well, young man, what is your business?" asked the old man.

"Do you remember lending some money on a new gold watch last Monday?"

"Was the watch stolen?" asked the pawnbroker, with shade of anxiety.

"You will have no difficulty about it. It will be redeemed."

"How much did I lend on it?"

"Ten dollars."

"Yes, I remember."

"Can you remember who brought it in?"

"No, except that it was a boy about your size."

"Did he look like me?"

"I can't remember. You see, I have so many customers."

"I remember," said the old lady, speaking up. "He was about your size."

"It was not I?"

"No; he was thinner than you, and he was dark complexioned."

A light began to dawn upon Andy. This description fitted John Crandall.

"Do you remember what kind of an overcoat he wore?"

"It was a light overcoat."

"Thank you. Will you please remember this if you are asked?"

"Did the young gentleman own the watch?"

"He was employed by another party, but I cannot tell you any more at present. The watch will probably be redeemed by a man about thirty-five. Don't mention to him that any one has asked you questions about it."

"All right. I shall be glad to oblige you. You are sure it was not stolen?"

"The man who sent the boy was not dishonest. You will have no trouble."

"It was a new watch, and I thought it might be stolen. We poor pawnbrokers have a hard time. If we take stolen property we get into trouble, but how can we tell if the rings and watches they bring in are stolen?"

"Very true. I can see that you must sometimes be puzzled. Do those who pawn articles generally give their own names?"

"Very seldom. They almost always give wrong names. That sometimes leads to trouble. I remember a gentleman who mislaid his ticket, and he could not remember what name he gave. If he had we might have overlooked the loss of the pawn ticket. As it was, we did not know but he might be a fraud, though I think it was all right, and the watch he pawned was his own."

"Thank you for answering my questions. I am sorry to have troubled you," said Andy, politely.

"Oh, it is no matter," rejoined the old man, who felt very favorably impressed by Andy's good looks, and frank, open manner.

As Andy went out of the shop he experienced a feeling of relief. He saw that he would be able to prove his innocence through the testimony of the pawnbroker and his wife. He was in no hurry. It would do when Mr. Flint returned. He did not want the friendly jeweler to think that he had been dishonest.

It was clear that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and that the plot had been engineered by Simon Rich and carried out by his nephew.

As Andy's board was paid by Walter Gale, he would not be distressed by want of employment, but would be able to remain in New York. He might obtain another position, though he foresaw that it would be useless to apply to Simon Rich for a letter of recommendation.

He had not gone more than a hundred feet when he met a boy whom he knew, named James Callahan.

"How do you happen to be here, Andy?" he asked. "Are you on an errand for the firm?"

"I have left them."

"Why is that?"

"They -- or rather the clerk -- charged me with stealing a gold watch and pawning it."

"Where?" asked the boy, in some excitement.

Andy pointed out the pawnbroker's shop from which he had just come.

"I saw John Crandall coming out of there yesterday."

"You did?"

"Yes."

"I am not surprised. The pawnbroker described to me the boy who pawned the watch, and I recognized John from the description."

"What does it all mean?"

"Mr. Flint has gone out West, and Mr. Rich and John have conspired to get me into trouble."

"When were you discharged?"

"Less than an hour since."

"Who has taken your place?"

"John Crandall."

James Callahan whistled.

"I see," he said. "It was thundering mean. What are you going to do about it?"

"Wait till Mr. Flint comes home. Give me your address. I may want to call you as a witness."

Callahan gave his number on Ninth Avenue.

"I will note it down."

"How are you going to get along while you are without a place?" asked James, with friendly solicitude.

"I have a friend who will pay my board."

"Good! I am glad to hear it."

"Now," thought Andy, "I have a chain of proof that will clear me with Mr. Flint. That is what I care most about."



Chapter XX.

An Invitation To Dinner


Andy reached his boarding house at four o'clock.

"What brings you home so early, Mr. Grant?" asked Warren, whose door was open. "Is business poor?"

"It is with me," answered Andy; "I am discharged."

"You don't tell me so! How did it happen?"

"My employer is out West, and the head salesman has discharged me and engaged his nephew in my place."

"It's a shame. What shall you do about it?"

"Wait till Mr. Flint gets home."

"I hope you won't leave us."

"No, I think not."

"Of course you will miss your salary. I wish I could lend you some money, but I have not heard from the article I sent to the Century. If accepted, they will send me a large check."

"Thank you, Mr. Warren. I shall be able to get along for the present."

Soon Sam Perkins arrived, with a new and gorgeous necktie.

"Glad to see you, Andy," he said. "Won't you go with me to the Star Theater this evening?"

"I can't, Sam; I have no money to spare."

"I thought you got a good salary?"

"Just at present I have none at all. I have been discharged."

"I am sorry for that. I wish there was a vacancy in our place; I should like to get you in there."

"Thank you. That is quite friendly."

Andy was about to go down to supper when Eva, the servant, came upstairs.

"There's a messenger boy downstairs wants to see you, Mr. Grant," she said.

In some surprise Andy went downstairs to see the messenger. He was a short boy of fourteen, Tom Keegan by name.

"I have a letter for Andrew Grant," he said.

"Give it to me; I am Andrew Grant. Here's a dime."

"Thank you," said the boy in a tone of satisfaction, for his weekly income was small.

Andy opened the letter. It was written on fashionable note paper. At the top of the paper was a monogram formed of the letters H and M.

Here is the letter:

"MY DEAR MR. GRANT: I shall be glad to have you take dinner with me at seven o'clock. I should have given you earlier notice, but supposed you would not be back from the store till six o'clock. You will meet my son Roy, who is a year or two younger than yourself, and my brother, John Crawford. Both will be glad to see you. Yours sincerely,

"Henrietta Mason."

"What is it, Andy?" asked Sam.

"You can read the note."

"By George, Andy, you are getting into fashionable society! Couldn't you take me along, too?"

"I am afraid I am not well enough acquainted to take such a liberty."

"I'll tell you what I'll do for you. I'll lend you my best necktie."

Sam produced a gorgeous red tie, which he held up admiringly.

"Thank you, Sam," said Andy, "but I think that won't suit me as well as you."

"What are you going to wear?"

Andy took from the bureau drawer a plain black tie.

"That!" exclaimed Sam, disgusted. "That is awfully plain."

"It suits my taste."

"Excuse me, Andy, but I don't think you've got any taste."

Andy laughed good-naturedly.

"Certainly my taste differs from yours," he said.

"I suppose you'll have a fine layout. I'd like to go to a fashionable dinner myself."

"I'll tell you all about it when I get back."

"Just mention that you've got a friend -- a stylish young man whom they'd like to meet. That may bring me an invitation next time."

Andy laughed.

"So far as I am concerned, Sam," he said, "I wish you were going. But you have an engagement at the Star Theater."

"So I have. I almost forgot."

Andy had very little time for preparation, but made what haste he could, and just as the public clocks struck seven he rang the bell of Mrs. Mason's house.

"I am glad you received my invitation in time," said the lady.

"So am I," returned Andy; "nothing could have been more welcome."

Just then Roy and her brother, Mr. Crawford, entered.

Roy was a very pleasant-looking boy, with dark-brown hair and a dark complexion. He was perhaps two inches shorter than Andy.

"This is Roy," said Mrs. Mason.

"I am glad to see you," said Roy, offering his hand.

Andy felt that he should like his new boy friend.

Next he was introduced to Mr. Crawford, a stout gentleman of perhaps forty, looking very much like his sister.

"I have heard my sister speak of you so often that I am glad to meet you, Andy," he said, affably.

"Thank you, sir."

"John, lead the way to the dining room," said his sister.

So they filed downstairs, and took their seats at the table.

Mr. Crawford sat at the head, opposite his sister, while Roy and Andy occupied the sides.

When dinner was nearly over, Mr. Crawford remarked:

"I believe, Andy, you are in the employ of Mr. Flint, the jeweler."

"I was," answered Andy.

"Surely you have not left him?" exclaimed Mrs. Mason.

"No, I have been discharged."

"I am surprised to hear it. I thought you were a favorite with Mr. Flint."

"So I was. He does not know I have been discharged."

"You puzzle me."

"Mr. Flint is in Colorado, and Mr. Rich, his head salesman, has taken the opportunity to discharge me, and put his nephew in my place."

"But surely he would not venture to do this without some pretext."

"He claims that I took a watch from the case, and pawned it."

"Of course that is untrue."

"Yes, and I am in a position to prove it when Mr. Flint returns."

Andy told the story of his visit to the pawn shop, and the discovery he made there.

"This is a shameful plot!" said Mrs. Mason, indignantly. "I am afraid you are in trouble, deprived of your income."

"Fortunately I have no board to pay. That is paid by the gentleman who procured me the situation."

Presently they went upstairs.

"Roy," said his mother, "we will excuse you for an hour while you are getting your Latin lesson."

"I don't like Latin, mother," grumbled Roy, "at least not to-night. I am afraid I can't fix my thoughts on the lesson. I want to be with Andy."

"What are you studying in Latin, Roy?" asked Andy.

"Caesar."

"If you wish, I will help you."

"Can you?" asked Roy, joyfully.

"I have been through Caesar, and Virgil, also. When I left the academy I was studying Cicero."

"Roy will be glad of your help, Andy," said his mother. "I did not know you were such a scholar."

"I was getting ready for college, but my father's losses required me to break off."

Andy proved such an efficient helper that Roy found himself at leisure in half an hour.

In the meantime Mrs. Mason asked her brother:

"What do you think of my protege?"

"He seems a manly and attractive boy."

"Can't you find something for him to do?"

"I will talk with him presently, and then decide."



Chapter XXI.

New Prospects.


After Roy, with Andy's assistance, had prepared his lesson in Caesar, John Crawford began to converse with him with a view of forming a judgment of his business qualifications.

"Are you especially interested in the jewelry line?" he asked.

"No, sir. It was merely chance that led me to Mr. Flint's store."

"I see you are a Latin scholar. What career did you expect to follow if your father's misfortune had not interrupted your education?"

"I don't think I should care for a profession. I prefer a life of business."

"You have had no special business in view?"

"No, sir. I think I could adapt myself to any that I had an opportunity to follow."

"What pay did you receive from Mr. Flint?"

"Five dollars a week."

"I will tell you why I am inquiring. I am in the real estate business, in rather a large way. I have a boy in the office who is not suited to his position. He is a good scholar, but has no head for business. I have made up my mind to discharge him on Saturday. Would you like his place?"

"Very much, sir."

"I can only offer you five dollars a week, but as soon as you make yourself worth more I will raise you."

"That is quite satisfactory, Mr. Crawford. As soon as Mr. Flint returns I can get a recommendation from him. I am quite sure I shall like your business better."

"My sister's recommendation is sufficient."

"Thank you, John," said Mrs. Mason.

"If you become interested in the business and show an aptitude for it, there will be a chance to rise. It depends upon that. If you only work for the money, you won't rise."

"I understand, Mr. Crawford, and I am satisfied."

"Mother," said Roy, "I wish you would engage Andy to come here evenings and help me with my lessons. I should learn twice as fast. Besides, I should like his company."

Roy was an only child, and it was the desire of his mother's heart that he should acquire a good education. Her means were ample and her disposition generous.

"I don't know but Andy would feel too tired, after being in your uncle's office all day, to teach you in the evening, she said.

"Would you, Andy?" asked Roy.

"No; I should enjoy reviewing my old studies with you."

"Then, I will engage you," said Mrs. Mason. "You can come here at eight every evening."

"I will do so with pleasure."

"And for compensation I will pay you as much as my brother does."

"I wouldn't charge anything for helping Roy," said Andy. "It would only be a pleasure to me."

"Andrew," said Mr. Crawford. "I am afraid you will never make a business man if you are willing to work on those terms. My advice to you is to accept my sister's offer. She can afford to pay you what she offers, and you have your living to make."

"I shall insist upon paying," said Mrs. Mason, "though I appreciate Andy's generous offer."

"Thank you very much. With such an income I shall feel rich."

"I am so glad you are going to help me, Andy," said Roy. "We'll have bully times."

"I don't think Julius Caesar ever made use of such an expression, Roy," said his uncle.

"When do you wish me to come down to business, Mr. Crawford?" asked Andy.

"You may as well come to-morrow, and get broken in before your regular engagement commences."

"I shall be glad to do so."

"For this week you need only stay till three o'clock in the afternoon. There isn't much doing after that."

When Andy went home it will not be wondered at if he was in a state of exhilaration. His discharge from the jeweler's had turned out to his advantage. His income was now ten dollars a week, and he had no board to pay. He certainly ought to lay up money.

He said to himself that now he would not go back to Mr. Flint's even if he had the chance.

When he entered his room he found Sam Perkins waiting for him.

"I have been thinking, Andy," he said, "that I might be able to get you into our store. I will speak to Mr. Chambers to-morrow."

"There is no occasion, Sam, though I thank you for your kind offer; I have a place."

"What, already?" ejaculated Sam, in amazement. "What chance have you had to hunt up a place?"

"The place hunted me up," answered Andy, with a smile. "I met a gentleman at dinner, who offered to take me into his employment."

"What business?"

"Real estate."

"What is the firm?"

"John Crawford & Co."

"I know of the house. The office is on lower Broadway. It is a big firm."

"I am glad of that."

"How much are you to get?"

"Five dollars a week."

"Won't you find it hard to live on that?"

"I have got another place, too."

"What do you mean?"

"I am to help a boy about his Latin in the evening. I shall get five dollars a week for that, too."

"What! ten dollars a week in all?"

"You are right. I give you credit for your mathematical talent."

"Why, Andy, you are born to good luck! I wish I was paid ten dollars a week," said Sam, rather enviously. "But I didn't know you understood Latin."

"You don't know how learned I am," said Andy, smiling.

"When will you get time for your pupil?"

"In the evening."

"I am sorry for that. I sha'n't often meet you if you are to be occupied day and evening, too."

"We shall meet at breakfast and supper. I sha'n't leave here to go uptown till half-past seven."

"But you can't go to the theater."

"I am willing to give that up for five dollars a week."

"So would I be."

"If I hear of any other boy who needs a Latin tutor I will recommend you."

The next morning Andy reported at Mr. Crawford's office. The office he found to be a large one, consisting of three rooms, one of them small, and appropriated to Mr. Crawford's special use.

In the outer rooms were two or three clerks and a boy. The last, James Grey, was a good-natured looking fellow, but he had no force or efficiency. He had already received notice that he was to be discharged on the coming Saturday.

"I suppose you are coming in my place," said he to Andy.

"I suppose so. I am sorry that I shall be throwing you out of a position."

"Oh, you needn't mind. I am to be telephone boy at an uptown hotel. My cousin got the place for me."

"I am glad of that."

"It will be a soft snap, I think."

"What are the hours?"

"I go on at five o'clock in the afternoon, and stay till midnight."

"Will you like that?"

"Oh, well, I can lie abed the next morning till ten or eleven o'clock, and I won't have much to do when I am on duty. I shall buy a lot of dime novels, and that will fill up the time."

"How do you like the real estate business?"

"Oh, so-so. I guess I'll like being a telephone boy better."

"Andrew, you may go round with James, and he will give you a little idea of your duties," said Mr. Crawford. "James, you can go to the post office now."

"All right, sir."

"I hope you will soon get another place."

"I have got one already, sir."

"Indeed! I am very glad."

"I am to be a telephone boy."

"I wish you success."

As they walked to the post office together, James remarked:

"Mr. Crawford is a nice man, but I guess I don't hustle enough for him."

"I think I can hustle," said Andy.

"Then you'll suit him."

On Saturday night, when James was paid his salary, he received five dollars extra as a present. Andy thought this very kind and considerate on the part of his new employer. To his surprise he, too, was paid half a week's salary -- something he did not expect.



Chapter XXII.

John Crandall Seeks To Injure Andy


Though Simon Rich had succeeded in reinstating his nephew in the store in place of Andy, he was not altogether happy. John Crandall was naturally lazy and inefficient, and his temporary discharge did not seem to have improved him.

When sent out on errands he loitered, and had more than once put his uncle to considerable inconvenience. He obliged to admit to himself that Andy had been more satisfactory.

In the midst of this experience John preferred a request to have his salary raised a dollar a week.

"You know very well that I have no authority to raise your wages," said his uncle, sharply.

"Why not, Uncle Simon? You have taken me back on your own authority."

"And I begin to think that I have made a great mistake."

"Perhaps you'd like to have the country boy back again?"

"I am not sure but I would. He did not stay away so long on errands as you do."

"I wonder what he is doing?" said John, starting off on a new tack. "I don't suppose he can get a new place."

"If you see him, you might ask him to call," said Simon Rich.

"Why?" asked John, suspiciously.

"I may discharge you and take him back."

"In that case, I will tell Mr. Flint about pawning the watch."

Simon Rich looked at his nephew with anger, mingled with dismay. He began to see, now, that to a certain extent he had put himself in John's power.

"You treacherous young rascal, I have a great mind to wring your neck!" he said, wrathfully.

"Uncle Simon," observed John, significantly, "I guess you'd better not act hastily."

"What a fool I was to put myself in the power of that cub!" soliloquized the head salesman.

John saw the effect of his words and decided to follow them up.

"Don't you think you can raise my wages?" he asked.

"No, I don't. You will be lucky if you stay here till Mr. Flint comes back. After that, I can't protect you. He will probably be angry to see you back here. I shall have to tell him that I took you in temporarily. Now I will give you some advice. If you want to remain here permanently, turn over a new leaf, and work faithfully. In that case I can speak well of you, and Mr. Flint may be induced to retain you."

John began to think that this might be good advice, and for a day or two paid more attention to his duties.

"I wonder I don't see Andy somewhere," he said to himself.

"I am out a good deal, and I ought to meet him. He is probably hunting up positions."

It was not till Tuesday afternoon that he did see him. Andy had been sent to the St. Denis Hotel to meet a customer of the firm. As he came out he fell in with John.

John was the first to see him.

"Hello, Andy!" he exclaimed. "How are you getting along?"

"Pretty well, thank you."

"I suppose you haven't struck a job yet?"

"Oh, yes, I have."

"You have!" ejaculated John, in surprise. "What kind of a job?"

"I am in a large real estate office down town."

"Did they take you without a recommendation?"

"No."

"My uncle wouldn't give you one."

"I wouldn't ask him for one."

"Who did recommend you, then?"

"Mrs. Mason, of West Fifty-sixth Street."

"I know. She is one of our customers."

"Yes."

"Probably she hasn't heard of your being suspected of pawning a watch from our stock."

"You might tell her."

"Perhaps I shall," John said to himself. "What pay do you get?"

"Five dollars a week."

"I didn't think you would get a place."

Andy smiled.

"I presume Mr. Rich did not care to have me get another place."

"He thought you would have to go back to the country."

"I am better off than when I was in the jewelry store," said Andy. "How are you getting along?"

"Oh, first-class."

"I hope you will be able to keep the place."

"I didn't know but you might be wanting to come back."

"I wouldn't go back if I had the chance."

John was pleased to hear this. He was afraid that Mr. Flint might not be satisfied with his uncle's explanation, and that somehow the truth might come out.

"You must excuse me now," said Andy. "I ought to go back to the office at once."

John returned to the jeweler's full of excitement.

"Whom do you think I met just now, Uncle Simon?" he asked.

"Andy?"

"Yes."

"Did you speak with him?"

"Yes."

"I suppose he is hunting for a place."

"No; he has got one."

"Where is he working?"

"In a real estate office down town. He is getting five dollars a week."

"I didn't think he could get a place without a recommendation."

"He was recommended by one of our customers -- Mrs. Mason."

"I see. Well, that is lucky for him."

Simon Rich spoke indifferently. He was rather glad that Andy had found a place, as Mr. Flint would be less likely to find fault with his dismissal.

Not so John. He had never forgiven Andy for superseding him, and he felt aggrieved that he had so soon found employment. Thinking it over, there came to him a mean suggestion. He might be able to get Andy discharged from his present place.

As his uncle seemed indifferent, and might not approve of his contemplated action, he decided to say nothing about it.

That evening, after supper, he made his way up to West Fifty-sixth Street, and sought out the residence of Mrs. Mason.

He rang the bell.

"Can I see Mrs. Mason?" he asked.

"What name shall I mention?"

"Say it is a boy from Mr. Flint's."

Mrs. Mason received the message in some surprise. What could a boy from Flint's have to say to her?

However, she entered the parlor, where John Crandall was waiting to see her.

"You are from Mr. Flint's?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"What business can you have with me? I have bought no jewelry lately."

"I know it, Mrs. Mason. It isn't about jewelry I wish to speak."

"What, then?"

"I met, to-day, a boy who was lately employed by our firm -- Andrew Grant."

"Well?"

"He said you had recommended him to a real estate firm down town."

"I did so."

"Perhaps you didn't know that he had been discharged from our place for dishonesty."

"I begin to understand," thought Mrs. Mason, and she sat down and examined John curiously.

"Did he steal anything?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered John, glibly. "He took a watch -- a gold watch out of the case and pawned it."

"That was bad. And you have come up to tell me of it? You are very considerate. Did Mr. Rich send you, or do you come of your own accord?"

"I came of my own accord. I thought you were deceived in the boy."

"What do you think I ought to do?"

"I thought you would take back the recommendation and get the boy discharged."

"Can you wait here half an hour while I consider what is best to be done?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am." ("I guess I've put a spoke in his wheel," thought John.)

In about half an hour the door opened, and to John's amazement Andy walked in.

"You here!" he gasped.

"Yes; I hear you have been warning Mrs. Mason against me."

"I thought she ought to know that you were sent away from our store in disgrace."

"I have something to say to you," said Andy, quietly. "I have been to the pawnbroker's, and got a description of the boy who pawned the watch!"

John turned pale.

"I see you understand," Andy went on, "who did it. So do I, and so does Mrs. Mason. You won't make anything by your attempt to injure me. Good-evening!"

John Crandall left the house without a word. He began to be alarmed.

"Suppose Andy tells Flint," he soliloquized. "No matter; he can't prove it."

But he felt uneasy, nevertheless. He did not say anything to his uncle about his visit.



Chapter XXIII.

Mr. Flint's Return.


Mr. Crawford was something more than an ordinary real estate dealer. He was thorough and painstaking in whatever he undertook.

In his private office he had a library of volumes relating to architecture, practical building, real estate, law, etc. This Andy discovered, and he asked his employer if he might borrow books therefrom.

Mr. Crawford seemed pleased, but he asked:

"Do you think you will feel any interest in such dry volumes?"

"I shall not read for interest, but for improvement," answered Andy. "If I am to follow up this business I want to find out all I can about it."

"You are an unusually sensible boy," said Mr. Crawford. "I am sure you will succeed."

"I mean to, if it is possible."

From this time John Crawford felt an added interest in Andy, and took pains to push him forward, and gave him practical information about real estate.

"How do you like Andy, John?" asked Mrs. Mason, not long afterward.

"He is a treasure. He does credit to your recommendation."

"I am very much pleased to hear you say so. I consider him a remarkable boy. Roy gets much higher marks at school since Andy began to help him in his lessons."

One day Andy was sent up to the Grand Central Depot on an errand. He arrived just as a train came in from the West. What was his surprise to see Mr. Flint getting out of a parlor car.

"Mr. Flint!" he cried, joyfully.

"Andy!" exclaimed the jeweler. "It seems pleasant to see a home face. But how do you happen to be up here at this time? Did Mr. Rich send you?"

"Then you have not heard -- " began Andy.

"Heard what?"

"That I have been discharged from your store."

"When did this happen?" asked the jeweler, abruptly.

"About two weeks ago."

"Rich never wrote me about it. Who is in your place?"

"John Crandall."

"His nephew? The boy I discharged?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Flint's face assumed a stern look.

"This will have to be explained," he said. "What was the pretext for discharging you?"

"Dishonesty. He charged me with stealing a gold watch and pawning it."

"Ridiculous!"

"Then you don't believe me guilty?"

"Certainly not."

"Thank you, Mr. Flint."

"Tell me the circumstances."

"Please excuse me now, Mr. Flint. I am in a real estate office, and am on an errand. If you like, I will call at your house and explain. In the meantime I will let Mr. Rich give you his version."

"Call this evening, Andy."

"It will have to be between seven and half-past seven, as I have a pupil in the evening."

"Come to supper at my house, as soon after six as possible."

"Very well, sir."

Mr. Flint had telegraphed to Simon Rich of his coming, but through some mistake the telegram did not reach him, so that he was quite taken by surprise when his employer entered the store.

"I had no idea you were anywhere near New York, Mr. Flint," he said.

"Didn't you get my telegram from Buffalo, Mr. Rich?"

"No, sir. I hope you are well."

Just then John Crandall came in from an errand.

"You here!" said the jeweler. "Where is Andy Grant?"

"I was obliged to discharge him," replied Rich, nervously.

"Why?"

"Very much to my surprise I discovered that he had stolen a gold watch from the case."

"What evidence had you of it?"

"I found the pawn ticket in his pocket. He pawned it on Third Avenue."

"This surprises me very much," said the jeweler, quietly. "Andrew did not strike me as a dishonest boy."

"I was amazed, sir. I could hardly believe my eyes."

"What led you to search for the ticket?"

"I knew that the watch must have been taken either by him or John, who came into the shop occasionally. I accordingly searched both."

"And you found the ticket in Andrew's pocket?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did he say? Did he admit the theft?"

"No; he brazened it out, but of course the evidence was overwhelming."

"So you discharged him?"

"Yes; I did not dare to have him remain."

"And you engaged your nephew in his place?"

"Yes, sir. John happened to be here, and knew something of the duties, so I engaged him temporarily, subject, of course, to your approval."

"Where is Andrew now? Have you seen him since?"

"John saw him one day. Where was it, John?"

"On Broadway, near the St. Denis Hotel. He said he had a place."

"Where?"

"In a real estate office."

"I suppose you gave him no recommendation, Mr. Rich?"

"No, sir; I couldn't do it conscientiously. Of course, now that you have returned, if you are dissatisfied with John's being here, we can advertise for another boy."

"I will take a day to consider it. I shall only stay here half an hour and then go up to the house."

When Mr. Flint left the store, Simon Rich said:

"The old man took Andy's discharge more quietly than I anticipated."

"Do you think he will let me stay, Uncle Simon?"

"I can't tell yet. One thing I must tell you -- you won't stay long unless you turn over a new leaf and attend to your duties."

"I'll do that, never fear! What I am afraid of is, that Andy will come around and tell a lot of lies."

"I don't think it will work. You see, the pawn ticket was found in his pocket. He can't get over that very well."

John knew more than his uncle of the nature of Andy's defense, and he could not help feeling apprehensive.

Soon after six o'clock Andy made his appearance at Mr. Flint's house, where he was cordially received.

"I have heard the story of Mr. Rich, Andy," he said. "Now let me have your defense."

"I can give it very briefly. The watch was pawned by John Crandall. Of course it was given him by Mr. Rich."

"How did you find that out?"

"I went around to the pawnbroker's, and obtained a description of the boy who pawned the watch. It tallied exactly with John's appearance. That was not all. I met, the same day, a boy named Jimmy Callahan. He saw John coming out of the pawnbroker's the day before the charge was made against me."

"That is pretty conclusive. Can you explain how the ticket was put in your pocket?"

"No, sir; that puzzles me."

"It could easily be done, no doubt. Now, do you want to return to my employ?"

"No, sir, I think not. I am in a real estate office, and I think there is more chance for me to rise."

"How did you obtain the position?"

"Through Mrs. Mason, of West Fifty-sixth Street. She has been a very good friend to me. The gentleman who employs me is her brother."

"I shall be sorry to lose you, Andy, but I wish you to consult your own interest. As to John Crandall, I shall discharge him at once. I will not permit him to profit by the conspiracy against you. Can you stay this evening?"

"No, sir. I am helping Mrs. Mason's son, Roy, in his Latin lessons. For this I am paid five dollars per week."

"You seem to be very well provided for, I must say."

"Yes, sir, I have been fortunate."

The next day Mr. Flint notified Simon Rich that he was acquainted with the manner in which evidence had been procured against Andy. Then he turned to the nephew.

"The watch was pawned by you, John," he said, "under the direction of your uncle."

"No, sir," said John. "If Andy Grant has told you this he has told a lie."

"The matter is easily settled. Come around with me to the pawnbroker's."

John stammered and finally confessed.

"Of course I cannot retain your services after this. You, Mr. Rich, may remain till the end of the month. I shall then feel obliged to make a change."

Never were two conspirators more quickly punished. Simon Rich repented bitterly yielding to the temptation to injure Andy. His malice had recoiled upon himself.



Chapter XXIV.

Andy Makes An Investment.


Andy wrote to his friend, Walter Gale, who, it will be remembered, was watching in Pennsylvania by the bedside of his uncle, giving him an account of his change of business. He received the following reply:

"I felt indignant when I read your news of the conspiracy of Simon Rich, but was pleased that it led to your advantage. I am inclined to think that you will find your new business a better one than the jewelry trade. The latter, if you went in for yourself, would call for a large capital. In the real estate business capital is not so much needed as good judgment and a large lot of acquaintances. I am not personally acquainted with Mr. Crawford, but know him by reputation as an energetic and honorable business man. If you do not find your income adequate, all you have to do is to apply to me. I will send you fifty dollars or more at any time.

"Now, as to the prospects of my return, they are remote. My uncle seems cheered by my presence, and his health has improved. He cannot live more than a year or two at the best, but when I came here it seemed to be only a matter of months. I shall remain while I can do him good.

"When Mr. Flint returns he will do you justice. You can afford to wait, as your income is larger than before. You suggest that I need not continue to pay your board. This, however, I intend to do, and will advise you to lay aside some money every week, and deposit in a savings bank. The habit of saving is excellent, and cannot be formed too early."

"I am lucky to have such a friend," reflected Andy, as he finished reading this letter. "I will try to make myself worthy of such good fortune."

At the end of six months Andy had acquired a large practical acquaintance with the real estate business. He displayed a degree of judgment which surprised Mr. Crawford.

"You seem more like a young man than a boy," he said. "I am not at all sure but I could leave my business in your hands if I wished to be absent."

This compliment pleased Andy. He had also been raised to seven dollars a week, and this he regarded as a practical compliment.

One evening on his return from West Fifty-sixth Street he strayed into the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where he sat down to rest in the reading room.

Two men were sitting near him whose conversation he could not help hearing.

"I own a considerable plot in Tacoma," said one. "I bought it two years since, when I was on my way back from California. I should like to sell the plot if I could get a purchaser."

"If the Northern Pacific Railroad is ever completed, the land will be valuable," replied the other.

"True; but will it ever be completed? That date will be very remote, I fancy."

"I don't think so. I would buy the land myself if I had the money, but just at present I have none to spare. How much did you invest?"

"A thousand dollars."

"You might sell, perhaps, through a real estate agent?"

"The real estate agents here know very little of Western property. I should not know to whom to apply."

Andy thought he saw a chance to procure business for his firm.

"Gentlemen," he said, "will you excuse my saying that I am in a real estate office, and think you can make some satisfactory arrangement with us?"

At the same time he handed the owner of the Tacoma property a card of the firm.

"Crawford!" repeated his friend. "Yes, that is a reputable firm. You cannot do better than adopt the young man's suggestion."

Andy Grant had written his name on the card.

"You are rather young for a real estate agent, Mr. Grant," remarked the lot owner.

Andy smiled.

"I am only a subordinate," he said.

"Has your principal ever dealt in Western property?" asked Mr. Bristol.

"Not to any extent, but I have heard him speak favorably of it."

"I will call at your office to-morrow forenoon, then."

Andy apprised Mr. Crawford of the appointment made.

"I shall be glad to see your acquaintance, Andy," said Mr. Crawford. "I have advices from a friend of mine in Washington that the railroad is sure to be completed within a short time. This land will be worth buying. Have you any money?"

"I have a hundred dollars in a savings bank," answered Andy.

"Then I will give you a quarter interest in the purchase, and you can give me a note for the balance which at present you are unable to pay. I am sure we shall make a good deal of money within a short time, and I want you to reap some advantage, as it will have come to me through you."

"Thank you, sir. I shall be very glad to have a share in the investment."

About eleven o'clock, James Bristol, who proved to be a resident of Newark, New Jersey, presented himself at the office and was introduced by Andy to Mr. Crawford.

"Andy has told me of your business," said the real estate agent. "You have some property in Tacoma."

"Yes; I was persuaded to invest in some two years since. Now I need the money. Do you think you can find me a customer?"

"What do you ask for it?"

"A thousand dollars -- the same price I paid."

"Is it eligibly situated?"

"If the town ever amounts to anything, it will be in the business part."

"How many lots will it divide into?"

"Twenty-five of the usual city dimensions."

"Then I think I will take it off your hands. Part I will reserve for myself, and a part I will allot to a friend."

"Can you pay me cash?"

"Yes. I will make out a check at once."

Mr. Bristol breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

"I don't mind telling you," he said, "that I am very glad to realize on the investment. I have to meet a note for five hundred dollars in three days, and I was at a loss to know how to raise the money."

"Then the transaction will be mutually satisfactory," rejoined Mr. Crawford.

"Well, Andy," said his employer, when his customer left the office, "we are now Western land owners. I will draw up a note, which I will get you to sign, for a hundred and fifty dollars, and you can assign to me the money in the savings bank. I shall expect interest at the rate of six per cent."

"I shall be very glad to pay it, sir."

It was a satisfaction to Andy to think that he had made an investment which was likely ere many years to make him golden returns. He began to read with interest the accounts of the growth and development of the West, and decided to be unusually economical in the future, so as to be able to pay up the note due to Mr. Crawford, that he might feel that he owned his Western property without incumbrance.

While Andy, as a rule, dressed neatly, there was one respect in which he did not win the approval of his neighbor, Sam Perkins.

"I should think a boy with your income would be more particular about his neckties," said Sam.

"What's the matter with my neckties, Sam? Are they not neat?"

"Yes; but they are plain, such as a Quaker might wear. Why don't you get a showy tie, like mine?"

Andy smiled as he noticed the gorgeous tie which his friend wore.

"I don't like to be showy," he said.

"You'll never attract the attention of the girls with such a plain tie as you wear. Now, when I walked on Fifth Avenue last Sunday afternoon, as many as twenty girls looked admiringly at my tie."

"That would make me feel bashful, Sam."

"Let me bring you one from the store like mine. You shall have it at the wholesale price."

"No; I think not. It wouldn't be as becoming to me as to you. I don't want to be considered a dude."

"I don't mind it. Next week I'm going to buy a pair of patent leathers. They will be really economical, as I shall not have to spend money on shines."

One Saturday afternoon, when Andy was walking through one of the quiet streets west of Bleecker, his attention was drawn to a small boy, apparently about eleven years old, who was quietly crying as he walked along the sidewalk. He had never seen the boy before that he could remember, yet his face wore a familiar expression.



Chapter XXV.

Squire Carter's Relatives.


Andy was kind-hearted, and the boy's evident sorrow appealed to him. He went forward and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"I went to the baker's to buy some bread for mother, and the baker tells me that the quarter is a bad one."

"Let me look at it."

The coin had a dull appearance and a greasy feeling. It was unquestionably counterfeit.

"Yes, it is bad," said Andy. "Is your mother poor?"

"Very poor," answered the boy. "This quarter was all the money she had, and now we shall have no supper."

"Whom do you mean by 'we'?"

"My little brother and myself."

Andy intended at first simply to give the boy a good coin for the bad one, but he saw that there was a call for something more.

"Do you live near here?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; just across the street."

"I will go back with you to the baker's, and then I will go with you to see your mother. Perhaps I can help her."

The boy put his hand confidingly in Andy's, and the two went a little distance to the baker's.

"Now make your purchases," said Andy.

"If you have brought back that bad quarter I won't take it," announced the baker, sharply.

"I will pay you," said Andy, quietly.

"Then it's all right. The boy brought me a very bad quarter. I have to look sharp, for a good many bad coins are offered me."

Andy produced a genuine silver piece, and the bread was handed to the boy, with the change.

The boy looked at it hesitatingly.

"It is yours," he said to Andy.

"No, I have changed quarters with you. I will keep the bad one."

Again he looked at the boy, and again the resemblance to some familiar face puzzled him.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Ben Carter."

Carter! That explained it. The boy looked like Conrad Carter, though he had a pleasanter expression.

"Have you an Uncle Philemon?" he inquired.

"How did you know?" asked the boy, in surprise.

"Because you look like Conrad Carter."

"He is my cousin."

"And you are poor?"

"Yes."

"Your uncle is considered rich."

"I know he is, but he won't do anything for mother."

Andy was now all the more desirous of seeing the boy's family.

"I know your uncle," he said. "Do you think he knows you are so poor?"

"Yes, for mother has written to him."

By this time they had reached the place which Ben called home.

"Go upstairs and I will follow," said Andy.

They went up two flights, and the boy opened a door at the top of the landing.

There was a woman not far from forty in the room. On her face was a look of settled sorrow. At her knee was a small boy five years of age. She looked at Andy inquiringly.

"Mother," said Ben, "here is the bread. I couldn't have bought it, for the quarter was bad, if this boy had not given me another quarter."

"This young gentleman," corrected the mother.

"No, Mrs. Carter; I am a boy, and I prefer to be called so. I came up with Ben, for I find that he is related to Squire Carter, of Arden, whom I know very well."

"You know Philemon Carter?"

"Yes; he lives in Arden. That is my birthplace."

Mrs. Carter's countenance fell.

"Philemon Carter was my husband's brother," she said; "but there is little friendship between us."

"He is reputed rich."

"And we are poor. I see you wonder at that. When my husband's father died, Philemon was executor. It was understood that he was worth twenty-five thousand dollars. Yet of this amount my poor husband received but one thousand. I may be uncharitable, but I have always felt that Philemon cheated us out of our rightful share."

"I should not be surprised. I never liked Squire Carter. He always seemed to me to be a selfish man."

"He has certainly acted selfishly toward us."

"Does he know of your poverty?"

"Yes. Only two weeks since, in a fit of despair, I wrote to him for help. Here is his answer."

She handed a letter to Andy. He instantly recognized the handwriting of the magnate of Arden.

"Shall I read it?" he asked.

"Yes, do so, and let me know what you think of it."

This was the letter:

"SOPHIA: I have received your letter, and am surprised that you should expect me to help support you. You are my brother's widow, it is true, but your destitution is no fault of mine. My brother was always shiftless and unpractical, and to such men good luck never comes. He might at any rate have insured his life, and so made comfortable provision for you. You cannot expect me to repair his negligence. You say you have two boys, one eleven years of age. He is certainly able to earn money by selling papers or tending an office.

"As for myself, I am not a rich man, but have always been careful to meet my expenses and provide for the future. I, too, have a son, Conrad, whom I think it my duty to educate and start in life. Any money I might send you would be so much taken from him. I advise you to apply to some charitable society if you need temporary assistance. It will be much better than to write me begging letters. Yours truly,

"Philemon Carter."

"This is a very cold-blooded letter," said Andy, indignantly. "He might at least have inclosed a five-dollar bill."

"He inclosed nothing. I shall never apply to him again."

"Philemon Carter is considered to be one of the richest men in Arden. He is taxed for twenty-five thousand dollars, and is probably worth double that sum. People wonder where he got all his money."

"A part of it is my husband's rightful share of the estate, I have no doubt."

"Can you do nothing about it?"

"How can I? I am poor and have no influential friends. He denies everything."

"I will think of that, Mrs. Carter. I know a lawyer down town who may some time look into the matter for you. In the meanwhile, is there any special work you can do?"

"Before I was married I was for a time a typewriter."

"I will see if I can hear of a situation of that kind. The lawyer I spoke of may require an operator."

"I would thankfully accept such a position."

"Does Ben earn anything?"

"He makes a little selling papers."

"He ought to be going to school at his age."

"If I could get any work to do I would send him."

"Mrs. Carter, will you accept a little help from me?"

Andy drew a five-dollar bill from his pocketbook and tendered it to the widow.

"But," she said, "can you spare this? It is a large sum, and you are only a boy, probably not earning much."

"I am a boy, but I am handsomely paid for my services. Besides, I have good friends to whom I can apply if I run short of money."

"Heaven bless you!" said Mrs. Carter, earnestly. "You cannot tell how much good this money will do me. This morning I was utterly discouraged. I felt that the Lord had forsaken me. But I was mistaken. He has raised up for me a good friend, who -- "

"Hopes to be of a good deal more service to you. I must leave you now, but I shall bear you in mind, and hope soon to be the bearer of good tidings. I will take down your address, and call upon you again soon. Will you allow me to offer you a suggestion?"

"Certainly."

"Then send out and buy some meat. This dry bread is not sufficient for you. Don't be afraid to spend the money I leave with you. I will see that you have more."

As Andy left Mrs. Carter's humble home he felt more than ever the cold and selfish character of the man who, himself living luxuriously, suffered his brother's family to want.



Chapter XXVI.

Mr. Warren And His Success.


Andy told Mr. Crawford about the poor family he had visited, and what he had done to help them.

"You must let me refund the money, Andy," said his employer. "Five dollars is a good deal for a boy to give."

"Don't forget that I have a double income, Mr. Crawford. I would prefer that this money should come from me. If you are willing to give another five dollars, it will be appreciated."

"Then I will make it ten. Will you take charge of this bill and give it to Mrs. Carter?"

"With the greatest pleasure, Mr. Crawford. You have no idea what happiness it will give the family."

"I am glad you called my attention to their needs. If I could do anything more to help them -- "

"You can if you know any one who wants a typewriter."

"Is the boy able to work a typewriter?"

"No, but the mother is. Before her marriage she was in a lawyer's office."

"That is a fortunate suggestion. I have a college friend -- a classmate at Columbia -- Mr. Gardner, who has just parted with his typewriter, who is about to be married."

"May I call at his office, and ask for the situation for Mrs. Carter?"

"Yes; it is on Nassau Street."

Andy seized his hat and went over to the lawyer's office.

It was 132 Nassau Street, in the Vanderbilt Building. He went up in the elevator and found Mr. Gardner in.

"I come from Mr. Crawford," said Andy. "He says you need a typewriter."

"Are you a typewriter?"

"No; I ask for the position for a lady;" and he told the story.

"You say she has had experience in a lawyer's office?"

"Yes, sir."

"That will make her more desirable. When can she call?"

"I will have her here to-morrow morning at any hour."

"Say ten o'clock -- a little before, perhaps."

The lawyer was a pleasant-looking man of medium age, and Andy felt sure that he would be a kind and considerate employer.

After office hours, and before going up to his pupil, Andy called at the humble home of Mrs. Carter. The widow's face brightened as she saw him.

"You are my good friend," she said. "You are welcome."

"My employer, Mr. Crawford, sends you this," and Andy displayed the bill.

"It is a godsend. It will enable me to pay my rent, due on Saturday, and give me three dollars over."

"But that is not all. I have procured you a situation as typewriter in a lawyer's office. You will have to be on hand to-morrow morning a little before ten. The office is Mr. Gardner's, at 132 Nassau Street."

"I can hardly believe in my good fortune. I will be there."

"Can you leave the children?"

"I will ask my neighbor, Mrs. Parker, to look after them. What a good young man you are!" she exclaimed, gratefully.

"Not young man -- boy," corrected Andy, with a smile.

"Won't you stay and take a cup of tea?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Carter, but I have an evening engagement. Oh, by the way, I forgot to say that Mr. Gardner will pay you ten dollars a week."

"I shall feel rich. I shall no longer be worried by thoughts of starvation."

"Some time you might consult Mr. Gardner about your brother-in-law's withholding your share of the estate. He will be able to advise you."

Andy felt a warm glow in his heart at the thought of the happiness he had been instrumental in bringing to the poor family. He had learned the great lesson that some never learn, that there is nothing so satisfactory as helping others. We should have a much better world if that was generally understood.

The next day Andy received a letter from his stanch friend, Valentine Burns. He read it eagerly, for it brought him some home news, and in spite of his success he had not forgotten Arden and his many friends there.

This was the letter:

"DEAR ANDY: How long it seems since I saw you! You know that you were my most intimate friend, and of course I miss you very much. To be sure, there is Conrad, who seems willing to bestow his company upon me, as my father happens to be pretty well off, but I look upon Conrad as a snob, and don't care much about him. When we met yesterday, he inquired after you.

"'What's your friend, Andy Grant, doing in the city?'

"'He is in a real estate office,' I replied.

"'Humph! how much does he get paid?'

"'Five dollars.'

"'That is probably more than he earns, but it isn't much to live upon.'

"I didn't care to tell him that you had another income, but said: 'Don't you think you could live on it?'

"'I couldn't live on ten dollars a week,' said Conrad, loftily. 'But, then, I haven't been accustomed to live like Andy Grant.'

"It must be pleasant to you to know that Conrad feels so much interest in your welfare.

"Sometimes I see your father. He looks careworn. I suppose he is thinking of the difficult position in which he is placed. I am sorry to say that last week he lost his best cow by some disease. I heard that he valued it at fifty dollars. I hope that you won't let this worry you. The tide will turn some time. I saw your mother day before yesterday. She is glad of your success, but of course she misses you. She always receives me very cordially, knowing that we are intimate friends.

"I wish I could see you, Andy. You have no idea how I miss you. I like quite a number of the boys, but none is so near to me as you were.

"Well, Andy, I must close. Come to Arden soon, if you can. It will do us good to see you, and I think even Conrad will be glad, as it will give him a chance to pump you as to your position.

"Your affectionate friend,

"Valentine Burns."

"So father has lost his best cow -- old Whitey," said Andy, thoughtfully. "If I were not owing money to Mr. Crawford for the land in Tacoma I would buy him a new one, but some time I hope the land will be valuable, and then I can make the loss good to father."

The reader has not, I hope, forgotten Andy's fellow lodger, S. Byron Warren. Mr. Warren was always writing something for the Century, the Atlantic, or some other leading magazine, but never had been cheered by an acceptance. The magazine editors seemed leagued against him.

But one evening, when Andy returned from the office, he found Mr. Warren beaming with complacence.

"You look happy to-night, Mr. Warren," he said.

"Yes," answered the author; "look at that."

He held out to Andy an eight-page paper called The Weekly Magnet, and pointed out a story of two columns on the second page. Under the title Andy read, "By S. Byron Warren." It was called "The Magician's Spell; A Tale of Sunny Spain."

"I congratulate you," said Andy. "When did you write the story?"

"Last winter."

"How does it happen to be published so late?"

"You see, I sent it first to Scribner's, then to Harper's, and then to the Atlantic. They didn't seem to fancy it, so I sent it to the Magnet."

"I hope they paid you for it."

"Yes," answered Warren, proudly. "They gave me a dollar and a half for it."

"Isn't that rather small?"

"Well, it is small, but the paper is poor. The editor wrote to me that he would be glad to pay me ten dollars for such a sketch when they are more prosperous."

"I suppose you will write again? You must feel greatly encouraged."

"I have been writing another story to-day. I shall mail it to them to-morrow."

"I hope the Magnet will prosper for your sake."

"Thank you. I hope so, too. Ah, Andy, you don't know how it seems to see your own words in print!" said the author.

"I am afraid I never shall, Mr. Warren. I was not intended for an author."

"Oh, I think you might write something," said Warren, patronizingly.

"No; I shall leave the literary field to you."



Chapter XXVII.

Andy Makes A Commission.


Mr. Crawford was busy in his office when a gentleman of fifty entered.

"I hope you are at leisure, Crawford," he said.

"But I am not, Mr. Grayling. I am unusually busy."

"I wanted you to go out and show me that house in Mount Vernon which you mentioned to me the other day. My wife is desirous of moving from the city for the sake of the children."

"Won't to-morrow do?"

"To-morrow I shall be busy myself. To-day is so fine that I managed to get off. Can't you manage to go?"

"No, Grayling, I can't possibly be spared from the office."

"Is there no one you can send with me?"

Mr. Crawford hesitated a moment. Then, as his eye fell upon Andy, he had a sudden thought.

"I will send this young man," he said.

Mr. Grayling smiled.

"He seems quite a young man," he said.

"Yes," said Mr. Crawford, with an answering smile, "he is several years short of forty."

"If you think he will do I shall be glad of his company."

"Wait five minutes, and I will give him the necessary instructions."

"Have you ever been in Mount Vernon, Andy?" asked his employer.

"Yes, sir; I have a boy friend there, and I once spent a Sunday there."

"Mr. Grayling wishes to purchase a residence there. I shall place him in your charge, and give you an order for the key. I will mention some points to which I wish you to call his attention."

Andy was pleased with the commission. It seemed like a step in advance.

"Thank you, Mr. Crawford, for your confidence in me."

"If you succeed in selling the house to Mr. Grayling, I will give you one per cent. commission."

"I will do my best, sir. I have no claim to anything except through your kindness."

"Now let me see how much business ability you have."

Andy and the prospective purchaser took the cars at the Grand Central Station, and in forty minutes found themselves in Mount Vernon.

At the depot, much to his satisfaction, Andy found his friend, Tom Blake.

"What brings you here, Andy?" asked Tom, in surprise.

"I have come to show the Griffith house to this gentleman. Can you direct me to it?"

"I will go with you."

"Thank you, Tom. You will be doing me a favor. Is it far?"

"Little more than half a mile."

"Shall we walk or ride, Mr. Grayling?"

"Walk, by all means. It is a charming day, and a walk will do me good."

They reached the house. It was a spacious country residence in good condition, and Mr. Grayling was favorably impressed. The key was procured and they entered.

The interior bore out the promise of the exterior. The rooms were well and even handsomely finished. They were twelve in number, and there was a good-sized bathroom.

"I wonder if the plumbing is good?" said Mr. Grayling.

"I will test it as far as I can," said Andy.

"You seem to have a good deal of experience for one so young."

"No, sir, not very much, but I have made a careful study of the subject. Mr. Crawford has a good architectural library, and I have made use of it."

After a careful inspection, Andy made a favorable report.

"Of course," he said, "if I am mistaken we will make matters right."

"That will be satisfactory. What is your price for the house?"

"Eight thousand dollars."

Mr. Grayling, after a brief consideration, said:

"That seems reasonable. I will buy the house. How soon can you give me possession?"

"In a week."

"Very good. Then our business seems to be concluded. We will catch the next train back to the city."

"Would you mind giving me a memorandum stating that you will buy the house?"

"I will do so. We will stop at a stationery store, and I will make it out."

When Andy re-entered Mr. Crawford's office the real estate agent inquired:

"How does Mr. Grayling like the house?"

"He has bought it."

"Is it possible? At what figure?"

"Eight thousand dollars."

"Good! I was authorized to take two hundred dollars less, if need be."

"He asked no reduction."

"I hope he won't change his mind."

"He won't. Here is his written agreement to take the house."

"Excellent. Did he offer this assurance?"

"No, sir. I asked for it."

"Andy, you have succeeded admirably. I shall have great pleasure in keeping my promise and paying you eighty dollars, or one per cent, on the purchase money."

"That will be very acceptable, Mr. Crawford. I don't often earn eighty dollars in one day."

In reply to Mr. Crawford's inquiries, Andy gave a detailed account of his visit, and his employer drew a check for eighty dollars, which he placed in his hands.

"Now that I see what you can do," he said, "I shall send you out again."

"Perhaps you will find my services too expensive."

"No. In addition to my regular percentage I receive an extra hundred dollars for getting the full eight thousand dollars."

Andy cashed the check, and deposited the money in a savings bank. He did not pay it to Mr. Crawford on account of the land in Tacoma, for it occurred to him that he might have occasion to use it.

In this he proved correct.

Three weeks later he received a letter from his father. Sterling Grant was a farmer, little used to writing letters, and Andy knew that there must be some special reason for his writing at this time.

He opened the letter quickly, and this was what he read:

"DEAR ANDY: I am in trouble. Next Tuesday the semi-annual interest on Squire Carter's three thousand dollars falls due, and I have but twenty dollars to meet it. My crops have not been up to the average. I have lost my best cow, and somehow everything seems to have gone against me. I expected to sell ten tons of hay, and have had but seven to spare. This alone made a difference of sixty dollars.

"I saw the squire yesterday, and told him how I was situated. I asked him if he would kindly wait for the greater part of the interest, accepting twenty dollars on account. He at once refused. 'I am sorry you have been unlucky, Mr. Grant,' he said, 'but of course I am not responsible for your misfortune. The three thousand dollars I lent you I regard strictly as an investment. Had I supposed the interest would not be paid promptly, I should, of course, have declined to lend. You will have to meet the interest, or take the consequences.'

"I have tried to borrow the money in the village, but thus far I have been unable to do so. I may have to sell two of my cows, but that will cripple me, for, as you know, I depend a good deal on selling milk and butter. Of course this worries me a good deal. I don't know why I write to you, for with your small pay it is hardly likely that you can help me. Still, if you have ten or fifteen dollars to spare, it will aid me. If your friend, Mr. Gale, were near at hand, perhaps he would advance a little money. I might get along with selling one cow, in that case. Two would cripple me.

"Let me know at once what you can do, that I may make plans. Your mother is as well as usual, except that she is worried. We both send love.

"Your affectionate father,

"Sterling Grant."

When Andy read this letter he felt, with a thrill of joy, that he had it in his power to relieve his father from anxiety. He had, with the commission received recently from Mr. Crawford, a hundred and fifty dollars in the bank. He withdrew eighty dollars of this, and then explaining to Mr. Crawford his reason for it, asked for time for a visit home.

"Certainly, Andy," said the real estate agent. "Can I lend you any money?"

"No, sir; I have enough."

As he could not leave till the next day, he telegraphed his father in this way:

"Don't worry. I shall reach home to-morrow. ANDY"



Chapter XXVIII.

Andy's Visit Home.


When Andy stepped on the station platform at Arden, he looked about him to see if any of his friends were in sight.

To his great satisfaction he saw Valentine Burns, who had come to escort an aunt to the cars.

"Where did you drop from, Andy?" he asked, in surprise.

"From the city. I am going to stop over Sunday."

"Good! I am delighted to see you."

"And I to see you. You are my dearest friend -- except Conrad."

Valentine smiled.

"Of course no one is so near to me as he. Well, what's the news?"

"The only news I know of comes from Conrad. I hope it isn't true."

"What did he say?"

"That your father couldn't pay the interest on the mortgage held by his father, and was going to be turned out, though the squire might take your two best cows and call it even."

"He seems to be a good friend of the family, doesn't he?" remarked Andy, quietly.

"It isn't true, is it?"

"It is true that father hasn't money enough to pay the interest."

"What will happen, then?"

"You forget that he has a rich son," said Andy, with a smile.

"Can you help him out?"

"That is what I am here for."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Valentine, with an air of relief. "Even if I didn't like your family, I wouldn't like to see Conrad triumph over you."

"Come around this evening, Val. We shall have plenty to talk about."

"I will."

When Andy entered the farmhouse he received a warm welcome from his mother, and a cordial grasp of the hand from his father, who was less demonstrative. But there was an air of grave anxiety on the faces of both.

"I am glad to see you, Andy," said Sterling Grant, "but I wish you had come under more cheerful circumstances. We are in a good deal of trouble."

"I have come to get you out of it."

"Can you?" asked the farmer, in surprise.

"Yes. How much have you got toward the interest?"

"Only twenty dollars."

"And the whole sum is -- "

"Ninety dollars."

"I can give you the seventy dollars you require."

"Where did you get the money? Have you borrowed it?"

"No. It belongs to me. I will explain later. Now I am hungry, and while mother is looking for some lunch for me we will talk about other matters."

"I am very much relieved, Andy. I will go and tell the squire I shall be able to meet the interest."

"Don't do it, father. We will leave him to suppose it will not be paid, and see what course he intends to pursue. Don't breathe a word to undeceive him."

"I will do as you say, Andy, though I don't know your object. Do you still like your place in New York?"

"Yes; I am learning the business fast, and have good hopes for the future. Mr. Crawford is an excellent man, and takes an interest in me."

"That is good. After all, things are brightening. When I got up this morning I felt about discouraged."

"I telegraphed you not to worry, father."

Meanwhile Mrs. Grant was preparing an appetizing lunch for her son. She knew just what he liked. When it was placed on the table, he did full justice to it.

"It tastes better than anything I get in the city, mother," he said.

"I didn't suppose our plain table would compare with city meals."

"They're not in it with you," said Andy. "I am only afraid I shall make myself sick by overeating."

Mrs. Grant was greatly pleased that Andy had not lost his taste for home fare.

"How you have grown, Andy!" she said. "And you are looking so well, too! Do you have to work very hard?"

"Hard work agrees with me, mother. No; I don't hurt myself."

"I wish I could be here when the squire comes for the interest," Andy said, later.

"He will call this evening. You will see him," said Sterling Grant.

"Then I shall be sure to stay at home."

Meanwhile, at the house of Squire Carter, there was a conference between father and son.

Conrad had a new and bright idea. He had always coveted Andy's boat, which, as we know, was much better than his own had been. It occurred to him that here would be a good opportunity to get it for a trifle.

"Pa," he said, "will you do me a favor?"

"What is it?" asked his father, suspiciously.

"You know I haven't got a boat now. Won't you let Mr. Grant pay part of the interest in Andy's boat?"

"What do I want with the boat?" asked the squire, impatiently.

"Pa, you can make a great bargain. I hear that it cost seventy-five dollars. You can allow the farmer twenty dollars, and sell it for forty dollars cash."

"I don't know about that."

But the squire's tone was less decided. He liked a bargain, and he knew that there was some reason in what Conrad said.

"Mr. Grant might not feel at liberty to sell his son's boat," he argued.

"Andy would let him. He thinks a good deal of his family."

"I'll think of it; but I intended to propose taking two of his cows."

"That you can do next time. Probably he won't have the interest six months from now."

"I'll see about it."

"There is one other thing; you would have a better chance to sell the boat for a profit than the cows."

"Well, Conrad, I will think of it, as I said. I am going around to Farmer Grant's this evening, and I will broach the subject."

Later in the day Conrad met Jimmy Morris.

"Have you heard the news, Conrad?" asked Jimmy.

"What is it?"

"Andy Grant is in Arden. He arrived from the city this morning."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Why? Are you and Andy such great friends?"

"It isn't on account of friendship; it's on account of business."

"What business?"

"I can't tell you, but you will very likely hear soon."

Conrad hoped to meet Andy and broach the subject of buying the boat. He decided from his knowledge of the farmer's son that, much as he valued his boat, he would be willing to sacrifice it for the sake of his father. In this thought he paid an unconscious tribute to Andy, for in similar circumstances he would have been incapable of anything so unselfish.

About half-past seven, Andy, looking out of the window, saw the stately and dignified figure of Squire Carter coming up the front path.

"The squire is coming, father," he said. "I want you to look sober, just as if you were unprepared to pay the interest."

Squire Carter had already been informed by Conrad that Andy was in the village. He showed no surprise, therefore, when he saw him.

He had also been down to the river and taken a look at Andy's boat. He could see that it was a very handsome one, and doubtless worth as much as Conrad reported.

"So you have come home, Andrew?" he said.

"Yes, Squire Carter."

"You haven't lost your place, have you?"

"No, sir. I have come home on a visit."

"Ahem! You arrived at an unfortunate time for your father. He has had bad luck. Things seem to have gone against him."

"So I heard, sir."

"If you had been at home to help him on the farm, things would have been different, maybe."

"I hope to help him by staying in the city."

"That isn't very likely. I don't approve, for my part, of boys leaving home to work."

"I think I shall succeed in the end, sir."

"Ahem! I have no doubt you think so, but boys like you haven't much judgment. I suppose you know that interest is due on the mortgage for the first six months, and that your father can't meet it."

"I have heard so, Squire Carter."

"As a friend of your father I have a plan to propose that may make things easy for him. I am glad to see you, for a part of my business is with you."



Chapter XXIX.

The Interest Is Paid.


Andy was surprised by the squire's words. He could not conjecture what business Squire Carter could have with him.

"First," said the squire, "may I ask, Mr. Grant, whether you can pay the interest on the mortgage which I hold when it comes due?"

"I have only twenty-five dollars at my command now, Squire Carter. Perhaps something may turn up between now and next Tuesday."

"That is extremely likely," said the squire, in a tone of sarcasm.

"Have you anything to propose? Are you willing to wait a month?"

"No, sir; I am not. It will be extreme folly on my part. Do you expect to come into a fortune within thirty days?"

"No, sir."

"So I presume. However, I have a plan to propose. I did intend to say that I would allow you fifty dollars for your two best cows. But even that would not pay the deficit. I believe your son owns a boat."

"I do," said Andy, looking up. He began to understand the squire's plan.

"I am willing to allow twenty dollars for it, as my son has taken a fancy to it, and his own boat was destroyed through the malice of a tramp. This, with fifty dollars for your two cows, would pay the interest all but twenty dollars, which you say you are able to pay in cash."

"Squire Carter, my cows are of a choice breed, and are worth fifty dollars each."

"They would not fetch that sum. Indeed, twenty-five dollars each is all that you would have any chance of getting. If you doubt it, you may try to get an offer elsewhere."

"What should I do without the cows? I depend on the butter and milk I obtain from them for a good part of my cash income."

"That is your lookout," said the squire, shrugging his shoulders.

"You don't appear to have much consideration for me."

"Business is business, Mr. Grant. You owe me ninety dollars. If you can't pay me in one form, you must in another."

"I would like to say a word, Squire Carter," said Andy. "The boat for which you offer twenty dollars cost Mr. Gate seventy-five."

"I don't believe it."

"I have his word for it."

"Very likely, but it wouldn't be the first case where a man overstated the price of his purchase."

"Mr. Gale would not deceive me in that way."

"Have it as you like. The boat is second-hand now, and worth far less than when it was new," persisted the squire.

"There is considerable difference between twenty dollars and seventy-five."

"Well, I might stretch a point and call it twenty-five, as Conrad is desirous of having the boat. In that case there would be five dollars coming to you, which you would doubtless find very handy."

"I think I shall have to decline your offer, Squire Carter."

"And leave your poor father in trouble? I thought better of you."

Squire Carter was surprised to find that both Andy and his father were cool, and apparently not suffering anxiety. He had thought they would be sad, and would resort to entreaties.

"Does it strike you, Squire Carter, that you are trying to drive a very hard bargain with my father and myself? You offer a very low sum for the cows and for my boat."

"If you can get more anywhere else, you are quite at liberty to do so," said the squire, in a tone of indifference.

He felt that father and son were in his power, and that he would have his own way in the end.

"I don't think we shall sell at all," said Andy, calmly.

"What!" ejaculated the squire. "Not sell at all? Do you think I will allow the interest to remain unpaid?"

"The interest will be paid."

"How? Where will you get the money?"

"I will supply my father with what he needs."

"You talk like a fool!" said the squire, sharply. "Do you think I will allow myself to be humbugged by a boy?"

"No, sir; but you can rely upon what I say."

"Have you borrowed the money from Mr. Gale?"

"I have not seen Mr. Gale for several months. He does not know of my father's pecuniary trouble. If he did, I think he would come to his and my assistance. As to the boat, I value it not only on account of its intrinsic worth, but because he gave it to me. Conrad cannot have it."

Squire Carter was much irritated. Besides, he did not believe that Andy would really be able to furnish his father with the help he needed.

"I am not easily deceived, Andrew Grant," he said. "It is useless for me to remain here any longer. I will only say that if the interest is not paid on Tuesday next, your father must take the consequences."

"He is ready to pay it now -- before it is due -- if you will give him a receipt."

"Wh -- what!" ejaculated the squire, in amazement.

"I mean what I say. Father, will you give the squire writing materials and ask him to make out a receipt?"

"Is this -- straight? Are you really able to pay the interest now?"

"Yes, sir. You need have no fear on that score. When my father wrote me about his difficulty I procured the money, and I have it here."

Half incredulous, Squire Carter made out the receipt, and a roll of bills was handed to him. He counted them carefully, and put them in his wallet.

"The money is correct," he said, stiffly. "I am glad you are able to pay it."

"Thanks to Andy here," said his father, with a grateful look at his son.

"All is well so far, but if your son has borrowed the money it will have to be repaid."

"I didn't borrow it, Squire Carter."

"Do you mean to say that you have been able to save it up out of your boy's wages?"

"I received it from my employer for special services."

Squire Carter left the house not altogether satisfied. He had received his interest, but he had hoped to profit by the farmer's needs, and get what would have been of considerably greater value than the money. In this he had been disappointed.

"But six months hence interest will be due again," he reflected, by way of consolation. "This time the Grants were lucky, but won't be so all the time. Besides, when the mortgage falls due it will take more help than the boy can give to settle it."

When the squire reached home, he found Conrad waiting to see him.

"Well, pa," he said, "am I going to have the boat?"

"No," answered his father, shortly.

"Why not? You said you would get it for me."

"They wouldn't sell."

"Then how will they pay the interest?"

"It is paid already."

Conrad opened his eyes wide with amazement.

"Where did the money come from?"

"The boy advanced it to his father."

"You must be joking, pa. Where could Andy get ninety dollars?"

"He only had to supply seventy. As to where it came from I can't tell. You had better ask him."

"So I will. It's a shame I can't have the boat."

"He wants too much for it."

"How much does he want?"

"I don't know. If he will let you have it for thirty dollars, you can buy it."

"Thank you, pa. It's the same as mine. A boy like Andy can't afford to refuse thirty dollars."

"I don't know. He seems a mighty independent sort of boy."

Conrad lost no time in trying to purchase the boat of Andy, but of course without success.

"I would rather keep it myself," was the reply.

"But you can't use it."

"Not at present, perhaps, but I may be able to some time. Besides, Mr. Gale gave it to me, and I shouldn't be willing to part with it. At any rate, I wouldn't sell for thirty dollars."

"Never mind, Conrad," said his father. "When the next interest is payable, Andrew will probably be glad to accept your offer."

Andy enjoyed the short visit home. He managed to see the boys with whom he was most intimate, and promised to look out for positions in the city for two of them. At home his presence was a source of comfort and joy to his mother. It gladdened him to see the bright look on her face, which had been grave and anxious when he arrived.

On Monday, morning he set out for New York on an early train, feeling that his visit had been in every way a success. Several boys were at the station to see him off, but among them he did not perceive Conrad Carter.



Chapter XXX.

An Unexpected Proposal.


Three months later, when Andy entered the office one morning, he found Mr. Crawford in a thoughtful mood.

"I wish you were older, Andy," he began, abruptly.

"Why, sir?"

"Because I have a commission I could then intrust to you."

"Then I am too young for it now?"

"I am afraid so. And yet -- but I will tell you what it is, and see if you consider yourself equal to it. How old are you now?"

"Seventeen, sir."

"I will explain myself. I am intimately acquainted with the men who are engineering the Northern Pacific Railroad, and I have reliable advices that work will at once be resumed on it, and probably the road will be completed in less than a year."

"I suppose this will raise the price of our land in Tacoma?"

"Precisely. Still, I think it will not be advisable to sell for some time to come. My object is rather to buy more land."

"I should think it would be a good idea."

"The time to buy is now, before the public learn of the probable early completion of the railroad. If I could spare the time from my business I would go out there at once."

"I should think it would pay, Mr. Crawford."

"Doubtless it would, but I cannot arrange to leave now. I expect to have some large transactions in real estate during the next two or three months."

"I see the difficulty, sir."

"I will come to the point. Do you think you could go to Tacoma, look carefully over the ground, and secure desirable lots for me?"

"I think I could, sir, under instructions from you."

"That is what I had in view when I said I wished you were older."

"You could, at any rate, rely upon my faithfully carrying out your instructions."

"I am sure of that, and I also have considerable confidence in your good judgment. At any rate, I will take the risk. What day is to-day?"

"Thursday."

"Make preparations to start on Monday. Can you do so?"

"Yes, sir."

Andy felt a thrill of delight at the prospect held out to him. He had always felt a strong desire to see the great West, but had realized that he should probably have to wait a good many years before his wish was gratified. It had been a dream, but now his dream bade fair to become actuality.

"I will prepare a general letter of instructions and make such suggestions as may occur to me," continued Mr. Crawford. "I will excuse you from office work for the balance of the week, in order that you may make the necessary preparations."

As the Northern Pacific road was not completed, it was decided that Andy should go to San Francisco by the Union Pacific and Central Pacific roads, and take steamer thence to Puget Sound.

"You can stay in San Francisco three days," said Mr. Crawford, considerately. "It will give you a chance to rest and see the city."

On Monday Andy started on his long journey. He wrote a brief letter to his mother, as follows:

"DEAR MOTHER: I am going West on some business for Mr. Crawford. I will write you on the way. You are at liberty to tell this to any one in Arden, but I don't care to have the extent of my journey known. You may think I am young for such a trip, but I have no fears. The business is important, but it is simple, and I hope to carry it through successfully.

In haste, your loving son,

Andy."

However, Mrs. Grant was not the first one to hear of Andy's trip. It so happened that at the station Andy met Conrad Carter, who had just come into the city for a day.

"How do you happen to be here?" asked Conrad, in surprise.

"I am leaving the city."

"I suppose you are discharged and going home," remarked Conrad, loftily.

"No; I am going on some business for my employer."

"How far do you go?"

"My first stop will be Chicago."

Conrad was amazed.

"Is this straight?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You are going on business for the firm?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Crawford must be a fool."

"Why?"

"To send an ignorant country boy to Chicago."

Andy smiled.

"Mr. Crawford has succeeded very well in business, and I don't think he is a fool."

"He must be infatuated with you."

"If he is, that is lucky for me."

"How long do you expect to be away?"

"I can't say; I can't tell how long it will take me to transact my business."

"I wish pa would let me go to Chicago," said Conrad, enviously. "You are a poor boy, and yet you travel more than I."

"Your time will come, Conrad."

"Has your employer given you much money to travel with?"

"I am to draw on him for what I want."

"Say, won't you write me a letter from Chicago? I wish I had known you were going; I would have asked pa to let me go with you."

Andy was amused at Conrad's change of front. He knew very well that Conrad was no more his friend than before, but that his notions were strictly selfish. However, he promised to write to him if he could get time, and made the promise in good faith.

"I wish Valentine were going with me," he thought; "but I should not enjoy Conrad's company."

Andy's journey to Chicago was uneventful. About two hours before the train arrived a tall man left his seat on the opposite side of the car and seated himself beside Andy.

"Good-morning," he began. "I suppose, like me, you propose to stop in Chicago?"

"For about twenty-four hours," answered Andy.

"And then you go on further?"

"Yes, sir."

"How far?"

"I cannot tell you definitely," answered Andy, who thought it wise to be on his guard.

"Could you oblige me with small bills for a ten? I am owing a dollar to the porter."

Andy took out a large-sized wallet from an inner pocket and opened it. It contained about fifty dollars in bills of different denominations.

"I am afraid I cannot accommodate you," he said, "unless two five-dollar bills will answer your purpose."

"I am afraid it won't help me."

"I am sorry," said Andy, politely.

He did not observe the covetous glance of the stranger as he noted the large wallet and its contents. It occurred to him afterward that his companion had not produced the bill he wished changed.

"Oh, well," said the stranger, carelessly, "it doesn't matter. I can get the bill changed at the depot. Are you traveling on business?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir."

"So am I. I represent the firm of Arnold & Constable, in New York. Doubtless you have heard of them."

"Oh, yes. They are well known."

"I have been in their employ for five years. Before that I worked for Claflin."

"Indeed!"

"You do not mention the name of your firm."

"No, I am traveling on private business for the head of the firm."

"Ah, yes. I don't wish to be inquisitive. You do right to keep the business to yourself."

"You see, it is not my business."

"Just so! You are young for a business agent."

"That is true, but I am growing older every day."

"Exactly so! Good joke!"

Andy's companion laughed quite heartily, rather to the surprise of his young acquaintance.

"I am very glad to have met you. You see, I am very social, and can't stand being alone. By the way, where do you stop in Chicago?"

"At the Sherman House."

"Good hotel! I have stopped there often. Still, there is nothing as homelike as a private house. I have a friend living in the city who keeps a first-class boarding house and only charges transient guests a dollar and a quarter a day. I wish you could be induced to go there with me. At the hotel you will have to pay three or four dollars."

Now, Andy was naturally economical, and thought it would be praiseworthy to save money for Mr. Crawford. He inquired the location of the boarding house, and imprudently decided to act on his companion's proposal.



Chapter XXXI.

The Trap.


Andy left the depot with his new acquaintance, who gave his name as Percival Robinson, and, following his lead, boarded a horse car, which took them both a distance of three miles to the southern part of the city. As they went on, dwellings became scattering.

"Your friend's house seems quite out of the way," said Andy.

"Yes; but Chicago is a city of distances. It really doesn't make much difference where you stop. Street cars will carry you anywhere."

"Still it would be pleasanter to be centrally located."

"But by going some way out you get cheaper accommodations."

"That is true," thought Andy; "and I have time enough."

At length Robinson signaled to the conductor to stop.

Andy followed him out of the car. They seemed to be in the very outskirts of the city.

Robinson led the way to a rather shabby brick house standing by itself. It was three stories in height.

"This is where my friend lives," he said, walking up the front steps and ringing the front-door bell.

Two minutes later the door was opened by a red-haired man in his shirt sleeves.

"Hello, Tom!" he exclaimed.

"I thought his name was Percival," Andy said to himself.

"My young friend and I will stay overnight with you," said Robinson.

"All right. Come in."

A door on the left was opened, and Andy saw a sanded floor, and on one side of the room a bar.

"Go in there a minute," said Robinson, "while I speak to my friend."

Andy went in, and picked up a copy of the Clipper from the table -- the only paper in the room.

In five minutes the two returned.

"I'll take your gripsack," said the man in shirt sleeves. "I will show you to your room."

They went up two flights of stairs to a room on the third floor. It was a small apartment about ten feet square, with a double bed in one corner.

"I guess you'll both be comfortable here," said the landlord.

"I think I would rather have a room to myself," said Andy, by no means satisfied.

"Sorry we can't accommodate you, but the house is full."

It didn't look so, but then the lodgers might be out.

Andy thought for a moment he would go downstairs, and take a car back to the central part of the city, but he was afraid his action would seem strange, and he made no objection.

"I guess we'll get along together," said Robinson, in an easy tone.

Andy didn't think so, but he found it awkward to make objections.

"I will take a wash," he said, seeing that the pitcher on the washstand contained water.

"All right!" returned Robinson. "Just make yourself at home. I'll go downstairs. You'll find me there."

Left alone, Andy reproached himself for his too ready yielding to the plans of his companion. He wondered why he had done so.

"Mr. Crawford didn't ask me to be economical," he reflected. "He is willing I should pay ordinary prices at a hotel. I think I have been very foolish. However, I am in for it. It will serve as a lesson to me, which I will remember hereafter."

He looked out of the window. There was a lot behind the hotel -- if it was a hotel -- covered with ashes, tin cans, and other litter.

"I am sure," thought Andy, "this isn't the kind of hotel Mr. Crawford wished me to stay at."

When he had washed he went downstairs. As he passed the door of the barroom he saw Mr. Robinson inside, sitting at the table, with a bottle and a glass before him.

"Come in, Grant, and have some whisky," he said.

"Thank you, but I don't care for whisky."

"Perhaps you would prefer beer?"

"I don't care to drink anything, thank you."

"You don't mean to say you're a temperance crank?"

"Yes, I think I am."

"Oh, well, do just as you please. By the way, it is the rule here to pay for board in advance."

"How much is it?"

"A dollar and a quarter, please," said this red-haired man, who stood behind the bar.

Andy paid over the money.

"I thought perhaps you would stay more than one day."

"No, I have little time. I shall have to leave to-morrow. I think, Mr. Robinson, I will go out and take a walk."

"All right! Supper will be ready in two hours."

Andy nodded.

He had a great mind to go upstairs and get his gripsack. Then he would be able to go where he pleased. He went out and began to walk about in the neighborhood of the hotel.

It did not seem to be a very pleasant quarter of the city, and it was certainly a good distance from the center.

"I sha'n't learn much about Chicago if I stay here," he thought.

Again he execrated his folly in so weakly yielding to the representations of a man he knew nothing about.

He walked for half an hour and then returned slowly. There didn't seem to be much to look at, and his walk had no interest for him.

Not far from the hotel he met a well-dressed boy, and was impelled to speak to him.

"Do you live near by?" he asked.

"No, but I have an uncle living in that house over there. I came to spend the day with my cousins."

"I am a stranger in this city. I met a man who took me to that brick house. He recommended it as a cheap boarding place. Do you know anything about it?"

"I know that it has a bad reputation."

"Will you tell me what you know about it? You will be doing me a favor."

"The bar does a good business in the evening. I have heard of several cases where men who put up there complained of being robbed."

"Thank you. I am not much surprised to hear it."

"Have you taken a room there?"

"Yes. I am afraid I was foolish."

"I hope you won't be robbed -- that's all."

"I should like to get out, but I am afraid if I come downstairs with my grip they would try to stop my going."

"Where is your room?"

"At the back part of the house, looking out on the lot."

"I'll tell you what you can do," said the other boy, after a moment's thought. "Have you paid anything for your room?"

"Yes, but I don't mind that."

"Then drop your grip out of the window. I'll catch it."

"I will."

"Then you can take a car and go down into the city."

"Do you know the way to the Sherman House?"

"Certainly."

"If you will go there with me, I'll make it worth your while."

"All right. I was just about going home, anyway."

"Then I'll go upstairs and get my bag."

Andy went to his room, opened the window, and, looking down, saw his new boy friend.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You needn't try to catch it. There's nothing in it that will break."

"Fling her out!"

Andy did so.

"Now come down. You'll find me here."

An hour later supper was served. Percival Robinson and three other men, likewise patrons of the barroom, sat down. The landlord himself was one of the party.

"Where is the kid?" he asked.

"I saw him go out an hour ago," said one of the guests.

"He has probably come back and is in his room," said Robinson. "I will go up and call him."

He went upstairs quickly and entered the room assigned to Andy and himself. It was empty.

"The boy has taken a long walk," he said to himself.

Then he looked about for Andy's grip. It occurred to him that he would have a good opportunity to examine its contents.

He started in surprise and dismay, for the grip was gone.

"He must have given me the slip," he exclaimed.

"Did any one see the boy go out with his gripsack?" he asked, as he returned.

"I saw him go out, but he had nothing in his hand," answered the landlord.

"Well, he's gone, bag and baggage," returned Robinson, very much annoyed.

"At any rate, he has paid his bill," said the landlord, complacently.

"Bother his hotel bill!" muttered Robinson, roughly. "I meant to have a good deal more than that."

"Have you any idea where he has gone?"

"I think he may have gone to the Sherman House. I'll go there after supper and see if I can find him."



Chapter XXXII.

A Critical Moment.


Guided by his boy companion, Andy found the Sherman House and registered there. The change was a very satisfactory one, and he enjoyed the comfortable room to which he was assigned.

After a hearty supper he took a seat in the office and watched with interest the crowds that surged in and out of the hotel. Presently he saw a familiar figure entering.

It was his late companion, Percival Robinson. The latter was not long in recognizing the boy.

He walked up to the chair on which Andy was seated and addressed him with a look of anger.

"So I have found you, have I?" he said, roughly.

Andy knew that this man had no right to interfere with him, and answered, coolly:

"So it seems."

"Why did you play me such a mean trick, boy?"

"My name is Andrew," said Andy, with dignity. "What right have you to speak to me in this manner?"

"I'll tell you presently. You have made a nice return for my kindness."

"I know of no kindness. You got acquainted with me on the train, and took me to a house where I didn't care to stop."

"Why didn't you care to stop there?"

"Because I found that it didn't have a good reputation. My employer wouldn't care to have me stay at such a house."

"You are mighty independent for a young boy. I want you to return the pocketbook of which you relieved me."

Andy was startled at this reckless charge.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, hotly. "You know that this is a falsehood."

"We'll see if you will brazen it out. If you don't give me back the pocketbook, which I have no doubt you have in your pocket at this moment, I will have you arrested."

Andy began to feel nervous. He was a stranger in Chicago. There was no one to identify him or vouch for his honesty. What if this man should carry out his threat and have him arrested?

However, Andy had pluck, and didn't intend to surrender at discretion.

This conversation had attracted the attention of two or three guests of the hotel, who were disposed to look with suspicion upon Andy. His accuser appeared like a man of good position, being well dressed and with an air of assurance.

One old gentleman, who was fond of giving advice, said, reprovingly:

"My boy, you will find it best to hand the gentleman his pocketbook. It is sad to see one so young guilty of theft."

"Perhaps the boy is not guilty," suggested another guest.

"I am in the employ of a gentleman in New York," said Andy, "and this man is scheming to rob me."

"You are perfectly shameless!" said Robinson, encouraged by what the old gentleman had said. "I will give you just five minutes to return my pocketbook, or I will have you arrested."

Andy felt that he was in a tight place, but his wits had not deserted him.

"As you claim the pocketbook," he said, "perhaps you will tell how much money there is in it."

"I can't tell exactly," replied Robinson. "I spend money liberally, and I have not counted the money lately."

"That is quite reasonable," said the old gentleman. "I don't know how much money there is in my wallet."

"What is there besides money in the pocketbook?" asked Andy following up his advantage.

"I think there are a few postage stamps," answered Robinson at a guess.

"You certainly have a good deal of assurance, young man," said the old gentleman in a tone of reproof. "If I were in this gentleman's place I would summon a policeman at once."

"I prefer to give the boy a chance," said Robinson, who had his own reasons for not bringing the matter to the knowledge of the police. "I don't want to get him into trouble. I only want my money back."

"You are more considerate than he deserves," said Andy's critic. "And by the way, here is the hotel detective. Officer, will you come here, please? Here is a case that requires your attention."

The hotel detective, a quiet-looking man, approached.

Robinson was far from thanking the old gentleman for his officiousness. He feared recognition.

"What is the matter?" asked the detective, coming up and eying Robinson sharply.

The old gentleman volunteered an explanation.

The detective seemed amused.

"So this man charges the boy with robbing him?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; and we all believe that he has good grounds for doing so."

"I don't believe it," said the gentleman who had already spoken for Andy.

"What have you to say, my boy?" asked the detective, turning to Andy.

"Only that I made the acquaintance of this man on the train. He induced me to go to a small hotel on the outskirts of the city, on the ground that I could board there cheaply. What I saw and heard there excited my suspicions, and I left the place without his knowledge."

"Taking my pocketbook with you. I incautiously laid it on the bed. When I went up later I found that it and you had disappeared."

"Do you hear that, officer?" asked the old gentleman, triumphantly.

"I do," answered the detective. Then, turning to Robinson with a change of tone, he asked:

"How did you get so much money, Tom Maitland?"

Robinson turned pale. He saw that he was recognized.

"I will let the matter drop," he said. "I don't want to get the boy into trouble."

He turned toward the door, but the detective was too quick for him.

"You will have to go with me," he said. "You have been trying a bold confidence game. I shall have to lock you up."

"Gentlemen," said Robinson, turning pale, "will you permit this outrage?"

"It is an outrage!" said the old gentleman, hotly.

"My friend," inquired the detective, "do you know this man?"

"No; but -- "

"Then let me introduce him as Tom Maitland, one of the cleverest confidence men in Chicago."

He produced a pair of handcuffs, which he deftly slipped over the wrists of Percival Robinson, and led him out of the hotel.

Andy was satisfactorily vindicated, and, it must be admitted, enjoyed the discomfiture of the old gentleman, who slunk away in confusion.

When Andy set out on his journey he intended to go to Tacoma by way of San Francisco, but found, as he proceeded, that he could go by the Northern Pacific as far as it was built, and proceed the rest of the way by stage and over Puget Sound. This seemed to him to afford greater variety, and he adopted the plan.

Some hundreds of miles east of his destination he took the stage. It was rather a toilsome mode of traveling, but he obtained a good idea of the country through which he was passing.

At that time stage robberies were frequent, nor have they wholly ceased now. Among the stage robbers who were most dreaded was a certain Dick Hawley, who had acquired a great reputation for daring, and was known to have been engaged in nearly twenty stage robberies.

As they approached that part of the route in which he operated, there was a great anxiety manifested by the passengers, and especially by a thin, cadaverous-looking man from Ohio.

"Do you think we shall meet Dick Hawley to-day, driver?" he asked.

"I can't say, sir. I hope not."

"How often have you met him?"

"Three times."

"Did he rob the stage every time?"

"Yes."

"Were there many passengers on board?" asked Andy.

"Nearly ten every time."

"And they allowed one man to rob them?"

"Wait till you meet him," said the driver, shrugging his shoulders.

"If he stops the stage I shall die of fright," said the cadaverous-looking man. "I know I shall."

"Have you a good deal of money with you?" asked a fellow passenger.

"I have ninety-seven dollars and a half," answered the other, soberly.

"Better lose that than die! If you give it up, there won't be any danger of bodily injury."

The cadaverous-looking man groaned, but did not reply.

Gradually they ascended, for they were among the mountains, till they reached a narrow ledge or shelf scarcely wider than the stage. On one side there was a sheer descent of hundreds of feet, and great caution was requisite.

Just at the highest point a horseman appeared around a curve and stationed himself directly in front of the stage, with a revolver pointed at the driver.

"Stop and give up your money, or I fire!" he exclaimed.

It was the dreaded highwayman, Dick Hawley.



Chapter XXXIII.

A Sudden Tragedy.


The driver pulled up short. The passengers realized that something had happened, and the nervous man put his head out of the window.

Instantly a change came over his face.

"We are all dead men!" he groaned. "It is the highwayman!"

Andy felt startled in spite of his pluck, and so did the other passengers.

"I would jump out and confront the scoundrel," said a determined-looking man, "but there is no room. We are on the verge of a precipice."

"What will happen?" exclaimed the cadaverous-looking man in an agony of terror.

"I suppose we shall be robbed. That will be better than tumbling over the precipice."

"Oh, why did I ever leave home?"

"I don't know. Ask me something easier," said the resolute man, in disgust. "Such a man as you ought never to stir from his own fireside."

"Stop the coach and pass over your watches and pocketbooks!" cried Dick Hawley, in a commanding tone.

By way of exciting alarm and enforcing his order he fired one charge of his revolver. The consequences he did not anticipate.

The terrified stage horses, alarmed by the report, got beyond control of the driver and dashed forward impetuously. The highwayman had hardly time to realize his danger when his horse was overthrown and pushed over the precipice along with its rider, while the stage dashed on. The last that the passengers saw of Dick Hawley was a panic-stricken face looking upward as he fell rapidly down toward the rocks at the bottom.

"He's gone! We are saved!" exclaimed the cadaverous-looking man, joyfully.

"That is, if the coach doesn't tumble after him."

But the coach was saved. Had the horses swerved in their course all would have been killed. As it was, the dangerous place was safely crossed and the stage emerged upon a broad plateau.

The driver stopped the horses, and, dismounting from the box, came around to the coach door.

"I congratulate you, gentlemen," he said. "We had a close shave, but we are out of danger. Dick Hawley will rob no more stages."

"Driver, you are a brave man -- you have saved us," said one of the passengers.

"It was not I; it was the horses."

"Then you did not start them up?"

"No; I should not have dared to do it. They were frightened by the revolver and took the matter into their own hands."

"Dick Hawley was foolhardy. Had he ever stopped a stage at this point before?"

"Yes, he did so last year."

"And succeeded?"

"Yes; he made a big haul. This time he has met his deserts."

There were no further incidents that deserve recording in Andy's journey. It is needless to say that he enjoyed it. The scenes through which he passed were new and strange to him. It was a country he had never expected to see, and for this reason, perhaps, he enjoyed it the more.

At last he reached Tacoma. It was irregularly built on a hillside. There were no buildings of any pretensions. All its importance was to come.

He put up at the Tacoma House, a hotel of moderate size, and after dinner he went out to see the town. He sought out the plot of lots owned jointly by Mr. Crawford and himself, and found that they were located not far from the center of the business portion of the town.

It took no sagacity to foresee that the land would rise in value rapidly, especially after the Northern Pacific Railroad was completed.

In the afternoon, feeling tired, he sat in his room and read a book he had picked up at a periodical store -- a book treating of the great Northwest. The partitions were thin, and noises in the adjoining room were easily audible.

His attention was drawn to a sound of coughing, and a groan indicating pain. It was evident that the next apartment was occupied by a sick man.

Andy's sympathies were excited. It seemed to be a forlorn position to be sick and without attention in this remote quarter. After a moment's hesitation he left his own room and knocked at the other door.

"Come in!" was the reply, in a hollow voice.

Andy opened the door and entered.

On the bed lay a man, advanced in years, with hollow cheeks and every appearance of serious illness.

"I am afraid you are very sick," said Andy, gently.

"Yes; I have an attack of grip. I am afraid I will have to pass in my checks."

"Oh, it isn't as bad as that," said Andy, in a reassuring tone. "Have you no one to take care of you?"

"No; everybody here is occupied with schemes for money-making. I can't get any one to look after me for love or money."

"Then you have no near friend or relative in Tacoma?"

"No; nor, I may say, anywhere else. I have a niece, however, in Syracuse. She is at school. She is the only tie, the only one on whom I have any claim."

"If you need money -- " began Andy, feeling a little delicate about offering pecuniary assistance.

"No, I have no need of that kind. I suppose I look poor, for I never cared about my personal appearance, but I am one of the largest owners of real estate in Tacoma, besides having some thousands of dollars in a San Francisco bank. But what good will it all do me? Here I am, sick, and perhaps near death."

"I will do what I can for you," said Andy. "I am myself a visitor in Tacoma. I came on business for a New York gentleman. I am authorized to buy lots in Tacoma. When you are better, I will make you an offer for your land, if you care to sell."

"Help me to get well, and you shall have it on your own terms."

"You will need some one besides myself. Do you authorize me to hire an attendant?"

"Yes, I shall be glad to have you do so. I begin to hope for recovery, through your assistance. I had given myself up for lost."

"Then I will go out and see what I can do. Do you authorize me to pay liberally for the service of a nurse?"

"Pay anything -- fifty dollars a week, if necessary; I can afford it."

"I will go out at once. I will see if I can buy some oranges."

Andy left the hotel and walked toward the steamboat wharf. It was deserted, except by two persons.

A young man of thirty, bronzed by exposure to the weather, who looked like a farmer, stood beside a plain, cheap trunk, on which sat a woman somewhat younger, who had a weary and anxious look.

The young man -- her husband, doubtless -- seemed troubled.

"Good-afternoon," said Andy, pleasantly. "Are you in any trouble? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, my boy, I'm in a tight place. I came here from Iowa, with my wife, expecting to meet a cousin who had promised to get me employment. I find he has left Tacoma. So here I am, with less than five dollars in my pocket and no prospect of work. I'm not a coward, but I don't mind saying I'm afraid to think of what will become of us."

An idea came to Andy.

Here was a chance to secure a nurse.

"Is your wife used to sickness?" he asked. "Could she take care of a sick man?"

The woman brightened up.

"I took care of my father for a year," she answered. "I'm a middlin' good nurse."

"She's the best nurse I know of," put in her husband.

"All right! Then I can find you employment. An acquaintance of mine, an old man -- as old, probably, as your father -- is sick with grip at the Tacoma House. He will pay you liberally. Can you come with me at once?"

"Yes, and be glad to."

"Come, then. You will be paid twenty-five dollars a week."

"Why that's a fortune!" said the woman, amazed.

"Come with me at once, and your husband can follow at his leisure."

"Maria, that's what I call a streak of good luck," said her husband, overjoyed. "Go along with this young man, and I'll get a cheap room somewhere in town. I'll take the trunk along with me."

He shouldered the small trunk, and his wife went off with Andy.

In a few minutes she was installed in the sick chamber, and soon showed that she understood her business. A doctor was sent for, and Seth Johnson, for this was the sick man's name, was soon made comfortable.

He ratified Andy's bargain, and paid, besides, for Mrs. Graham's board at the hotel. He did not gain rapidly, for his strength was at a low ebb, but he improved steadily.

The husband found employment in a couple of days, and their temporary despondency gave place to hope and courage.

"You've done better for me than my cousin would have done, Andy," said Graham, a few days later. "You've set me on my feet, and I'm not afraid now but I'll get along."



Chapter XXXIV.

Seth Johnson's Gift.


It was four weeks before Seth Johnson became convalescent. His system was run down, and he was in a very critical state when found by Andy. Careful nursing saved him.

When able to get out, he accompanied Andy to show him his lots. The plot was about as large as Mr. Crawford's, but was a little further from the center of the town. It would make about twenty-five lots of the average size.

"How much will you take for the entire plot?" asked Andy.

"I don't want to sell the whole," said Johnson.

"I thought you meant to leave Tacoma for good?"

"So I do, but I propose to give one-fifth of the land to a friend."

"Then let me know how much you will take for the remaining four-fifths."

"Will five thousand dollars be too much?"

"I will buy it at that figure," said Andy, promptly.

"You don't ask me to whom I intend to give the fifth which I reserve?"

"It is probably no one whom I know."

"On the contrary, it is one whom you know well -- it is yourself."

Andy looked his amazement.

"But how have I deserved such a gift?" he asked.

"You have saved my life. If you had not found and befriended me, I should not have been living at this moment. 'All that a man hath will he give in exchange for his life,' the Bible says. I don't give all, but I give merely one-fifth of my land. I have ten thousand dollars, besides, in San Francisco."

"I am deeply grateful to you, Mr. Johnson. I am a poor boy, and this unexpected gift will help me to carry out some plans for the benefit of my father, who is in an embarrassed condition."

"I advise you not to sell the land till you can sell at an advanced price."

"I shall not do so. When the Northern Pacific is completed I am sure lots will be much higher."

"To be sure. You are young and can wait. I am old, and I have no particular desire to make money. I have enough to see me through."

When Andy started for New York he had the company of Seth Johnson. It was agreed that the final arrangements for the transfer of the lots should take place in Mr. Crawford's office.

They reached the city without adventure, and Andy, with his new friend, reported at his employer's.

"I hope you are satisfied with what I have done, Mr. Crawford," said Andy.

"Thoroughly so. You have made a good purchase. I shall pay you five hundred dollars as an acknowledgment of the service you have rendered me."

"But, Mr. Crawford, Mr. Johnson has already given me five lots."

"True; but this is his gift, not mine. You must not be afraid of becoming too rich. You will need all your money."

"Yes, sir, but not for myself. I can now relieve my father's anxiety."

"Do you intend to tell him the amount of your good fortune?"

"I will only tell him of your gift."

On the basis of the sum which Mr. Crawford paid for the other four-fifths, Andy's share of Mr. Johnson's land amounted to twelve hundred and fifty dollars. But when, three months later, active operations for the extension and completion of the railroad commenced, it could easily have been sold for double.

But Andy was too sagacious to sell. In a year his father's mortgage would be payable, and he wanted to be prepared for that.

Meanwhile Andy devoted himself with energy to mastering the details of the real estate business. Perhaps because he now himself owned real estate, he became very much interested in it. He was not able often to visit Arden, but he never let a week pass without writing a letter home.

It was usually addressed to his mother, as his father was more accustomed to guiding the plow than the pen. He also heard occasionally from his boy friends. No letters were more welcome than those of Valentine Burns. About three months before the mortgage became due he received the following from Valentine:

"DEAR ANDY: I wish I could see you oftener, but I know you are busy, and getting on. That is a great satisfaction to me. Your last letter informing me that you had been raised to fifteen dollars a week gave me much pleasure. I wanted to tell Conrad, only you didn't wish to have me. He is getting prouder and more disagreeable every day. He really seems to have a great spite against you, though I cannot understand why.

"I met him the other day, and he inquired after you. 'He hasn't been to Arden lately,' he said.

"'No,' I answered, 'he is too busy.'

"'Probably he can't afford the railway fare,' said Conrad.

"'I think he is getting good pay,' I said.

"'I know better. He isn't getting over six dollars at most,' said Conrad.

"'Did he tell you so?' I asked.

"'No, but I heard on good authority,' he replied.

"'I wish I were getting that,' I said.

"'You wouldn't want to live on it,' he rejoined.

"'Well, perhaps not,' I admitted.

"'He won't long have a home to come back to,' said Conrad, after a pause.

"'Why not?' I inquired.

"'My father holds a mortgage on his father's farm, and it will fall due in three months,' he answered.

"'Surely he won't foreclose?'

"'Surely he will,' returned Conrad. 'Old Grant will have to leave the farm and go to the poorhouse, or, at any rate, to some small place like the Sam Martin house. It contains four rooms, and is good enough for a bankrupt.'

"This made me uneasy. I hope, Andy, you will find some friend who will be able and willing to advance money to pay the mortgage when it falls due. I hear Squire Carter is treating with a city man to buy the place. He evidently feels sure that it will come into his possession."

When Andy read this portion of the letter he smiled.

"I suspect Conrad and his father will be disappointed," he said to himself. "The city man will have to look elsewhere for an investment."

One day Andy had a pleasant surprise. Just in front of him on Broadway he saw a figure that looked familiar.

The tall, bent form, and long white hair he recognized at once as belonging to Dr. Crabb, the principal of Penhurst Academy.

He pressed forward.

"Dr. Crabb!" he exclaimed. "It is long since we have met. I hope you are well."

Dr. Crabb surveyed him with a puzzled look; Andy had grown so much that he could not place him.

"I suppose you are one of my old pupils," he said, "but I shall have to ask your name."

"Don't you remember Andy Grant?"

"Bless my soul! is it possible? Why, you have grown much taller and larger."

"Yes, sir; I don't want to stand still."

"And what are you doing now?"

"I am in business in this city."

"That is well, but it is a great pity you could not have remained at school."

"I thought so myself at the time I left, but I'm quite reconciled to the change now."

"Doubtless you are doing your duty, wherever you are. In what business are you engaged?"

"I am in a real estate office."

"I hope you are making fine wages?"

"I receive fifteen dollars a week."

"Bless my soul! Why, that is all I pay my head assistant. You must be giving great satisfaction. And how is your father?"

"He is pretty well, sir; but his loss of property has worn upon him."

"Naturally. Did I not understand that he had to mortgage his farm."

"Yes, sir."

"I hope there is no danger of foreclosure?"

"There might be, sir; but when the danger comes I shall be able to help him."

"I am not much of a capitalist, Andy. I understand Latin and Greek better than I do investments, but if a loan of a few hundred dollars will help him I shall be willing to let him have it."

"Thank you very much, Dr. Crabb, but my employer, Mr. Crawford, will give me all the help I need."

"I am truly pleased to hear it. I wish you were able to return to the academy. You were our primus, and I did not like to spare you. You might in time have succeeded me."

"I hope it will be a long time before you require a successor, doctor. I shall confine my ambitions to succeeding in my business."



Chapter XXXV.

The Return Of An Old Friend.


One afternoon Andy was busy writing in the office when he heard himself called by name, and, looking up, saw Walter Gale, who had just entered.

"Mr. Gale!" he exclaimed, joyfully, rising and grasping the hands of his friend.

"So you know me? Upon my word, you have grown so that I find it difficult to recognize you."

"Yes, I believe I have grown taller."

"And more manly. I need not ask if you are well. Your appearance answers that question."

"I was never better."

"And you enjoy your work?"

"Immensely. But when did you reach the city?"

"This morning. As you see, I have lost no time in looking you up."

"Shall you stay here now?"

"Yes," answered Gale, gravely; "my poor uncle is dead. His sickness was a painful one, and he is better off."

"I am glad you are to be in the city. I hope to see you often."

"You will, if I can have my way. I have hired a handsome and roomy flat on Madison Avenue, and I expect you to come and live with me."

"I shall be delighted to do so if you will let me pay my share of the expenses."

"You will pay me with your company. I will receive no other pay. My uncle has left me all his property -- at least a hundred thousand dollars -- and I was rich before."

"I will certainly accept your offer, since I am sure you will like to have me."

"You were teaching a boy, I believe?"

"Yes; but he is so well advanced now that he does not need my assistance. I am free to accept your kind offer."

"Call upon me this evening, and arrange to move to-morrow. I am very lonely, and want young and cheerful company."

When Andy called upon his friend in the evening he found him sumptuously lodged. The next evening he moved in.

"What news from Arden, Andy?" asked Mr. Gale.

"Nothing much, except that Squire Carter is expecting to foreclose the mortgage on father's farm next week."

"Is that so? We must not permit that."

"No; I have a thousand dollars in bank, and I shall ask Mr. Crawford to-morrow if he will advance me two thousand on some lots I own in Tacoma."

"That will not be necessary. I will myself advance the full amount, and you can pay me whenever you sell your lots."

"That is very kind, Mr. Gale, and relieves me very much."

"Don't overestimate the kindness. I have more money than I know what to do with."

"There are others in the same position who would not help me."

"I am your friend. That makes the difference. When you go to Arden I will go, too. It will be pleasant for me to see the place where I passed so enjoyable a summer and made so good a friend."

"I shall be delighted to have your company, Mr. Gale."

Two evenings later, as Andy was walking up Broadway toward his new home, he saw a familiar figure in front of him -- the figure of a boy about his own age. Evidently the boy had been drinking, and could not walk straight.

Once, as he turned half around, Andy, with a start, recognized John Crandall, who had treated him so meanly at Mr. Flint's. He had no reason to like him, but his compassion was aroused.

"John," said Andy, linking his arm in his, "how do you happen to be in this condition?"

"Who are you?" hiccoughed John.

"I am Andy Grant. Don't you know me?"

"Yes, you used to be at Mr. Flint's. Where are you taking me?" he asked, suspiciously.

"To my room. I will take care of you to-night. What are you doing now?"

"I was in a place on Wall Street, but I got bounced yesterday. I took the money they paid me and got drunk."

"That was foolish. Where is your uncle?"

"He has gone to Chicago. I'm awful unlucky, Andy."

"If you will turn over a new leaf and stop drinking I'll see if I can't get you another place."

"Will you?" asked John, hopefully. "Don't you hate me?"

"No."

"I should think you would. I got you out of Flint's."

"You did me a service without intending it."

"You're a good fellow," hiccoughed John. "I'm sorry I treated you so mean."

"I'm not, since it led to my securing my present place. But we must turn down here."

"Where do you live?"

"On Madison Avenue."

"Madison Avenue? You must be a swell."

Andy smiled.

"If you work hard you may become a swell, too."

When they entered the flat, John stared about him in amazement.

"How can you afford to live in such a fine place?" he said.

"Because a friend bears the greater part of the expense. Now, let me help you undress. We have a spare room, and I will let you occupy it. In the morning I will wake you up for breakfast."

John Crandall was soon fast asleep. A few minutes later Mr. Gale came in.

"We have a visitor to-night," said Andy.

"A friend of yours?"

"He may become so, but thus far he has been anything but that."

Andy told the story of John's attempt to injure him.

"And yet you befriend him?"

"Yes. Wouldn't you?"

Walter Gale smiled.

"Tell me your reasons," he said.

"I have no grudge against him. Besides, if we only benefit those whom we like, there isn't much credit in that."

"Exactly. There isn't much credit in my doing you favors."

"Don't think I am ungrateful, Mr. Gale; I appreciate all you have done for me."

"I understand you, Andy, and I like you better for what you have done. What further plans have you?"

"I should like to get John a place, and give him a chance to redeem himself. He needs a friend badly."

"He shall have one. We will both help him."

When John Crandall awoke the next morning he was himself again. The effects of his intoxication had passed off, and he seemed ashamed of the predicament in which Andy had found him.

"Have you any home, John?" asked Andy.

"No; that is, I have a room, but I spent all the money that was coming to me, and they won't let me stay. I don't know what I shall do," he said, despondently.

"If Mr. Gale and I will find you a new place, will you try to keep it?"

"Yes, I will."

"Then we will stand by you. You can stay here till I come from the office this afternoon, and I will find you a boarding place."

"You are a good fellow, Andy. You are my very best friend."

"I will try to be."

"And I will try to deserve your kindness."

Before the week was out John had a new place on Pearl Street, and was an inmate of the boarding house in Clinton Place, where Andy stayed when he first came to the city.

He really turned over a new leaf, and became a favorite and trusted employee in the Pearl Street store. Andy had saved him.



Chapter XXXVI.

Sad Forebodings.


The day which had been so eagerly awaited by Squire Carter dawned at last. The mortgage on Sterling Grant's farm was due, and he intended to foreclose. There was a gentleman from the city who had taken a fancy to the farm and had offered him eight thousand dollars for it. The squire hoped to obtain it by foreclosure at less than five thousand. This would be taking advantage of the farmer; but, as the squire said to himself, complacently, "Business is business!" These words are used as an excuse for a great many mean acts.

At supper time, the evening before, Sterling Grant looked sad and troubled.

"Wife," he said, "I am afraid we shall have to bid good-by to the old farm to-morrow."

"Do you really think the squire will foreclose, Sterling?"

"I know he will. I called on him to-day, and begged and pleaded with him to extend the mortgage another year, but it was all in vain."

"I don't see how people can be so hard-hearted," said Mrs. Grant, indignantly.

"It's the squire's nature. He says that business is business."

"I thought perhaps Andy might do something. He has five hundred dollars, and maybe a little more."

"It would do no good, wife. I hinted that I might be able to pay a part of the mortgage, but the squire wouldn't hear of it. He said the whole or none."

"I am sure Andy would help us if he could."

"I know that, but the mortgage is for three thousand dollars. It is quite beyond his ability to lift."

"I am afraid you are right, Sterling," said his wife, with a sigh. "I thought perhaps Andy would be here by this time."

"It would do no good to come unless he brought the money with him."

"He may come yet by the seven o'clock train."

"We had better not count on that, or we shall only be the more disappointed."

"What shall you do, Sterling, if the squire takes the farm?"

"There will be some money left, but I am afraid not much."

"Isn't the place worth six thousand dollars?"

"Yes but it won't fetch that at a forced sale. The squire told me this afternoon that it wasn't worth more than fifteen hundred dollars over and above the face of the mortgage."

"It would be wicked to sell for that."

"We must be content with what we can get."

After supper the farmer took his hat, and walked slowly and soberly about the farm. He felt that it was his farewell. Till now it had been his. To-morrow it would pass from his possession.

"It is hard," he sighed, "but it can't be helped. At any rate, we won't starve."

There was a small house, with half an acre of land attached on the outskirts of the village, which he could get at a moderate rental. He had inquired about it, and had made up his mind to secure it.

"But it is humble," objected his wife.

"We must not be proud, wife," he said. We can make it look homelike with our furniture in it."

"But what will you do for an income, Sterling?"

"I can work out by the day. Perhaps the man who buys our farm -- I hear the squire has got a purchaser for it -- will employ me."

"To work out by the day at your age, Sterling!" said his wife, indignantly.

"It will be hard, but if it is necessary I can do it."

"But I want to help, Sterling. I can get sewing to do."

"No, no; I won't consent to that."

"Then I won't consent to your working by the day."

"Well, we won't discuss it to-night. We will let the future take care of itself."

Just then the noise of wheels was heard, and a buggy stopped at the door.

"I do believe it's Andy!" exclaimed Mrs. Grant, joyfully.

It was Andy. A minute later, he was in the house.

"I am late," he said. "I lost the regular train, and had to get off at Stacy, six miles away; but I got a man from the stable to bring me over."

"I am glad to see you, Andy," said his mother.

"And so am I," added Sterling Grant, "though it is a sad time."

"Why a sad time, father?"

"The squire will foreclose to-morrow."

"No, he won't foreclose, father. I will stop it."

"But how can you prevent it, my son?"

"By paying the three thousand dollars, father."

"Have you got the money?" asked his father, incredulously.

"Yes."

"But how -- ?"

"Don't ask me any questions, father. Be satisfied with the knowledge that I have got it."

"Heaven be praised!" said the farmer, fervently.

"I don't think Squire Carter will say that."



Chapter XXXVII.

Conclusion.


A little before twelve o'clock on the following day, Squire Carter rang the bell at the farmhouse door. He was dressed with scrupulous neatness, and there was a smile of triumphant anticipation on his face.

Andy answered the bell.

"Walk in, squire," he said.

"Ha! So you are home, Andy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ahem! Your father has been unfortunate."

"Then you intend to foreclose?"

"Yes; I need the money and must have it."

"Isn't that rather hard on an old neighbor?"

"You are a boy, Andy, and don't understand. Business is business."

"Well, come in."

Mr. and Mrs. Grant were sitting by the fireplace. They looked calm, not sorrowful, as the squire anticipated.

"Ahem! My friends, I am sorry for you!" said the squire, in a perfunctory way. "Life is full of disappointments, as we read in the Scriptures."

"What do you propose to do with the farm, squire?" asked the farmer, calmly.

"I may sell it, if I can find a purchaser. I haven't thought much about it."

"That is right, squire. It isn't well to count your chickens before they are hatched."

It was Andy who spoke.

"Andrew, you are very flippant," said the squire, displeased. "I apprehend that there is very little doubt as to my having the farm to sell."

"What do you suppose is going to become of my father?"

"That is not for me to say. If I run the farm I may hire him to work on it."

"He has made up his mind to work on it."

"With or without my permission?" said the squire, with a sneer.

"Exactly so."

"I don't understand you," said the squire, with dignified displeasure.

"I presume not, but you will understand better when I say that he stands prepared to pay off the mortgage, and the farm will remain his."

"Impossible!" ejaculated the squire, turning pale.

"Quite possible, sir. Have you the mortgage with you?"

"Yes."

"Here is a release which you will please sign. Father, you had better pay the squire at once."

Mr. Grant took out a big wallet, and counted out thirty one-hundred-dollar bills.

"I believe that is correct, squire," he said.

"No, it isn't. You haven't paid the interest," snarled the squire.

"Here is another hundred dollars -- that will cover it."

Ten minutes later Squire Carter left the farmhouse with a heavy frown upon his face. He was bitterly disappointed, and the money did not console him.

This was not the last of his disappointments. His brother's widow in New York sued him for an accounting of his father's estate, and he was obliged, not long afterward, to pay her five thousand dollars. This put the widow and her son in a comfortable position, but seriously embarrassed the squire, who had lost money by ill-advised speculation.

Two years later he had to sell his fine place and take a much humbler one half a mile from the village. Conrad was obliged to seek a place, and is bitterly humiliated because he receives but four dollars a week, while the boy he used to look down upon is prosperous and successful.

Andy has sold out his property in Tacoma to such advantage that he counts himself worth twenty thousand dollars. He continues to live in handsome style with his friend, Walter Gale, and is to be taken into partnership in the real estate office by Mr. Crawford when he attains the age of twenty-one.

Of the less important characters in our story it may be said that Byron Warden has had a story published in the nickel library, and is very proud of this measure of success. He continues to write poems for the Century and other prominent magazines. They always come back to him "respectfully declined," but he cherishes the hope that some day he will receive a more favorable answer.

Valentine Burns holds a place in Mr. Crawford's office and is giving excellent satisfaction. Simon Rich, formerly head clerk for Mr. Flint, has proved a defaulter, and is a fugitive in Canada. Sam Perkins still dazzles the world with his showy neckties, but thus far has only risen to ten dollars a week.

Mr. Grant and his wife are happy in Andy's success, and there is no danger of the farm passing from their possession. Quite unexpectedly the farmer has received a check from Nathan Lawrence, the defaulting cashier of the Benton bank, for a thousand dollars, with assurance that in time the entire three thousand dollars will be paid up.

"After all father," writes Andy, "it was lucky for me that I had to leave school. It was the beginning of my present prosperity."

<eob>

The Tale Of Henrietta Hen

By

Arthur Scott Bailey



I

A Speckled Beauty


Henrietta Hen thought highly of herself. Not only did she consider herself a "speckled beauty" (to use her own words) but she had an excellent opinion of her own ways, her own ideas -- even of her own belongings. When she pulled a fat worm -- or a grub -- out of the ground she did it with an air of pride; and she was almost sure to say, "There! I'd like to see anybody else find a bigger one than that!"

Of course, it wouldn't really have pleased her at all to have one of her neighbors do better than she did. That was only her way of boasting that no one could beat her.

If any one happened to mention speckles Henrietta Hen was certain to speak of her own, claiming that they were the handsomest and most speckly to be found in Pleasant Valley. And if a person chanced to say anything about combs, Henrietta never failed to announce that hers was the reddest and most beautiful in the whole world.

Nobody could ever find out how she knew that. She had never been off the farm. But it was useless to remind her that she had never travelled. Such a remark only made her angry.

Having such a good opinion of herself, Henrietta Hen always had a great deal to talk about. She kept up a constant cluck from dawn till dusk. It made no difference to her whether she happened to be alone, or with friends. She talked just the same -- though naturally she preferred to have others hear what she said, because she considered her remarks most important.

There were times when Henrietta Hen took pains that all her neighbors should hear her. She was never so proud as when she had a newly-laid egg to exhibit. Then an ordinary cluck was not loud enough to express her feelings. To announce such important news Henrietta Hen never failed to raise her voice in a high-pitched "Cut-cut-cut, ca-dah-cut!" This interesting speech she always repeated several times. For she wanted everybody to know that Henrietta Hen had laid another of her famous eggs.

After such an event she always went about asking people if they had heard the news -- just as if they could have helped hearing her silly racket!

Now, it sometimes happened, when she was on such an errand, that Henrietta Hen met with snubs. Now and then her question -- "Have you heard the news?" -- brought some such sallies as these: "Polly Plymouth Rock has just laid an enormous egg! Have you seen it?" Or maybe, "Don't be disappointed, Henrietta! Somebody has to lay the littlest ones!"

Such jibes were certain to make Henrietta Hen lose her temper. And she would talk very fast (and, alas! very loud, too) about jealous neighbors and how unpleasant it was to live among folk that were so stingy of their praise that they couldn't say a good word for the finest eggs that ever were seen! On such occasions Henrietta Hen generally talked in a lofty way about moving to the village to live.

"They think enough of my eggs down there," she would boast. "Boiled, fried, poached, scrambled, or for an omelette -- my eggs can't be beaten."

"If the villagers can't beat your eggs they certainly can't use them for omelettes," Polly Plymouth Rock told Henrietta one day. "Everybody knows you have to beat eggs to make an omelette."

Henrietta Hen didn't know what to say to that. It was almost the only time she was ever known to be silent.



II

A Fine Family


Henrietta Hen's neighbors paid little attention to her boasting, because they had to listen to it so often. At last, however, there came a day when she set up such a cackling as they had never heard from her before. She kept calling out at the top of her lungs, "Come-come-come! See-what-I've-got! Come-come-come! See-what-I've-got!" And she acted even more important than ever, until her friends began to say to one another, "What can Henrietta be so proud about? If it's only another egg, she's making a terrible fuss about it."

They decided at last that if they were to have any peace they'd better go and look at whatever it was that Henrietta Hen was squawking about. So they went -- in a body -- to the place where she had her nest, in the haymow.

When Henrietta caught sight of her visitors she set up a greater clamor than ever.

"Well, well!" cried the oldest of the party, a rather sharp-tongued dame with white feathers. "What's all this hubbub about?" And then they learned what it was that Henrietta wanted them to see.

"Did you ever set eyes on such a fine family?" she demanded as she stepped aside from her nest and let them peer into it.

"A brood of chicks -- eh?" said the lady in white. "Well, what's all the noise about?"

Henrietta Hen turned her back on her questioner.

"I knew you'd all want to have a look at these prize youngsters," she said to the rest of the company. "You'll agree with me, of course, that there were never any other chicks as handsome as these."

Henrietta's neighbors all crowded up to gaze upon the soft balls of down.

"This is the first family you've hatched, isn't it?" Polly Plymouth Rock inquired.

Henrietta Hen said that it was her first brood.

Her neighbors wanted to be pleasant. So they told her that her children were as fine youngsters as anybody could ask for. And the old white dame, squinting at the nestlings, said to Henrietta:

"They're the finest you've ever had.... But there's one of them that has a queer look."

All the other visitors tried to hush her up. They didn't want to hurt Henrietta Hen's feelings. It was her first brood of chicks; and they could forgive her for thinking them the best in the whole world. So when they saw that old Whitey intended to be disagreeable they began to cluck their approval of the youngsters, hoping that Henrietta wouldn't notice what Whitey said.

Nor did she. Henrietta Hen was altogether too pleased with herself and her new family to pay much attention to anybody else's remarks.

"I hope," said Henrietta, "that you'll all come to see my family often. As the youngsters grow, I'm sure they'll get handsomer every day."

The neighbors thanked her. And crowding about old Whitey they moved away. Old Whitey just had to go too. She couldn't help spluttering a little.

"What a vain, empty-headed creature Henrietta Hen is!" she exclaimed. "She doesn't know that one of her brood is nothing but a duckling!"



III

Wet Feet


Somehow Henrietta Hen never noticed that one of her brood was different from the rest. They were her first youngsters and they all looked beautiful to her.

Just as soon as Henrietta began to take her children for strolls about the farmyard she taught them a number of things. She showed them how to scratch in the dirt for food, how to drink by raising their heads and letting the water trickle down their throats. She bade them beware of hawks -- and of Miss Kitty Cat, too. And she was always warning them to keep their feet dry.

"Water's good for nothing except to drink," Henrietta informed her chicks. "Some strange people, like old dog Spot, jump right into it. And how they manage to keep well is more than I can understand. Dust baths are the only safe ones."

So much did she fear water that Henrietta Hen wouldn't even let her children walk in the grass until the sun had dried the morning's dew. And the first sprinkle of rain was enough to send her scurrying for cover, calling frantically for her chicks to hurry.

Now, there was one of her family that always lagged behind when the rain-drops began to fall. And often Henrietta had fairly to drive him away from a puddle of water. She sometimes remarked with a sigh that he gave her more trouble than all the rest of her children together.

This was the youngster that Mrs. Hen's neighbors told one another was different from his brothers and sisters. But poor Henrietta Hen only knew that he was unusually hard to manage.

As her family grew bigger, Henrietta Hen took them on longer strolls, always casting a careful eye aloft now and then, lest some hawk should swoop down upon her darlings. And though no hawk tried to surprise her, something happened one day that gave Henrietta almost as great a fright as any cruel hawk could have caused her.

They had strayed down by the duck-pond -- had Henrietta and her children, stopping here and there to scratch for some tidbit, or to flutter in an inviting dust-heap. Once they had reached the bank of the pond Henrietta began to wish she hadn't brought her family in that direction. For one of the youngsters -- the one that never would hurry in out of the rain -- insisted on toddling down to the water's edge.

"Come away this instant!" Henrietta shrieked, as soon as she noticed where he was. "You'll get your feet wet the first thing you know."

She never said anything truer than that. The words were scarcely out of her bill when the odd member of her family flung himself into the water. Or to be more exact, he flung himself upon it; for he floated on the surface as easily as a chip and began to paddle about as if he had swum all his life.

"Come back! Come back!" Henrietta Hen shrieked. "You'll be drowned -- and you'll get your feet wet!"



IV

A Swimmer


Henrietta Hen ran as fast as she could down the bank and stood as near the water as she dared, cackling loudly and flapping her wings.

Her child, who was swimming in the duck-pond, seemed to have no intention of minding her. Nor did he seem to have any intention of drowning; and as for getting his feet wet, he acted as if he liked that.

"What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" Henrietta Hen squawked. She made so much noise that some of her neighbors came a-running, to see what was the matter. And as soon as they discovered what had happened they began to laugh.

"We may as well tell you," they said to Henrietta Hen, "that that chap out there is a duckling. The water won't hurt him."

Henrietta Hen gasped and gaped. She was astonished. But she soon pulled herself together. And it was just like her to begin to boast.

"See!" she cried to her friends, and waved a wing toward the water with an air of pride. "There isn't one of you that has a child that can beat him swimming."

"I should hope not!" said Polly Plymouth Rock with a shrug of her fine shoulders. And all the others agreed that they wanted no swimmers in their families.

Henrietta Hen announced that she was sorry for them. "Every brood," she declared, "should have at least one swimmer in it." She began to strut up and down the edge of the duck-pond, clucking in a most overbearing fashion. Really, she had never felt quite so important before -- not even when her first brood pecked their way out of their shells.

"There's nothing quite like swimming," Henrietta Hen remarked with a silly smirk. "If it weren't for getting my feet wet I'd be tempted to learn myself. No doubt my son could teach me."

"Your son!" the old white hen sniffed. "He's not your son, Henrietta Hen. Somebody played a joke on you. Somebody put a duck's egg under you while you were hatching your eggs. And I think I can guess who it was that did it."

For just a moment Henrietta Hen stood still. The news almost took her breath away. Her comb trembled on the top of her head. She even stopped clucking. And she looked from one to another of her companions as if in hopes of finding one face, at least, that looked doubtful.... Alas! Everybody appeared to agree with old Whitey.

"If this is so," Henrietta muttered at last, "it's strange nobody ever noticed before that there was a duckling in my brood."

"We knew from the very first!" Polly Plymouth Rock told her. "You were the only one on the farm that didn't see that one of your family was different from the rest."

All this time the young duckling was swimming further and further away. He seemed to have forgotten all about his foster mother.

Henrietta Hen took one long last look at him. She guessed that she might have stood there forever cackling for him to come back and he wouldn't have paid the slightest heed to her.

Then she gathered her children -- her really own -- about her. "Come!" she said to them, "We'll go back home now."

"What about him?" they demanded, pointing to the truant duckling who was bobbing about on the rippling water. "Aren't you going to make him come, too?"

"No!" said their mother. "We're well rid of him. He has been more trouble to me than all the rest of you.... To tell the truth, I never liked him very well."



V

Caught By Mr. Crow


It wasn't far to the edge of the cornfield from the farmyard fence. And Henrietta Hen was quick to discover that the freshly ploughed and harrowed field offered a fine place to scratch for all kinds of worms and bugs and grubs.

Not being what you might call a wise bird -- like old Mr. Crow -- Henrietta didn't know that Farmer Green had carefully planted corn in that field, in long rows. She did exclaim, however, that she was in great luck when now and then she unearthed a few kernels of corn. But she wasn't looking for corn. She merely ate it when she happened to find any.

It is no wonder, then, that she was amazed when a hoarse voice suddenly cried right in her ear, almost, "You're a thief and you can't deny it!"

She jumped. How could she have helped it? And the voice exclaimed, "There! You're guilty or you'd never have jumped like that."

Turning, Henrietta saw that a black, beady-eyed gentleman was staring at her sternly.

"It takes Mr. Crow to catch 'em," he croaked. "He can tell a corn-thief half a mile away."

All this time Henrietta Hen hadn't said a word. At first she was too surprised. And afterward she was too angry.

"Why don't you speak?" he demanded. He dearly loved a quarrel. And somehow it wasn't much fun quarrelling with anybody when the other party wouldn't say a word.

Still Henrietta Hen didn't open her mouth. She puzzled Mr. Crow. He even forgot his rage (for it always made him angry if anybody but himself scratched up any corn).

"What's the matter with you?" he asked. "What's the reason you don't speak?"

"I'm too proud to talk with you," said Henrietta Hen. "I don't care to be seen speaking to you, sir."

"Ha!" Mr. Crow exploded. "Don't you think I'm as good as you are?"

"No!" said Henrietta Hen. "No, I don't!"

Mr. Crow was all for arguing with her. He began to tell Henrietta many things about himself, how he had spent dozens of summers in Pleasant Valley, what a great traveller he was, how far he could fly in a day. There was no end to his boasting.

Yet Henrietta Hen never looked the least bit interested. Indeed, she began scratching for worms while he was talking. And that made the old fellow angrier than ever.

"Don't you dare eat another kernel of corn!" he thundered. "If you do, I'll have to tell Farmer Green."

"He feeds me corn every day -- cracked corn!" said Henrietta.

"Well, I never!" cried Mr. Crow. "What's he thinking of, wasting good corn like that?"

"Really, I mustn't be seen talking with you," Henrietta Hen told Mr. Crow. "If you want to know the answer to your question, come over to the barnyard and ask the Rooster. He'll give you an answer that you won't like."

And then she walked away with stately steps.

Mr. Crow watched her with a baleful gleam in his eyes. He knew well enough what Henrietta meant. The Rooster would rather fight him than not. And though Mr. Crow loved a quarrel, he never cared to indulge in anything more dangerous than harsh words.

"I don't know what the farm's coming to," he croaked. "Here's Farmer Green wasting corn on such as her -- and cracking it for her, too!"

So saying, the old gentleman turned his back on Henrietta Hen, who was already fluttering through the farmyard fence. And thereupon he scratched up enough corn for a hearty meal, grumbling meanwhile because it wasn't cracked for him.

"Somehow," he muttered, "I can't help wishing I was a speckled hen."



VI

Henrietta Complains


There was another member of Farmer Green's flock, besides Henrietta Hen, that was proud. Nobody needed to look twice at the Rooster to tell that he had an excellent opinion of himself. He had a way of walking about the farmyard that said quite plainly that he believed himself to be a person of great importance. And it was true that things went according to his ideas, among the flock.

He was always spoken of as "the Rooster." For although there were other roosters in the flock, they were both younger and smaller than he, and he would never permit anybody to call them -- in his hearing -- anything but cockerels.

These cockerels usually took great pains to keep out of the Rooster's way. If they were careless, and he caught them napping, he was more than likely to make matters unpleasant for them. He knew how to make their feathers fly.

Now, Henrietta Hen thought that the Rooster behaved in a most silly fashion. She said it pained her to see him prancing about, with his two long, arched tail-feathers nodding as he walked. The truth was, Henrietta could not endure it to have any one more elegantly dressed than she. And there was no denying that the Rooster's finery outshone everybody else's. Why, he wore a comb on his head that was even bigger than Henrietta's! And he had spurs, too, for his legs.

But what Henrietta Hen disliked most about the Rooster was the way he crowed each morning. It wasn't so much the kind of crowing that he indulged in; it was rather the early hour he chose for it that annoyed Henrietta. He always began his Cockle-doodle-doo while it was yet dark. Then everybody in the henhouse had to wake up, whether he wanted to or not. And Henrietta Hen did wish the Rooster would keep still at least till daylight came. She often remarked that it was perfectly ridiculous for any one from a fine family -- as she was -- to get up at such an unearthly hour. She said it was a wonder she kept her good looks, just on account of the Rooster's crowing.

"Why don't you ask him to wait until it's light, before he begins to crow?" Polly Plymouth Rock asked Henrietta one day.

"I'll do it!" cried Henrietta. Right then she called to one of the cockerels, who was near-by. "Just skip across the yard and ask the Rooster -- " she began.

The cockerel broke right in upon her message.

"Oh! I can't do that!" he exclaimed. "I've never gone up to the Rooster and spoken to him. If I did, he'd be sure to fight me."

"Just tell him that I sent you," said Henrietta. And she made the cockerel listen to her message. But he wouldn't be persuaded. He told Henrietta that the Rooster would be sure to jump at him the moment he opened his mouth. "Besides," he added, "it wouldn't do any good, anyhow. The Rooster can't wait until after daylight, before he begins to crow."

"He can't, eh?" Henrietta Hen spoke up somewhat sharply. "I'd like to know the reason why!" And fixing her gaze sternly upon the Rooster, she marched straight across the farmyard towards him, to find out.



VII

Warning The Rooster


"Good Afternoon!" Henrietta Hen greeted the Rooster. He had not seen her as she walked towards him. And when she spoke he hastily arranged his two long tail-feathers in what he considered a more becoming droop.

"Good afternoon, madam!" he answered -- for the Rooster prided himself that he was always polite to the ladies. "Er -- there's nothing wrong, I hope," he added quickly as he noticed an odd gleam in Henrietta Hen's eye.

"Yes -- there is," she said. The cockerels might fear the Rooster, but Henrietta certainly didn't. She considered him a good deal of a braggart. Indeed, she even had an idea that she could have whipped him herself, had she cared to be so unladylike as to fight. "I've been bothered for a long time because you crow so early in the morning. You make such a racket that you wake me up every day."

The Booster hemmed and hawed. Somehow he felt uncomfortable.

"That's unfortunate," he stammered. And then he had a happy thought. "Anyhow," he continued, with a smile at Henrietta, "you don't look as if you lacked for sleep, madam. You grow more beautiful every day."

Henrietta Hen admitted that it was so. "But," she said, "I believe I'd be even handsomer if I weren't disturbed so early. I don't like to get up while it's dark. So I'm going to ask you to delay your crowing, from now on, until after sunrise."

"Impossible!" cried the Rooster. "I'm sorry to disoblige you, madam. But what you ask can't be done."

"That's just what the cockerel said!" Henrietta Hen exclaimed.

"The cockerel!" the Rooster echoed angrily. "Which one? Has one of those upstarts been talking about me? Point him out to me and I'll soon teach him a lesson."

Henrietta Hen said that she hadn't noticed which cockerel it was. Somehow they all looked alike to her.

"Good!" the Rooster cried. "Then I'll have to whip them all, to make sure of punishing the guilty one." He looked very fierce.

"Don't be absurd!" Henrietta told him. "I asked one of the cockerels to give you a message about not crowing so early. And he declined. He said it wouldn't do any good."

"It wouldn't have done him any good," the Rooster declared, stamping a foot and thrusting his bill far forward, to show Henrietta Hen how brave he was.

"What's the matter?" she inquired. "Have you eaten something that disagrees with you?"

The Rooster couldn't help looking foolish. Henrietta Hen believed in letting him know that she stood in no awe of him. And while he was feeling ill at ease she hastened to tell him that hereafter he must hold onto his first crow until after sunrise.

"I can't do that," he told her again, unhappily.

"Don't you dare let go of it!" she warned him. "If that first crow gets away from you while it's dark, there'll be so many others to follow it that I shan't be able to close an eye for even a cat-nap."



VIII

Why The Rooster Crowed


Henrietta Hen had commanded the Rooster to wait until daylight before he began to crow.

He saw that she had made up her mind that he must obey her. But he knew he couldn't. And he always took great pains to be polite to the ladies.

It was a wonder the Rooster didn't turn red in the face. He had never found himself in such a corner before.

"You don't understand," he blurted. "I'd be delighted to oblige you, but if I didn't crow until after the sun rose I'd never crow again."

"We could stand that," was Henrietta Hen's grim reply.

"Perhaps!" he admitted -- for she made him feel strangely humble. "But could you stand it if the night lasted forever?"

"You're talking nonsense now," she declared.

"You don't understand," he told her again. "And I must say I'm surprised, madam, that you didn't know it was I that waked the sun up every morning. That's why I crow so early."

Henrietta Hen was so astonished that she didn't know what to say. She thought deeply for a time -- or as deeply as she could.

"Have you not noticed," the Rooster inquired, "that the sun never rises until I've crowed loudly a good many times?"

"No! No -- I haven't," Henrietta murmured. "But now that you speak of it, I see that it's so."

"Exactly!" he said. "And often, madam, I have to crow a long time before he peeps over Blue Mountain. It's lucky I have a good, strong voice," the Rooster, added with a smirk, for he was feeling more at his ease. "If I had a thin, squeaky crow such as those worthless cockerels have, Farmer Green would have had to do many a day's work in the dark."

"Goodness!" Henrietta Hen gasped. "Do crow your loudest the moment you wake up, Mr. Rooster! Do make all the noise you can!" And he promised faithfully that he would.

Henrietta left him then. Somehow she couldn't get their talk out of her mind. And soon she had an unhappy thought. What if anything should happen to the Rooster's voice?

The moment that question popped into her head, Henrietta Hen hurried back to the Rooster.

"Do be careful!" she besought him. "Don't get your feet wet! For if you caught cold you might be so hoarse that you couldn't speak above a whisper."

The Rooster thanked her politely for thinking of his health.

"I always take good care of myself," he assured her.

"It looks like rain this minute," she said as she cast an anxious glance at the sky. "Hadn't you better run into the barn?"

He thought otherwise -- and said as much.

"You ought to wear rubbers every day," she chided him, as she went away again.

Soon Henrietta returned once more to urge the Rooster to carry an umbrella. And it wasn't long after that when she came bustling up to him and informed him that a warm muffler about his throat wouldn't be amiss.

There seemed to be no end to her suggestions. And though at first the Rooster had liked to hear them (without having any idea of following them) after a time Henrietta's attentions began to annoy him.

"Great cracked corn!" he exclaimed. "This Henrietta Hen is getting to be a pest."



IX

Haughty Henrietta


Feeling as important as she did, Henrietta Hen liked to have her own way. She said that she couldn't be expected to do just as others wished.

"I'll take orders from nobody," she often declared. "And if I lay eggs for Farmer Green I shall lay them when and where I please."

Henrietta took special delight in laying her eggs in out-of-the-way places. She was never content to lay two in the same nest.

"If they left them for me perhaps I'd feel differently," she explained to her neighbors. "But Johnnie Green gathers every egg that he can find. And if he takes my eggs I'll make him hunt for them, anyhow."

The older, more staid hens shook their heads when Henrietta talked like that. They told her she was ungrateful.

"Farmer Green gives you a snug home and plenty of food," they reminded her. "And the least you can do is to repay him. You ought not to make trouble by hiding your eggs."

But Henrietta Hen couldn't -- or wouldn't -- agree with them.

"It's all very well for you to talk," she retorted. "If my eggs were undersized I shouldn't mind losing them as fast as I laid them. But I lay the biggest and finest eggs to be had. So it's only natural that I should like to have at least one around to look at -- and to show to callers."

Now, there were plenty of other hens in the flock that laid eggs exactly as big -- or even bigger -- than Henrietta Hen's. Some of them told her as much. Yet it did them no good to talk to her. She wouldn't believe that there were any eggs in the world to compare with hers. So her neighbors learned after a while that they might as well let Henrietta Hen manage her affairs as she pleased. They couldn't help hoping, however, that somehow Farmer Green would find a way to outwit her.

"What can Henrietta Hen be so boastful about now?" the hens asked one another one day. "She acts as if she thought more highly of herself than ever."

They soon discovered the reason for Henrietta's unusually pompous manner. For she began to make calls on all her friends. And she invited everybody to come to her latest nest high up in the haymow.

"I've something there to show you," she said with an air of mystery. "You'll be surprised to see it."

Most of Henrietta's neighbors did not show any great curiosity to see the surprise. They smiled at one another. "She's laid another egg -- that's all!" they whispered.

But there are always some that can't rest until they know everybody else's business. And it was lucky that Henrietta Hen hurried home to receive her callers, because she had a good many. They came even earlier in the afternoon than was strictly fashionable. And they came in a crowd, too. That, however, didn't bother Henrietta Hen. Nor could they have arrived too soon to suit her.

"Look!" she cried, when they reached her nest high up in the haymow. "Did you ever see anything to beat that?"



X

The Big, White Egg


When Henrietta Hen's callers crowded about her nest in the haymow they expected to see something wonderful. But when they craned their necks and peered into the little hollowed-out snuggery in the hay they couldn't help being disappointed. And when they didn't burst forth with cries of surprise and praise Henrietta Hen looked quite unhappy.

"I thought," she said, "you'd want to see this egg. I'm sure you never beheld a bigger nor a whiter one than this."

They admitted that the egg was big and that it was very, very white. And if their praise was faint, Henrietta never noticed it.

"Are you going to let Farmer Green have that egg?" one of the company inquired.

"No doubt Johnnie Green will grab it as soon as he finds my nest," said Henrietta with something like a sigh. "If I could only keep this one I wouldn't care how many others he took."

Polly Plymouth Rock turned to old Whitey, a hen who had come with her to the haymow.

"What do you think?" Polly asked. "Is Henrietta in danger of losing this egg that she thinks so much of?"

"She needn't be alarmed," old Whitey answered. "If Johnnie Green robs her of this one, I'll miss my guess."

"Oh! I'm glad to hear you say that!" Henrietta Hen cried. "Now I won't need to worry -- that is, if you know what you're talking about."

That, of course, was a most impolite way for Henrietta Hen to speak to anybody of old Whitey's age. Whitey was the oldest hen in the flock. And what she didn't know about such things as nests and eggs and roosts wasn't worth knowing.

Polly Plymouth Rock didn't like Henrietta Hen's remark. She opened her mouth.

And no doubt she would have said something quite sharp in reply. But old Whitey stopped her.

"Never mind!" said Whitey. "The day will come when Henrietta Hen will agree that my guess is a good one."

Still Henrietta Hen felt uneasy about that big, white egg.

"I do hope Johnnie Green won't find this new nest of mine," she remarked.

"If he does, I fear he'll take my beautiful egg away from me."

"Lay another!" said old Whitey. "Lay another and he'll take that and leave this one."

"I suppose I may as well try your scheme," Henrietta replied, "since nobody suggests anything better."

"My idea's a good one, or I'll miss my guess," said old Whitey.

There was some snickering among Henrietta Hen's callers as they bade her good afternoon and left her.

"They're laughing at old Whitey," she said to herself. She hadn't the slightest notion that they could be giggling at her. "Old Whitey must be wrong," she thought. "But I may as well take her advice, for I don't know what else to do."

Not long afterward Henrietta Hen came fluttering down from the haymow, squawking at the top of her lungs for old Whitey. And as soon as she found her, Henrietta cried, "Come up to my nest right away! I want to ask your advice."

Although she didn't say "Please!" old Whitey went with her.

"Come Up to My Nest!" Cried Henrietta Hen.



XI

Old Whitey's Advice


Old Whitey -- the most ancient hen in the flock -- scrambled with some difficulty up to the top of the haymow in Farmer Green's barn. She could scarcely keep up with Henrietta Hen, whom she was following -- by request. And when she arrived, breathless, at Henrietta's nest that proud and elegant creature turned a troubled face toward her.

"See!" said Henrietta. "I've taken your advice and laid another egg. But it's nothing like the beautiful, big, white one. This last egg is much smaller; and it's brown."

Old Whitey nodded her head. "Well!" she said. "What's your difficulty?"

"Don't you think," said Henrietta, "that if Johnnie Green finds my nest he'll be sure to take both eggs?"

"No, I don't," was old Whitey's blunt answer.

"Then he'll be sure to take the big, white one," Henrietta Hen wailed.

"No, he won't," old Whitey told her. "If he does, I'll miss my guess."

Well, that was really too much for Henrietta Hen to believe.

"That boy will never take a little egg and leave a big one," she declared.

"You wait and see if he doesn't," old Whitey advised her.

So Henrietta waited. Though she had little faith in old Whitey's advice, Henrietta could think of nothing else to do. And the next morning, to her great surprise, when Johnnie Green climbed into the haymow and found her nest he took the small brown egg and put it in his hat. And he never touched the big, white egg at all. He didn't even pick it up and look at it!

Perched on a beam overhead Henrietta Hen watched him breathlessly. And as soon as he had gone she went flopping down to the barn floor and set up a great clamor for old Whitey.

"What is it now?" old Whitey asked, sticking her head inside the doorway.

"Your guess was a good one!" cried Henrietta Hen. "He came; and he took the small one."

"There!" said old Whitey. "I told you so! I knew Johnnie Green wouldn't rob you of that big egg. And if you keep laying small eggs in that same nest you'll find he'll let you keep the big one."

Henrietta Hen fairly beamed at her companion.

"How delightful!" she exclaimed. "I've become very, very fond of that big egg. I love to look at it. But there's another thing that worries me now. If that big egg should get broken -- "

"Don't let that trouble you!" said old Whitey.

"I'm almost afraid to sit on my nest," Henrietta Hen confessed. "If the shell of that egg should happen to be thin -- "

Old Whitey seemed much amused by Henrietta's fears.

"Let me know if you break it," she said. And then she left Henrietta with her treasure.

"I'll be very careful," Henrietta called after the old dame.



XII

Playing Tricks


Now, the hen known as old Whitey was something of a gossip. She went straight to the farmyard and told everybody what had happened -- what Henrietta Hen had said to her and what she had said to Henrietta Hen. The whole flock had a great laugh over the affair.

To Henrietta Hen's delight, all her neighbors took a keen interest in the wonderful white egg. They asked her countless questions about it. Above all, they always took pains to inquire whether she had been so unlucky as to crack the shell. And if Henrietta hadn't displeased Polly Plymouth Rock one day, the truth might never have come out.

Anyhow, Polly Plymouth Rock told Henrietta Hen that if she had any sense she would stop making such a fuss over a china egg.

"China egg!" cried Henrietta. "I don't know what you mean."

"That's not a real egg that you're so proud of," Polly Plymouth Rock declared. "It's nothing but a make-believe one. Johnnie Green left it in your nest to fool you, so you'd keep that nest and lay eggs in it, right along.... You're so careful not to break that china egg! Why, if you tried to break it you'd find that it's solid as a rock."

Henrietta Hen couldn't believe the terrible news.

"I laid that egg myself!" she shrieked.

"You think you did; but you didn't," Polly Plymouth Rock snapped. "Johnnie Green took an egg of yours one day and left that other one in its place, to deceive you. And everybody on the farm -- except you -- knows that he succeeded."

Henrietta Hen didn't wait to hear anything more. She rushed squalling into the barn and went straight to her nest. One good, hard peck at the big white egg told her beyond all doubt that she had been betrayed. The beautiful, big, white egg wasn't an egg after all!

Now that Henrietta Hen knew it she wondered how it could ever have deceived her. She saw that it was shiny and altogether unlike any egg she had ever seen anywhere.

"Johnnie Green has played a mean trick on me," Henrietta Hen cackled. "And now I'll play one on him! He can have his old china egg. I'll leave it here for him. But he'll find none of my beautiful little brown eggs beside it. I'll have my nest where he'll never discover it -- not if he hunts for it all summer long!"

So saying, she left the haymow. And going into the carriage shed, her roving eyes chanced to light on an old straw hat of Johnnie Green's that lay upside down upon a high shelf.

Henrietta Hen managed to flutter up beside it. And then with many a chuckle she laid a brown egg in the hat.

"There!" she cackled. "This is the safest place on the farm. Johnnie Green hasn't had this hat on his head since last summer."



XIII

Two In A Garden


Jimmy Rabbit was enjoying a few nibbles at one of Farmer Green's cabbages. He hadn't noticed that there was anybody but himself in the garden. So it startled him to hear a shrill voice cry, "Get out of our garden!"

Jimmy Rabbit jumped. But he didn't jump far, for he soon saw that it was only Henrietta Hen speaking to him.

"Why should I get out of our garden?" Jimmy Rabbit inquired mildly.

"I should have said, 'Farmer Green's garden,'" said Henrietta Hen.

"Thank you very much for the warning; but I don't think we need go away just yet -- if old dog Spot isn't sniffing around," said Jimmy Rabbit. "I don't believe there's any danger."

"You don't understand," Henrietta Hen cried. "I ordered you out of the garden."

"You ordered me?" said Jimmy Rabbit, acting as if he were astonished.

"Yes!" Henrietta declared. "And I'd like to know when you're going to obey me."

"It's easy to answer that," Jimmy Rabbit replied. "I'm going away as soon as I've finished my luncheon." Nobody could have been pleasanter than he. Yet Henrietta Hen seemed determined to be disagreeable.

"I don't see your lunch basket," she remarked, looking all around.

"No!" he replied. "I forgot it. I meant to bring one with me and carry a cabbage-head home in it."

Henrietta Hen spoke as if she were very peevish.

"You've no right," she said, "to take one of the cabbages away with you."

"I'm not going to," Jimmy Rabbit explained.

"You were nibbling at one when I first noticed you," Henrietta Hen insisted.

"Was I?" he gasped. "Are you sure you're not mistaken? Are you sure you weren't pecking at a cabbage-leaf yourself?"

Now, the truth of the matter was that Henrietta had herself come to the garden to eat cabbage. Really she was no better than he was. But somehow Henrietta Hen never could believe that she was in the wrong.

"You're impertinent," she told Jimmy.

Henrietta Hen Scolds Jimmy Rabbit.

Rabbit in her severest tone. "You know very well that Farmer Green raises these cabbages for home use only."

"Well," said Jimmy Rabbit, "I'll make myself at home here, then." And turning a cold shoulder on Henrietta Hen he began nibbling at a cabbage-leaf once more.

Henrietta felt quite helpless. Somehow nothing she could say to the intruder seemed to have the slightest effect on him. And he appeared to be enjoying his luncheon so thoroughly that it made Henrietta Hen very hungry just to see him eat. In spite of herself she couldn't resist joining him at luncheon.

"Ah!" he exclaimed between mouthfuls, "I see you're making yourself at home, too."

Henrietta Hen tried to look very dignified. She pecked at the cabbage in an absent-minded fashion, pretending that it was no treat to her. As a matter of fact, she had been trying to get a taste of cabbage for a long while. And this was the first time she had managed to crawl through the garden fence. "One has to eat something," she murmured.

Jimmy Rabbit smiled slyly. Henrietta Hen couldn't deceive him. He knew that she was as fond of cabbage as he was himself.

"Did you ever hear it said," he asked her suddenly, "that eating too much cabbage causes long ears?"



XIV

Ears -- Short Or Long


Henrietta Hen's heart began to thump. She dropped a bit of cabbage out of her bill, letting it fall as if it burned her. And usually she was very careful as to her table-manners. "Goodness!" she said to Jimmy Rabbit, who was busily munching cabbage in Farmer Green's garden. "You frighten me!"

He had just asked her this strange question: "Did you ever hear it said that eating too much cabbage causes long ears?" And Henrietta Hen didn't want long ears. She knew they would be sure to spoil her beauty.

Jimmy Rabbit had no time to say anything more to Henrietta Hen. Although he had not finished his luncheon he left the garden suddenly -- and in great haste. For old dog Spot began barking just beyond the fence; and Jimmy Rabbit always wanted to get as far from that sound as he could.

When Spot scurried into the cabbage-patch a little later Henrietta Hen called to him.

"What is it?" he asked her impatiently. "I'm in a great hurry. I don't like to stop."

"This is a very important matter," said Henrietta Hen. "Do you like cabbage?" she demanded.

"Cabbage?" he repeated after her as a puzzled look came over his face.

"You needn't act so surprised," Henrietta told him coldly. "You didn't come running into the garden for nothing. And I have reason to believe that you intended to eat some of Farmer Green's cabbages."

"What's your reason?" old Spot inquired.

"You have long ears," said Henrietta.

"Nonsense!" cried Spot. "What a person eats doesn't make his ears either long or short."

"Are you sure of that?" Henrietta Hen wanted to know.

"I've never eaten cabbage in all my life," he declared.

Still she couldn't rid herself of her fears.

"Perhaps," she said, "if you had eaten it your ears would have grown twice as long as they are now."

He shook his head. "I don't think so," he muttered.

"There's only one way to find out," Henrietta announced. "Eat a lot of cabbage -- all you can! And we'll soon see whether your ears are growing longer."

But old dog Spot refused flatly to do anything of the sort. He said that his ears suited him quite well, just as they were.

"What!" Henrietta cried. "Wouldn't you eat cabbage to oblige a lady?"

Old Spot said he was sorry; but he had no liking for cabbage.

"How can you tell if you've never tasted it?" she asked.

He made no answer to that question. Instead, he asked her one of his own.

"Would you like long ears?" he inquired.

"Certainly not!" she cried.

"How can you tell if you've never tried wearing any?" he demanded.

"Don't be stupid!" she snapped. "None of my family wears ears that can be seen. What a sight I'd be with long ears! Ears are very ugly things, and I only hope that I haven't eaten so much cabbage that mine will begin to grow.... Do you suppose they'd hang down like yours or stick up like Jimmy Rabbit's? He didn't say anything about that."

Old dog Spot let out a howl.

"Jimmy Rabbit!" he growled. "Was he talking with you just before I arrived?"

"Yes!" said Henrietta. "It was he that asked me if I had ever heard that eating cabbage made a person's ears grow."

"I might have known that it was that young Rabbit who put such a silly notion into your head," Spot grumbled. "If you hadn't stopped me I'd have stopped him by this time.... But it's too late now."

"You don't suppose he was joking, do you?" Henrietta inquired.

"Of course he was," said Spot -- and none too pleasantly.

"Well," Henrietta mused, as she pecked at a cabbage-leaf, "I must say that I think the joke's on you."



XV

Henrietta's Fright


When the old horse Ebenezer stood in his stall in the barn he was always glad to talk with anybody that came along.

Henrietta Hen sometimes strolled into the horse-barn to see if she could find a little grain that had spilled on the floor. So it came about that she and Ebenezer had many a chat together. Henrietta had no great opinion of horses. She thought that they had altogether more than their share of grain.

But she was willing to pass the time of day with Ebenezer, because he let her walk right into his stall and pick up tidbits that had dropped upon the floor beneath his manger.

It was on such an occasion, on a summer's day, that he said to her with a sigh, "Haying's going to begin to-morrow."

Henrietta Hen remarked that she wasn't at all interested in the news. "And I don't see why you should sigh," she added. "Goodness knows you'll eat your share of the hay -- and probably more -- before the winter's over."

"It's the work that I'm thinking of," Ebenezer explained. "They'll hitch me to the hayrake and Johnnie Green will drive me all day long in the hot hayfields. I always hate to hear the clatter of the mowing machine," he groaned. "It means that the hayrake will come out of the shed next."

Henrietta Hen caught her breath.

"The mowing machine!" she gasped. "Is Farmer Green going to use the mowing machine now?"

"Certainly!" said Ebenezer. "I hear he's going to harness the bays to it to-morrow morning."

"My! my!" Henrietta wailed. "Isn't there any way I can stop him from doing that?"

"I don't know of any," Ebenezer told her. "I've often felt just as you do about it. There's nobody that dreads hearing the mowing machine more than I do."

"You can't feel the way I do," Henrietta declared.

"On the contrary," the old horse insisted, "I don't see how it can matter to you in the least. You don't have to pull the mowing machine nor the hayrake. Besides, didn't you just tell me that my news about haying didn't interest you?"

"But it does!" Henrietta cried. "I was mistaken. It means everything to me. It's the worst news I ever heard in all my life."

Old Ebenezer looked down at her with mild astonishment on his long, honest face.

"Why is it bad news?" he inquired. "If you'll tell me, perhaps I can help you."

So Henrietta Hen explained her difficulty. Whatever it was, it amazed Ebenezer. And he had to admit that he could think of no way out of the trouble.

"It was very, very careless of you," he told Henrietta. Then suddenly he had a happy thought. "Cheer up!" he cried. "If Farmer Green sits on them, maybe they'll hatch."

"Hatch!" she groaned. "They'll break!"

And she ran out of the stall and hurried into the yard.

She was just in time to hear Farmer Green calling to his son Johnnie.

"Look here!" said he. "I started to oil the mowing machine so I could use it to-morrow; and just see what I found in the seat!"

Johnnie Green came a-running. And there in the seat of the mowing machine, nestling in the hay which had been put there for a cushion the summer before, three eggs greeted Johnnie's eyes.

"They must belong to the speckled hen," Johnnie decided. "I knew she'd stolen her nest again. I couldn't find it anywhere." He picked up the eggs and put them in his hat. "She's a sly one," he said.

That remark made Henrietta Hen somewhat angry. At the same time she was glad that Farmer Green had discovered the eggs before it was too late. She wouldn't have liked him to sit on them.

It always upset her to see her eggs broken.



XVI

The Rooster Upset


During the summer Henrietta Hen roamed about the farmyard as she pleased. To be sure, she always came a-running at feeding time. But except when there was something there to eat, she didn't go near the henhouse. She "stole her nest," to use Johnnie Green's words, now in one place and now in another. And at night she roosted on any handy place in the barn or the haymow, under the carriage-shed or even over the pigpens.

However, when the nights began to grow chilly Henrietta was glad enough to creep into the henhouse with her companions. She always retired early. And being a good sleeper, she slept usually until the Rooster began to crow towards dawn. Of course now and then some fidgetty hen fancied that she heard a fox prowling about and waked everybody else with her squalls.

Such interruptions upset Henrietta. After the flock had gone to sleep again Henrietta Hen was more than likely to dream that Fatty Coon was in the henhouse. And she would squawk right out and start another commotion.

Luckily such disturbances didn't happen every night. Often nothing occurred to break the silence of the henhouse. And Henrietta would dream only of pleasant things, such as cracked corn, or crisp cabbage-leaves, or bone meal. After dreams of that sort Henrietta couldn't always be sure, when the Rooster waked her with his crowing, that she hadn't already breakfasted. But she would peck at her breakfast, when feeding time came, and if it tasted good she would know then that the other food had been nothing but a dream.

One night, soon after she had gone back to roost in the henhouse, it seemed to Henrietta that she had scarcely fallen asleep when the Rooster crowed.

She awoke with a start.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed under her breath. "I must have slept soundly, for I haven't dreamed a single dream all night long." Then she noticed that none of the other hens had stirred. "Lazy bones!" Henrietta remarked to the Rooster. "You won't get 'em up in a hurry. They, don't hear you at all."

To her surprise she received no answer.

"He couldn't have heard me," she said to herself. So she repeated her speech in a louder tone. And still the Rooster made no reply. Henrietta couldn't understand it, he was always so polite to the ladies. Could it be that he was snubbing her?

Henrietta grew a bit angry as that thought popped into her head.

"What's the matter?" she snapped. "Have you lost your voice? It was loud enough to wake me up a few moments ago."

Receiving no response whatsoever, Henrietta completely lost her temper. "I'll see what's wrong with you!" she cackled. And throwing herself off her roost, though it was dark as a pocket in the henhouse, she flung herself upon the perch just opposite, where she knew the Rooster had slept.

It was no wonder that Henrietta Hen blundered in the dark. It was no wonder that she missed her way and stumbled squarely into the Rooster, knocking him headlong on the floor.

He set up a terrible clamor. And he made Henrietta Hen angrier than ever, for he cried out in a loud voice something that would have displeased anybody. "A skunk is after me!" he bawled.



XVII

A Sign Of Rain


There was a terrible hubbub in the henhouse. The Rooster squalled so loudly that he waked up every hen in the place. And when they heard him crying that a skunk had knocked him off his roost they were as frightened as he was, and set up a wild cackle. All but Henrietta Hen! She knew there was no skunk there.

"Don't be a goose -- er -- don't be a gander!" she hissed to the Rooster. "I'm the one that bumped into you."

The Rooster quickly came to his senses.

"Don't be alarmed, ladies!" he called to the flock. "There's no danger. There's been a slight mistake." He pretended that he hadn't been scared. But he had been. And now he was somewhat uneasy about Henrietta Hen. He feared he was in for a scolding from her.

"If you had answered me when I spoke to you I wouldn't have left my perch in the dark," she told the Rooster severely. "When I moved to your perch to see what was the matter I blundered into you. And then you thought I was a skunk! You owe me an apology, sir!"

The Rooster was glad it was not lighter in the henhouse, for he felt himself flushing hotly.

"You must pardon me," he said. "I had no idea it was you, for you waked me out of a sound sleep."

"Sound sleep, indeed!" Henrietta Hen exclaimed with a sniff. "Why, you had been crowing only a few moments before. In fact it was your crowing that roused me."

"No doubt!" said the Rooster. "But you see, I fell asleep again immediately."

"Then you must be ill," Henrietta retorted, "for I've never known you to go to sleep again, once you've begun your morning's crowing."

"But it's not morning now," the Rooster informed her. "It's not even late at night -- certainly not an hour since sunset."

Henrietta Hen was astonished.

"I noticed that the night seemed short," she muttered.

The Rooster thought it a great joke.

"Ha! ha!" he laughed. And he said to the rest of the flock, with a chuckle, "Henrietta thought it was morning! No doubt she'd have gone out into the yard if the door hadn't been shut." And the other hens all tittered. They always did, if the rooster expected them to.

Well, if there was one thing that Henrietta Hen couldn't endure, it was to be laughed at.

"Don't be silly!" she cried. "Why shouldn't I think it was morning, when he crowed almost in my ear?"

"Don't you know why I crowed?" the Rooster asked her. And without waiting for any reply, he said, "I crowed to let Farmer Green know it was going to rain to-morrow."

Of course Henrietta Hen had to have the last word. The Rooster might have known she would.

"Then," she observed, "I suppose you squawked to let him know there was a skunk in the henhouse."



XVIII

In Need Of Advice


Something was troubling Henrietta Hen. She seemed to have some secret sorrow. No longer did she move with her well-known queenly manner among her neighbors in the farmyard. Instead, she spent a good deal of her time moping. And no one could guess the reason. She didn't even care to talk to anybody -- not even to boast about her fine, speckled coat. And that certainly was not in the least like Henrietta Hen.

Always, before, Henrietta had seized every chance to parade before the public. Now she seemed to crave privacy.

What was the matter? To tell the truth, Henrietta Hen herself did not know the answer to that question. That is to say, she did not know why a certain thing was so. She only knew that a great misfortune had befallen her. And she dreaded to tell anybody about it.

To be sure, there was old Whitey -- a hen who had lived on the farm longer than any other. Most members of the flock often asked her advice. Even Henrietta herself had done that. But this difficulty was something she didn't want to mention to a neighbor. If there were only somebody outside the flock to whom she could go for help! But she knew of no one.

Then Henrietta happened to hear of Aunt Polly Woodchuck. The Muley Cow, who went to the pasture every day, mentioned Aunt Polly's name to Henrietta. According to the Muley Cow, Aunt Polly Woodchuck was an herb doctor -- and a good one, too. No matter what might be troubling a person, Aunt Polly was sure to have something right in her basket to cure it.

"I'd like to see her," Henrietta Hen had said. "But I can't go way up in the pasture, under the hill."

"Could you go to the end of the lane?" the Muley Cow inquired.

"Yes!"

"Then I'll ask Aunt Polly Woodchuck to meet you by the bars to-morrow morning," the Muley Cow promised.

That suited Henrietta Hen.

"I'll be there -- if it doesn't rain," she agreed.

Early the next day she followed the cows through the lane. And she hadn't waited long at the bars when Aunt Polly Woodchuck came hobbling up to her. Being a very old lady, Aunt Polly was somewhat lame. But she was spry, for all that. And her eyes were as bright as buttons.

Henrietta Hen saw at once that Aunt Polly was hopelessly old-fashioned. She carried a basket on her arm, and a stick in her hand.

"Well, well, dearie! Here you are!" cried Aunt Polly Woodchuck. "The Muley Cow tells me you're feeling poorly. Do tell me all about yourself! No doubt I've something in my basket that will do you a world of good."

"Don't Worry!" Said Aunt Polly Woodchuck.



XIX

Aunt Polly Helps


Somehow Henrietta Hen couldn't help liking Aunt Polly Woodchuck, in spite of her old-fashioned appearance. She certainly had a way with her -- a way that made a person want to tell her his troubles.

"I don't know whether you can help me or not," said Henrietta Hen. "Have you any feathers in your basket?"

"No -- no! No feathers!" Aunt Polly replied. "I use herbs in my business of doctoring. But I've heard that a burnt feather held under a body's nose will do wonders sometimes.... I must always carry a feather in my basket, hereafter."

"One feather wouldn't do me any good," said Henrietta Hen with a doleful sigh. "I need a great many more than one."

"You do?" Aunt Polly cried.

"Yes!" Henrietta answered. "Half my feathers have dropped off me. And that's why I've come to ask your advice. I'm fast losing my fatal beauty."

Henrietta Hen's voice trembled as she told Aunt Polly Woodchuck the dreadful news. "I don't believe you'll be able to help me," she quavered. "I'll soon look like a perfect fright. Besides, winter's coming; and how I'll ever keep warm with no feathers is more than I know."

Henrietta Hen couldn't understand how Aunt Polly managed to stay so calm. Henrietta had expected her to throw up her hands and say something like "Sakes alive!" or "Mercy on us!" But the old lady did nothing of the sort.

She set her basket down on the ground; and pushing her spectacles forward to the end of her nose, she leaned over and looked closely at Henrietta Hen. Aunt Polly's gaze travelled over Henrietta from head to foot and then back again. And she took hold of one of Henrietta's feathers and gave it a gentle twitch.

"Look out!" Henrietta cried. "You'll pull it out if you're not careful. And I can't afford to lose any more feathers than I have to."

"Don't worry!" Aunt Polly Woodchuck advised her. "Cheer up! There's nothing the matter with you. You are molting. You are going to get a new outfit of feathers for winter. Your old ones have to fall out in order to make room for the new. And no doubt the fresh ones will be much handsomer than the old."

Henrietta couldn't believe that Aunt Polly knew what she was talking about.

"I can't be molting as early in the fall as this," she protested. "I've never got my winter feathers so soon.... I fear you're mistaken," she told Aunt Polly.

"Oh, no! I'm not mistaken," Aunt Polly Woodchuck insisted. "I know it's early for molting -- but haven't you noticed that the wheat grew big this year, and that the bark on young trees is thick? And haven't you observed that Frisky Squirrel is laying up a great store of nuts in his hollow tree, and that the hornets built their paper houses far from the ground this summer?"

Henrietta Hen's mouth fell open as she stared at Aunt Polly Woodchuck. And when the old lady paused, Henrietta looked quite bewildered.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she murmured. "I don't see what all this has to do with molting."

"Some of those signs," Aunt Polly explained, "mean an early winter; and some of 'em mean a cold one. I've never known 'em to fail. And you're molting early so you'll have a good warm coat of feathers by the time winter comes."

Well, Henrietta Hen began to feel better at once. She actually smiled -- something she had not done for days.

"Thank you! Thank you!" she said. "You're a fine doctor, Aunt Polly. I don't wonder that folks ask your advice -- especially when there's nothing the matter with them!"

And then Henrietta Hen hurried off down the lane. Being timid about hawks, she never felt quite comfortable far from the farmyard.



XX

A Great Flurry


There was a great flurry among Farmer Green's hens. They all insisted on talking at the same time, because they had heard an astonishing bit of news. It was about Henrietta Hen. Wherever she went her neighbors craned their necks at her, just as if they hadn't seen her every day for as long as they could remember.

Henrietta Hen enjoyed the notice that everybody took of her. She went to some trouble to move about a good deal, so that all might have a chance to stare at her. For if there was one thing she liked, it was attention.

There was a reason why Henrietta had suddenly become the most talked-of member of the flock. She was going to the county fair! Furthermore, she expected to take all her children with her. There wasn't the least doubt that it was all true. The whole flock had heard Johnnie Green and his father talking about it.

Of course everybody asked Henrietta Hen a great number of questions. When was she going to leave? How long did she expect to stay at the fair? What did she intend to do there? Would she wear her best clothes if it rained? There was no end to such inquiries.

Unfortunately, Henrietta Hen could answer very few of them. Never having visited a fair, she had no idea what a fair was like. She only guessed that when the time came, she and her family would be put into a pen, loaded upon a wagon, and jolted over the road that led to the fair, wherever it might be.

But Henrietta didn't intend to let her neighbors find out how little she knew about fairs. She said that before starting she expected to wait for the wagon, that she hoped to stay at the fair as long as it lasted (because she didn't want to miss anything!) and that she intended to come home when the wagon brought her. Furthermore, she planned to wear her best apron, anyhow, because there was sure to be fair weather at a fair! How could it be otherwise?

Old Ebenezer, the horse, told her to be sure to see the races.

"They're the best part of a fair," he said. "In my younger days I used to take part in them." And then he added, "There's nothing else at a fair that's worth looking at."

"What about the poultry show?" Henrietta Hen asked him. She didn't know what poultry shows were; but she had heard Farmer Green mention them.

"I never paid any attention to the poultry exhibit," the horse Ebenezer replied. "I never took part in that. I suppose it might interest you, however."

Henrietta Hen smiled a knowing sort of smile. And she remarked to Polly Plymouth Rock, who stood near her, that she didn't believe the old horse knew a race from a poultry show. "If he ever went to a fair, I dare say he was hitched outside the fence," she sniffed.

Polly Plymouth Rock cackled with amusement. And she said something that displeased Henrietta Hen exceedingly.

"Are you going to take that duckling that you hatched out?" she asked.

"Certainly not!" Henrietta snapped. "Please -- Miss Plymouth Rock -- never mention him again! I'm going to the fair, among strangers. And I shouldn't care to have them know about that accident that happened to me -- not for anything!"



XXI

Off For The Fair


It seemed to Henrietta Hen that the time for the fair would never come. She had begun to feel somewhat uneasy, because she had talked so much about visiting the fair with her children that it would be very awkward if she didn't go. So she was delighted one day by the noise of hammering and sawing that came from the workbench at the end of the wagon-shed. A merry noise it was, to Henrietta's ears; for she guessed at once what was happening. Farmer Green and his son were building a pen in which she and her family were to ride to the fair!

The news spread like fire in sun-dried grass. Henrietta Hen took pains that it should. She told everybody she saw that she expected to leave at any moment. And she began to say good-by to all her friends.

Since Henrietta didn't start for the fair that day, before nightfall she had bade every one farewell at least a dozen times. And when, the following dawn, Henrietta started the day not by saying "Good morning!" but by bidding her neighbors "Good-by!" once more, they began to think her a bit tiresome.

"What! Haven't you gone yet?" they asked her.

"No! But I expect to leave at any moment," Henrietta told them. She was so excited that she couldn't eat her breakfast. But her chicks had no such trouble. And perhaps it was just as well that Henrietta Hen had her hands full looking after them and trying to keep them all under her eye, and spick-and-span for the journey. Otherwise she would have been in more of a flutter than she was.

While Henrietta had an eye on her children, she tried to keep the other on the barn. And after what seemed to her hours of watching and waiting, she saw Johnnie Green lead the old horse Ebenezer out of the door, with his harness on. Henrietta promptly forgot her stately manners. She ran squalling across the farmyard and called to Ebenezer, "Where are you going?"

"I understand that I'm going to the fair," he told her, as Johnnie Green backed him between the thills of a wagon. "Once I would have been hitched to a light buggy, with a sulky tied behind it. But now I've got to take you and your family in this rattlety old contraption."

Henrietta Hen didn't wait to hear any more. She turned and hurried back, to gather her youngsters and bid everybody another farewell.

Amid a great clucking and squawking, Johnnie Green and his father put Henrietta and her chicks into the pen and placed it in the back of the wagon.

"We're all ready!" Henrietta cried to Ebenezer. The old horse didn't even turn his head, for he could see backwards as well as forwards, because he wore no blinders. He made no direct reply to Henrietta, though he gave a sort of grunt, as if the whole affair did not please him. He knew that it was a long distance to the fairgrounds and the road was hilly.

"She thinks it a lark," he said to the dog Spot, who hung about as if he were waiting for something. "She's lucky, for she won't have to go on her own legs, for miles and miles."

"That's just what I intend to do," Spot informed him. "They don't mean to take me. But I'm going to follow you, right under the wagon, where Johnnie Green and his father can't see me."

So they started off. And they had scarcely passed through the gate when Henrietta began to clamor in her shrillest tones. But nobody paid any heed to her. The wagon clattered off down the road. And old dog Spot smiled to himself as he trotted along beneath it.

"Henrietta just remembered that she forgot to put on her best apron," he chuckled.



XXII

Almost Homesick


Never in all her life had Henrietta Hen seen so many hens and roosters and chicks as she found on every side of her, at the fair. Farmer Green and his son Johnnie had set her pen in the Poultry Hall. And to Henrietta's surprise, none of her new neighbors paid much attention to her and her chicks -- at first. She soon decided that there was a reason for this neglect. She made up her mind that she would have to make herself heard amid all that uproar or the others would never know she had arrived.

Luckily Henrietta had a strong voice. She used it to the utmost. And it wasn't long before a huge hen in a pen next hers gave her a bold look and asked, "What are you here for?"

"I've come to get the first prize," Henrietta answered calmly. She had listened carefully to what Farmer Green and Johnnie had said to each other during the journey from the farm. And already she knew something about fairs.

Her new neighbor laughed right in Henrietta's face.

"I don't see how you can win the first prize," she said with a sniff. "I'm going to get the first prize myself. There never was another such fine family as mine." She glanced proudly at her chicks as she spoke. "The best you can hope for," she told Henrietta, "is the second prize. And you'll be lucky if you get the third."

For once Henrietta Hen was at a loss for a retort.

"I don't believe you've ever been at a fair before," her new neighbor observed.

Henrietta admitted faintly that she hadn't.

"Last year I won second prize," said the other. "I'd have had the first if the judges had known their business."

Henrietta Hen began to feel very shaky in her legs. She had expected a different sort of greeting, when she should arrive at the fair. She had thought everybody would exclaim, "Here comes Henrietta Hen! What a fine family of chicks she has! And aren't Mrs. Hen's speckles beautiful?"

And there she was, with nobody paying any heed to her, except the lofty dame in the next pen, who had said nothing very agreeable.

"Oh, dear!" Henrietta sighed. "I wish I'd never left home."

"What's that?" her neighbor inquired in a sharp tone. "You aren't homesick, are you?"

"N-no!" said Henrietta. "But I had expected to win the first prize. And I don't know what my friends will say when I come back home without it."

"Well, everybody can't win it," said her new acquaintance. "Not the same year, anyhow!" And then she looked Henrietta up and down for a few moments, while Henrietta squirmed uneasily. "Where do you come from?" she asked at last.

"I live on Farmer Green's place, in Pleasant Valley," Henrietta informed her.

The lady in the next pen shook her head. "I've never heard of Pleasant Valley," she remarked, "nor of Farmer Green. He must be small potatoes."

Well, Henrietta was astonished. She began to feel as if she were nobody at all. She had supposed that everybody knew of Pleasant Valley -- and of Farmer Green, too. As for the remark, "small potatoes," she didn't understand it at all. So she inquired what it meant.

"It means," said her neighbor, "that Farmer Green can't be of much account."

That speech made Henrietta Hen almost lose her temper.

"Mr. Green," she cried, "is a fine man. And I'll have you know that I wouldn't live anywhere but on his farm!"



XXIII

Getting Acquainted


Not liking her neighbor on her right, at the fair, Henrietta Hen sidled up to the wire netting on the opposite side of her pen. Peering through it, she examined the person whom she saw just beyond, in a pen of her own.

A very sleek hen was this, who gave Henrietta a slight nod.

"We may as well speak," she said, "since we're to live next to each other for a week."

"A week!" Henrietta groaned. "Shall I have to stay cooped up here as long as that?"

"Yes!" said Neighbor Number 2. "And I don't blame you for feeling as you seem to. A week is a long time for everybody here -- except me."

Henrietta Hen didn't understand her.

"I'm going to win the first prize -- with my chicks," Neighbor Number 2 announced. "Of course that's worth waiting here a week."

"I don't see how you can win the first prize!" Henrietta exclaimed.

"Why not?" demanded the other. And she pressed against the wire netting of her pen and stuck her head through it as far as she could, as if she would have pecked Henrietta had she been able to.

"Because -- " Henrietta explained -- "because the lady on the other side of me is going to win it."

"Who said so?"

"She did," Henrietta answered.

"Ha! ha!" cackled Neighbor Number 2. "That's a good joke. She hasn't any more chance of winning than -- than you have!"

Now, Henrietta Hen couldn't help being puzzled. But whoever might win the first prize, she was sure it couldn't be she. Hadn't her neighbors on either side of her the same as told her that she couldn't win?

Henrietta would have felt quite glum, except that she couldn't very well mope in the midst of the terrific racket all about her. Soon her neighbors -- both Number 1 and Number 2 -- were having loud disputes with the hens in the pens on the further side of them. It seemed as if every hen at the fair had left her manners at home -- if she ever had any.

"Goodness!" Henrietta Hen murmured to herself. "If there's a prize, it must be for the one that can make the most noise."

In a little while throngs of men, women and children crowded into the Poultry Hall. They paused before the pens and looked at the occupants, making remarks that were sometimes full of praise and sometimes slighting.

Henrietta Hen felt terribly uneasy when people began to stop and stare at her. She dreaded to hear what they would say. After the way her next-door neighbors had talked to her she didn't believe anybody would have a word of praise for her.

She soon heard all sorts of remarks about herself. Some said she was too little and some said she was too big; others exclaimed that her legs were too short, while still others declared that they were too long! As these -- and many similar -- comments fell upon Henrietta's ears she promptly decided that there wasn't anything about her that was as it should be.

Having always called herself (before she left home) a "speckled beauty," she began to feel very low in her mind. And there was only one thing that kept her from being downright sad. All the sightseers agreed that she had some pretty chicks.

Henrietta couldn't help wishing that they had a different mother -- one that was worthy of them.



XXIV

Winning First Prize


Henrietta Hen was waiting as patiently as she could for the fair to come to an end. She tried to close her ears to the boasts of her neighbors on either side of her, that they were going to win the first prize. She had heard too many unpleasant remarks about herself to have even the slightest hope of winning any prize at all -- let alone the first.

"Anyhow, we'll be going home tonight," Henrietta said to herself. "And I'll never, never, never come to another fair. I'll go and hide 'way up high in the haymow where they can't find me before I'll spend another week in a place like this."

While she was muttering under her breath like that some men came up to her pen. And Henrietta Hen promptly squatted down in the furthest corner of it, hoping they wouldn't say anything disagreeable about her. She felt that she had already heard about all she could stand. She didn't even look at her callers. And soon they moved away.

Then Henrietta glanced up. She noticed something blue dangling from the front of her pen. And there was a greater commotion than ever on all sides of her.

"What is it?" she cried. "What has happened?"

Neighbor Number 1, on her right, shot a spiteful look at her.

"Those stupid judges!" she spluttered. "They've made a terrible blunder. They've gone and given you and your chicks the first prize. And of course it was meant for me and mine!"

"It wasn't!" screamed Neighbor Number 2 (on Henrietta's left). "That prize was intended for me and my children!"

"Who won second and third?" cried a noisy hen from across the way.

"They're both at the other end of the hall!" somebody shrieked.

"It's an outrage! It isn't fair! We've been cheated!" Henrietta Hen's nearest neighbors clamored. But nobody paid any attention to them.

As for Henrietta, she didn't quite know how to act. She had intended, when she left home, to do a good deal of strutting back and forth in her pen, with now and then a pause to preen herself, to make sure that she looked her best. But somehow she no longer cared to put on grand airs, as of old. She remembered that some of the other hens at the fair had been haughty and proud and had smoothed their feathers, declaring boldly that they expected to win the first prize.

Henrietta had heard it said that fine feathers don't make fine birds. And she knew at last what that meant. It meant that gay clothes and lofty ways and boastful talk were of no account at all.

So Henrietta tried to behave as if nothing unusual had happened. She told her chicks that they were going home that evening, and that she would be glad to be back on the farm again, among plain home-folks.

At last Johnnie Green and his father came to load Henrietta and her family into the wagon.

"Well," said the old horse Ebenezer to Henrietta. "Did you enjoy the races?"

"I didn't have a chance to see them," she replied.

"That's a pity," he told her. And then he asked her, "What's that blue tag hanging from your pen?"

"That -- " said Henrietta -- "that means that my chicks won the first prize."

"She helped win it herself," cried old dog Spot, who was yelping about the wagon. "Our little speckled hen was the best hen at the fair!"

"Nonsense!" Henrietta exclaimed. But, all the same, she couldn't help being pleased.

<eob>

Marjorie At Seacote

By

Carolyn Wells



Chapter I

Kitty's Dinner


"Kitty-Cat Kitty is going away, Going to Grandma's, all summer to stay. And so all the Maynards will weep and will bawl, Till Kitty-Cat Kitty comes home in the fall."

This affecting ditty was being sung with great gusto by King and Marjorie, while Kitty, her mood divided between smiles and tears, was quietly appreciative.

The very next day, Kitty was to start for Morristown, to spend the summer with Grandma Sherwood, and to-night the "Farewell Feast" was to be celebrated.

Every year one of the Maynard children spent the summer months with their grandmother, and this year it was Kitty's turn. The visit was always a pleasant one, and greatly enjoyed by the small visitor, but there was always a wrench at parting, for the Maynard family were affectionate and deeply devoted to one another.

The night before the departure was always celebrated by a festival of farewell, and at this feast tokens were presented, and speeches made, and songs sung, all of which went far to dispel sad or gloomy feelings.

The Maynards were fond of singing. They were willing to sing "ready-made" songs, and often did, but they liked better to make up songs of their own, sometimes using familiar tunes and sometimes inventing an air as they went along. Even if not quite in keeping with the rules for classic music, these airs were pleasing in their own ears, and that was all that was necessary.

So, when King and Midget composed the touching lines which head this chapter and sang them to the tune of "The Campbells are Coming," they were so pleased that they repeated them many times.

This served to pass pleasantly the half-hour that must yet elapse before dinner would be announced.

"Well, Kit," remarked Kingdon, in a breathing pause between songs, "we'll miss you lots, o' course, but you'll have a gay old time at Grandma's. That Molly Moss is a whole team in herself."

"She's heaps of fun, Kitsie," said Marjorie, "but she's chock-a-block full of mischief. But you won't tumble head over heels into all her mischiefs, like I did! 'Member how I sprained my ankle, sliding down the barn roof with her?"

"No, of course I wouldn't do anything like that," agreed the sedate Kitty. "But we'll have lots of fun with that tree-house; I'm going to sit up there and read, on pleasant days."

"H'm, -- lucky, -- you know what, King!"

"H'm, -- yes! Keep still, Mops. You'll give it away."

"Oh, a secret about a present," cried Kitty; "something for the tree-house, I know!"

"Maybe 'tis, and maybe 'tain't," answered King, with a mysterious wink at Marjorie.

"Me buyed present for Kitty," said Rosamond, smiling sweetly; "gold an' blue, -- oh, a bootiful present."

"Hush, hush, Rosy Posy, you mustn't tell," said her brother. "Presents are always surprises. Hey, girls, here's Father!"

Mr. Maynard's appearance was usually a signal for a grand rush, followed by a series of bear hugs and a general scramble, but to-night, owing to festive attire, the Maynard quartette were a little more demure.

"Look out for my hair-ribbons, King!" cried Midget, for without such warning, hair-ribbons usually felt first the effects of the good-natured scrimmage.

And then Mrs. Maynard appeared, her pretty rose-colored gown of soft silk trailing behind her on the floor.

"What a dandy mother!" exclaimed King; "all dressed up, and a flower in her hair!"

This line sounded singable to Marjorie, so she tuned up:

"All dressed up, and a flower in her hair, To give her a hug, I wouldn't dare; For she would feel pretty bad, I think, If anything happened to that there pink!"

Then King added a refrain, and in a moment they had all joined hands and were dancing round Mrs. Maynard and singing:

"Hooray, hooray, for our mother fair! Hooray, hooray, for the flower in her hair! All over the hills and far away, There's no one so sweet as Mothery May!"

Being accustomed to boisterous adulation from her children, Mrs. Maynard bore her honors gracefully, and then they all went out to dinner.

As Maiden of Honor, Kitty was escorted by her father; next came Mrs. Maynard and Kingdon, and then Marjorie and Rosy Posy. The table had extra decorations of flowers and pink-shaded candles, and at Kitty's place was a fascinating looking lot of tissue-papered and ribbon-tied parcels.

"Isn't it funny," said sedate and philosophical Kitty, "I love to go to Grandma's, and yet I hate to leave you all, and yet, I can't do one without doing the other!"

"'Tis strange, indeed, Kit!" agreed her father; "as Mr. Shakespeare says, 'Yet every sweet with sour is tempered still.' Life is like lemonade, sour and sweet both."

"It's good enough," said Kitty, contentedly, looking at her array of bundles. "I guess I'll open these now."

"That's what they're there for," said Mrs. Maynard, so Kitty excitedly began to untie the ribbons.

"I'll go slowly," she said, pulling gently at a ribbon bow, "then they'll last longer."

"Now, isn't that just like you, Kit!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I'd snatch the papers off so fast you couldn't see me jerk."

"I know you would," said Kitty, simply.

The sisters were very unlike, for Midget's ways were impulsive and impatient, while Kitty was slow and careful. But finally the papers came off, and revealed the lovely gifts.

Mrs. Maynard had made a pretty silk workbag, which could be spread out, or gathered up close on its ribbon. When outspread, it showed a store of needles and thread, of buttons, hooks, tapes, -- everything a little girl could need to keep her clothes in order.

"Oh, Mother, it's perfect!" cried Kitty, ecstatically. "I love those cunning little pockets, with all sewy things in them! And a darling silver thimble! And a silver tape measure, and a silver-topped emery! Oh, I do believe I'll sew all the time this summer!"

"Pooh, I wouldn't!" said Marjorie. "The things are lovely, but I'd rather play than sew."

"Sewing is play, I think," and Kitty fingered over her treasures lovingly. "Grandma will help me with my patterns, and I'm going to piece a silk teachest quilt. Oh, Mother, it will be such fun!"

"Call that fun!" and Marjorie looked disdainfully at her sister. "Fun is racing around and playing tag, and cutting up jinks generally!"

"For you it is," Kitty agreed, amiably, "but not for me. I like what I like."

"That's good philosophy, Kitty," said her father. "Stick to it always. Like what you like, and don't be bothered by other people's comments or opinions. Now, what's in that smallish, flattish, whitish parcel?"

The parcel in question proved to be a watch, a dear little gold watch. Kitty had never owned one before, and it almost took her breath away.

"Mine?" she exclaimed, in wonder. "All mine?"

"Yes, every bit yours," said Mr. Maynard, smiling at her. "Every wheel and spring, every one of its three hands, every one of its twelve hours are all, all yours. Do you like it?"

"Like it! I can't think of any words to tell you how much I like it."

"I'll think of some for you," said the accommodating Marjorie. "You could say it's the grandest, gloriousest, gorgeousest, magnificentest present you ever had!"

"Yes, I could say that," Kitty agreed, "but I never should have thought of it. I 'most always say a thing is lovely. Now, what in the world is this?"

"This" proved to be a well-stocked portfolio, the gift of King. There were notepaper and envelopes and a pen and pencils and stamps and everything to write letters with.

"I picked out all the things myself," King explained, "because it's nicer that way than the ready furnished ones. Do you like it, Kit?"

"Yes, indeedy! And I shall write my first letter to you, because you gave it to me."

"Oh, Kitty-Cat Kit, a letter she writ, And sent it away, to her brother one day,"

chanted Marjorie, and, as was their custom, they all sang the song after her, some several times over.

"Now for mine," Midget said, as Kitty slowly untied the next parcel. It was two volumes of Fairy Tales, which literature was Kitty's favorite reading.

"Oh, lovely!" she exclaimed. "On summer afternoons you can think of me, sitting out in the tree-house reading these. I shall pretend I'm a Fairy Princess. These are beautiful stories, I can see that already."

Kitty's quick eye had caught an interesting page, and forgetting all else, she became absorbed in the book at once. In a moment, the page was turned, and Kitty read on and on, oblivious to time or place.

"Hi, there, Kitsie! Come out o' that!" cried King. "You can read all summer, -- now you must associate with your family."

"I didn't mean to," said Kitty, shutting the book quickly, and looking round apologetically; "but it's all about a fairy godmother, and a lovely princess lady, -- oh, Mopsy, it's fine!"

A pair of little blue enamelled pins was Rosamond's present, and Kitty pinned them on her shoulders at once, to see how they looked. All pronounced the effect excellent, and Rosy Posy clapped her little fat hands in glee.

"Mine's the prettiest present!" she said. "Mine's the booflest!"

"Yes, Babykins," said Kitty, "yours is the booflest, -- but they're all lovely."

The Farewell Feast included all of Kitty's favorite dishes, and as most of them were also favorites with the other children, it was satisfactory all round.

"You must write to us often, Kit," said King; "I gave you those writing things so you'd be sure to."

"Yes, I will; but I don't know yet where you're all going to be."

"I don't know yet myself," said Mr. Maynard, "but it will be somewhere near the sea, if possible. Will you like the seashore, Kiddies, -- you that are going?"

"I shall," said Marjorie, promptly. "I'll love it. May we go bathing every day? And can I have a bathing suit, -- red, trimmed with white?"

"I 'spect you can," said her mother, smiling at her. "What color do you want, King?"

"Oh, I think dark blue would suit my manly beauty! What are you going to have, Father?"

"I think dark blue will be our choice, my boy. It swims better than anything else. But first we must find a roof to cover our heads. I've about decided on one, -- if I can get it. It's a bungalow."

"What's a bungalow?" asked Marjorie. "I never heard of such a thing."

"Ho, ho! Never heard of a bungalow!" said King. "Why, a bungalow is a, -- is a, --  -- "

"Well, is a what?" asked Midget, impatiently.

"Why, it's a bungalow! That's what it is."

"Fine definition, King!" said his father. "But since you undertook to do so, see if you can't give its meaning better than that. What is a bungalow?"

"Well, let me see. It's a house, -- I guess it's a low, one-storied house, and that's why they call it bungalow. Is that it?"

"You're right about the one story; the rest is, I think, your own invention. Originally, the bungalow was the sort of a house they have in India, a one-storied affair, with a thatched roof, and verandas all round it. But the ones they build now, in this country, are often much more elaborate than that. Sometimes they have one story, sometimes more. The one I'm trying to get for the summer is at Seacote, and it's what they call a story and a half. That is, it has an upper floor, but the rooms are under a slanting roof, and have dormer windows."

"Sounds good to me," said King. "Do you think you'll catch it, Dad?"

"I hope so. Some other person has the refusal of it, but he's doubtful about taking it. So it may yet fall to our lot."

"I hope so!" cried Marjorie. "At the seashore for a whole summer! My! what fun! Can we dig in the sand?"

"Well, rather, my child! That's what the sand is there for. Kitty, you were at the seashore last summer. Did you dig in the sand?"

"Yes, every day; and it was lovely. But this year I'm glad I'm going to Grandma's. It's more restful."

They all laughed at Kitty's desire for rest, and Marjorie said:

"I didn't have such a restful time at Grandma's. Except when I sprained my ankle, -- I rested enough then! But you won't do anything like that, Kit!"

"I hope not, I'm sure. Nor I won't fall down the well, either!"

"Oh, we didn't fall down the well. We just went down, to get cooled off."

"Well, I'm not going to try it. I shall sit in the tree-house and read every afternoon, and sew with Grandma in the mornings."

"Kit, you're a dormouse," said Kingdon; "I believe you'd like to sleep half the year."

"'Deed I wouldn't. Just because I don't like rambunctious play doesn't mean I want to sleep all the time! Does it, Father?"

"Not a bit of it. But you children must 'like what you like' and not comment on others' 'likes.' See?"

"Yes, sir," said King, understanding the kindly rebuke. "Hullo, Kit, here's one of your best 'likes'! Here's pink ice-cream coming!"

This was indeed one of Kitty's dearest "likes," and as none of the Maynards disliked it, it rapidly disappeared.

"Now, we'll have an entertainment," said King as, after dinner, they all went back to the pleasant living-room. "As Kitty is the chief pebble on the beach this evening, she shall choose what sort of an entertainment. Games, or what?"

"No, just a real entertainment," said Kitty; "a programme one, you know. Each one must sing a song or speak a piece, or something like that. I'll be the audience, and you can all be performers."

"All right," said King; "I'll be master of ceremonies. I'll make up the programme as I go along. Ladies and gentlemen, our first number will be a speech by the Honorable Edward Maynard. Mr. Maynard will please step forward."

Mr. Maynard stepped. Assuming a pompous air, he made a low bow, first to Kitty, and then to the others.

"My dear friends," he said, "we are gathered here together this evening to extend our farewells and our hearty good wishes to the lady about to leave us. Sister, thou art mild and lovely, and we hate to see thee go; but the best of friends must sever, and you'll soon come back, you know. Listen now to our advices. Kitty, dear, for pity's sake, do not tumble in the river, -- do not tumble in the lake. Many more things I could tell you as I talk in lovely rhyme, but I think it is my duty to let others share the time."

Mr. Maynard sat down amid great applause, and Kitty said, earnestly, "You are a lovely poet, Father. I wish you'd give up your other business, and just write books of poetry."

"I'm afraid, Kitsie, we wouldn't have enough money for pink ice-cream in that case," said Mr. Maynard, laughing.

"The next performeress will be Mrs. Maynard," announced the master of ceremonies.

Mother Maynard rose, smiling, and with all the airs and graces of a prima donna, went to the piano. Striking a few preliminary chords, she began to sing:

"Good-bye, Kitty; good-bye, Kitty; good-bye, Kitty, You're going to leave us now. Merrily we say good-bye, Say good-bye, say good-bye; Merrily we say good-bye To sister Kitty-Kit."

This had a pleasant jingle, and was repeated by the whole assembly with fine effect and a large volume of noise.

"Miss Marjorie Maynard will now favor us," was the next announcement.

"This is a poem I made up myself," said Midget, modestly, "and I think it's very nice:

"When Kitty goes to Grandma's I hope she will be good; And be a lady-girl and do Exactly as she should. 'Cause when I go to Grandma's, I act exceeding bad; I track up 'Liza's nice clean floor, And make her hopping mad!"

Marjorie's poem was applauded with cheers, as they all recognized its inherent truth.

"We next come to Miss Rosamond Maynard," King went on, "but as she has fallen asleep, I will ask that the audience kindly excuse her."

The audience kindly did so, and as it was getting near everybody's bedtime, -- at least, for children, -- the whole quartette was started bedward, and went away singing:

"Good-bye, Kitty, you're going to leave us now" -- 



Chapter II

Tom, Dick, And Harry


"Jumping Grasshoppers! What a dandy house!"

The Maynards' motor swung into the driveway of a large and pleasant looking place, whose lawn showed some sand spots here and there, and whose trees were tall pines, but whose whole effect was delightfully breezy and seashorey.

"Oh, grandiferous!" cried Marjorie, echoing her brother's enthusiastic tones, and standing up in the car, better to see their new home.

Seacote, the place chosen by Mr. Maynard for his family's summering, was on the southern shore of Long Island, not very far from Rockaway Beach. It was a sort of park or reservation in which building was under certain restrictions, and so it was made up of pleasant homes filled with pleasant people.

Fortunately, Mr. Maynard had been able to rent the bungalow he wanted, and it was this picturesque domicile that so roused King's admiration.

The house was long and low, and surrounded by verandas, some of which were screened by vines, and others shaded by striped awnings.

But what most delighted the children was the fact that the ocean rolled its crested breakers up to their very door. Not literally to the door, for the road ran between the sea and the house, and a boardwalk was between the road and the sea. But not fifty feet from their front windows the shining waves were even now dashing madly toward them as if in tumultuous welcome.

The servants were already installed, and the open doors seemed to invite the family to come in and make themselves at home.

"Let's go straight bang through the whole house," said King, "and then outdoors afterward."

"All right," agreed Marjorie, and in their usual impetuous fashion, the two raced through the house from attic to cellar, though there really wasn't any attic, except a sort of low-ceiled loft. However, they climbed up into this, and then down through the various bedrooms on the second floor, and back to the first floor, which contained the large living-room, a spacious hall, and the dining-room and kitchen.

"It's all right," said King, nodding his head in approval. "Now outside, Midget."

Outside they flew, and took stock of their surroundings. Almost an acre of ground was theirs, and though as yet empty of special interest, King could see its possibilities.

"Room for a tennis court," he said; "then I guess we'll have a big swing, and a hammock, and a tent, and --  -- "

"And a merry-go-round," supplemented Mr. Maynard, overhearing King's plans.

"No, not that, Father," said Marjorie, "but we can have swings and things, can't we?"

"I 'spect so, Mopsy. But with the ocean and the beach, I doubt if you'll stay in this yard much."

"Oh, that's so; I forgot the ocean! Come on, Father, let's go and look at it."

So the three went down to the beach, and Marjorie, who hadn't been to the seashore since she was a small child, plumped herself down on the sand, and just gazed out at the tumbling waves.

"I don't care for the swings and things," she said. "I just want to stay here all the time, and dig and dig and dig."

As she spoke she was digging her heels into the fine white sand, and poking her hands in, and burying her arms up to her dimpled elbows.

"Oh, Father, isn't it gee-lorious! Sit down, won't you, and let us bury you in sand, all but your nose!"

"Not now," said Mr. Maynard, laughing. "Some day you may, when I'm in a bathing suit. But I don't care for pockets full of sand. Now, I'm going back to home and Mother. You two may stay down here till luncheon time if you like."

Mr. Maynard went back to the house, and King and Marjorie continued their explorations. The beach was flat and smooth, and its white sand was full of shells, and here and there a few bits of seaweed, and farther on some driftwood, and in the distance a pier, built out far into the ocean.

"Did you ever see such a place?" cried Marjorie, in sheer delight.

"Well, I was at the seashore last year," said King, "while you were at Grandma's."

"But it wasn't as nice as this, was it? Say it wasn't!"

"No; the sand was browner. This is the nicest sand I ever saw. Say, Mops, let's build a fire."

"What for? It isn't cold."

"No, but you always build fires on the beach. It's lots of fun. And we'll roast potatoes in it."

"All right. How do we begin?"

"Well, we gather a lot of wood first. Come on."

Marjorie came on, and they worked with a will, gathering armfuls of wood and piling it up near the spot they had selected for their fire.

"That's enough," said Marjorie, for her arms ached as she laid down her last contribution to their collection.

"You'll find it isn't much when it gets to burning. But never mind, it will make a start. I'll skin up to the house and get matches and potatoes."

"I'll go with you, 'cause I think we'd better ask Father about making this fire. It might do some harm."

"Fiddlesticks! We made a fire 'most every day last summer."

And, owing to King's knowledge and experience regarding beach fires, his father told him he might build one, and to be properly careful about not setting fire to themselves.

Then they procured potatoes and apples from the kitchen, and raced back to the beach.

"Why, where's our wood?" cried Marjorie.

Not a stick or a chip remained of their carefully gathered wood pile.

"Some one has stolen it!" said King.

"No, there's nobody around, except those people over there, and they're grown-ups. It must have been washed away by a wave."

"Pooh, the waves aren't coming up near as far as this."

"Well, there might have been a big one."

"No, it wasn't a wave. That wood was stolen, Mops!"

"But who could have done it? Those grown-up people wouldn't. You can see from their looks they wouldn't. They're reading aloud. And in the other direction, there are only some fishermen, -- they wouldn't take it."

"Well, somebody did. Look, here are lots of footprints, and I don't believe they're all ours."

Sure enough, on the smooth white sand they could see many footprints, imprinted all over each other, as if scurrying feet had trodden all around their precious wood pile.

"Oh, King, you're just like a detective!" cried Marjorie, in admiration. "But it's so! These aren't our footprints!"

She fitted her spring-heeled tan shoes into the prints, and proved at once that they were not hers. Nor did King's shoes fit exactly, though they came nearer to it than Marjorie's.

"Yes, sir; some fellows came along and stole that wood. Here are two or three quite different prints."

"Well, where do they lead to?" said practical Marjorie.

"That's so. Let's trace them and get the wood back."

But after leading away from them for a short distance the footprints became fainter, and in a softer bit of sand disappeared altogether.

"Pshaw!" said King. "I don't so much care about the wood, but I hate to lose the trail like this. Let's hunt, Mopsy."

"All right, but first, let's bury these apples and potatoes, or they'll be stolen, too."

"Good idea!" And they buried their treasures in the nice, clean sand, and marked the place with an inconspicuous stick.

Then they set out to hunt their lost wood. The beach, though flat and shelving at the water's edge, rose in a low bluff farther back, and this offered among its irregular projections many good hiding-places for their quarry.

And, sure enough, after some searching, they came suddenly upon three boys who sat, shaking with laughter, upon a pile of wood.

The two Maynards glared at them rather angrily, upon which the three again went off in peals of laughter.

"That's our wood!" began King, aggressively.

"Sure it is!" returned the biggest boy, still chuckling.

"What did you bring it over here for?"

"Just for fun!"

"H'm, just for fun! And do you think it would be fun to carry it back again?"

"Yep; just's lieve as not. Come on, kids!" And that remarkable boy began to pick up the sticks.

"Oh, hold on," said King. "If you're so willing, you needn't do it! Who are you, anyway?"

"Well," said the biggest boy, suddenly straightening himself up and bowing politely to Marjorie, "we're your neighbors. We live in that green house next to yours. And we're named Tom, Dick, and Harry. Yes, I know you think those names sound funny, but they're ours all the same. Thomas, Richard, and Henry Craig, -- at your service! I'm Tom. This is Dick, and this is Harry."

He whacked his brothers on the shoulder as he named them, and they ducked forward in polite, if awkward salutation.

"And did you really take our wood?" said Marjorie, with an accusing glance, as if surprised that such pleasant-spoken boys could do such a thing.

"Yes, we did. We wanted to see what sort of stuff you were made of. You know Seacote people are sort of like one big family, and we wanted to know how you'd behave about the wood. You've been fine, and now we'll cart it back where we found it. If you had got mad about it, we wouldn't touch a stick to take it back, -- would we, fellows?"

"Nope," said the other two, and the Maynards could see at once that Tom was the captain and ringleader of the trio.

"Well," said King, judicially, "if you hadn't been the sort you are, I should have got mad. But I guess you're all right, and so you may take it back. But we don't help you do it, -- see? I'm Kingdon Maynard, and this is my sister Marjorie. You fellows took our wood, and now you're going to return it. Is that right?"

"Right-o!" said Tom. "Come on, fellows."

The three boys flew at it, and King and Midget sat on the sand and watched them till the wood was restored to its original position.

"All right," said King; "you boys'll do. Now, come on and roast potatoes with us."

Thus, all demands of honor having been complied with, the five proceeded to become friends. The boys built the fire, and gallantly let Marjorie have the fun of putting the potatoes and apples in place.

The Craig boys had nice instincts, and while they were rather rough-and-tumble among themselves, they treated King more decorously, and seemed to consider Marjorie as a being of a higher order, made to receive not only respect, but reverent homage.

"You see, we never had a sister," said Tom; "and we're a little bit scared of girls."

"Well, I have three," said King, "so you see I haven't such deep awe of them. But Midget won't hurt you, so don't be too scared of her."

Marjorie smiled in most friendly fashion, for she liked these boys, and especially Tom.

"How old are you?" she asked him, in her frank, pleasant way.

"I'm fourteen," replied Tom, "and the other kids are twelve and ten."

"King's fourteen, -- 'most fifteen," said Midget; "and I'll be thirteen in July. So we're all in the same years. I wish our Kitty was here. She's nearly eleven, but she isn't any bigger than Harry."

Harry smiled shyly, and poked at the potatoes with a stick, not knowing quite what to say.

"You see," King explained, "Midget is the best sort of a girl there is. She's girly, all right, and yet she's as good as a boy at cutting up jinks or doing any old kind of stunts."

The three Craigs looked at Marjorie in speechless admiration.

"I never knew that kind," said Tom, thoughtfully. "You see, we go to a boys' school, and we haven't any girl cousins, or anything; and the only girls I ever see are at dancing class, or in a summer hotel, and then they're all frilled up, and sort of airy."

"I love to play with boys," said Marjorie, frankly, "and I guess we'll have a lot of fun this summer."

"I guess we will! Are you going to stay all summer?"

"Yes, till September, when school begins."

"So are we. Isn't it funny we live next door to each other?"

"Awful funny," agreed Marjorie, pulling a very black potato out of the red-hot embers. "This is done," she went on, "and I'm going to eat it."

"So say we all of us," cried King. "One done, -- all done! Help yourselves, boys!"

So they all pulled out the black, sooty potatoes, with more delighted anticipations than would have been roused by the daintiest dish served at a table.

"Ow!" cried Marjorie, flinging down her potato, and sticking her finger in her mouth. "Ow! that old thing popped open, and burned me awfully!"

"Too bad, Mops!" said King, with genuine sympathy, but the Craig boys were more solicitous.

"Oh, oh! I'm so sorry," cried Tom. "Does it hurt terribly?"

"Yes, it does," said Midget, who was not in the habit of complaining when she got hurt, but who was really suffering from the sudden burn.

"Let me tie it up," said Dick, shyly.

"Yes, do," said Tom. "Dick is our good boy. He always helps everybody else."

"But what can we tie it up with?" said Marjorie. "My handkerchief is all black from wiping off that potato."

"I, -- I've got a clean one," and Dick, blushing with embarrassment, took a neatly folded white square from his pocket.

"Would you look at that!" said Tom. "I declare Dicky always has the right thing at the right time! Good for you, boy! Fix her up."

Quite deftly Dick wrapped the handkerchief round Marjorie's finger, and secured it with a bit of string from another pocket.

"You ought to have something on it," he said, gravely. "Kerosene is good, but as we haven't any, it will help it just to keep the air away from it, till you go home."

"Goodness!" exclaimed Midget. "You talk like a doctor."

"I'm going to be a doctor when I grow up," said Dick.

"He is," volunteered Harry; "he cured the cat's broken leg, and he mended a bird's wing once."

"Yes, I did," admitted Dick, modestly blushing at his achievements. "Are you going right home because of your finger?"

"No, indeed! We never stop for hurts and things, unless they're bad enough for us to go to bed. Give me another potato, and you open it for me, won't you, Dick?"

"Yep," and Marjorie was immediately supplied with the best of the potatoes and apples, carefully prepared for her use.

"Aren't there any other girls in Seacote?" she inquired.

"There's Hester Corey," answered Tom; "but we don't know her very well. She isn't nice, like you are. And I don't know of any others, though there may be some. Most of the people in the cottages haven't any children, -- or else they're grown up, -- big girls and young ladies. And there's a few little babies, but not many of our age. So that's why we're so glad you came."

"And that's why you stole our wood!"

"Yes, truly. We thought that'd be a good way to test your temper."

"It was a risky way," said King, thinking it over.

"Oh, I don't know. I knew, if you were the right sort, you'd take it all right; and if you weren't the right sort, we didn't care how you took it."

"That's so," agreed Marjorie.



Chapter III

The Sand Club


Life at Seacote soon settled down to its groove, and it was a very pleasant groove. There was always plenty of fun to be had. Bathing every day in the crashing breakers, digging in the sand, building beach fires, talking to the old fishermen, were all delightful pursuits. And then there were long motor rides inland, basket picnics in pine groves, and excursions to nearby watering-places.

The Craig boys turned out to be jolly playfellows, and they and the Maynards became inseparable chums. Marjorie often wished one of them had been a girl, but at the same time, she enjoyed her unique position of being the only girl in the crowd. The boys deferred to her as to a princess, and she ruled them absolutely.

Of course the senior Craigs and Maynards became good friends also, and the two ladies especially spent many pleasant hours together.

Baby Rosamond rarely played with the older children, as she was too little to join in their vigorous games, often original with themselves, and decidedly energetic. The beach was their favorite playground. They never tired of digging in the sand, and they had a multitude of spades and shovels and hoes for their various sand performances. Some days they built a fort, other days a castle or a pleasure ground. Their sand-works were extensive and elaborate, and it often seemed a pity that the tide or the wind should destroy them over night.

"I say, let's us be a Sand Club," said Tom one day. "We're always playing in the sand, you know."

"All right," said Marjorie, instantly seeing delightful possibilities. "We'll call ourselves Sand Crabs, for we're always scrambling through the sand."

"And we're jolly as sandboys!" said King. "I don't know what sandboys really are, but they're always jolly, and so are we."

"I'd like something more gay and festive," Marjorie put in; "I mean like Court Life, or something where we could dress up, and pretend things."

"I know what you mean," said Dick, grasping her idea. "Let's have Sand Court, and build a court and a throne, and we'll all be royal people and Marjorie can be queen."

"Well, let's all have sandy names," suggested Tom. "Marjorie can be Queen Sandy. And we'll call our court Sandringham Palace. You know there is one, really."

"You can be the Grand Sandjandrum!" said King, laughing.

"No, you be that," said Tom, unselfishly.

"No, sir; you've got to. I'll be a sand piper, and play the court anthems."

"All right," said Marjorie, "and Harry can be a sand crab, for he just scuttles through the sand all the time. What'll Dick be?"

King looked at Dick. "We'll call him Sandow," he suggested, and they all laughed, for Dick was a frail little chap, without much muscular strength. But the name stuck to him, and they always called him Sandow thereafter.

"I wish we could make our palace where it would stay made," said Marjorie. "We don't want to make a new one every day."

"That's so," said Tom. "If we only could find a secret haunt."

"I know a kind of a one," said Dick; "'way back in our yard, near where it joins yours, is a deepy kind of a place, and it's quite sandy."

"Just the thing!" cried Marjorie. "I know that place. Come on!"

She was off like a deer, and the rest followed. A few moments' scamper brought them to the place, and all declared it was just the very spot for a palace.

"I'd like beach sand better, though," said Marjorie.

"We'll bring all you want," declared Tom. "We'll take a wheelbarrow, and bring heaps up from the beach."

The Sand Club worked for days getting their palace in order. The two big boys wheeled many loads of sand up from the beach, and Marjorie and the two other boys arranged it in shape.

Dick was clever at building, and he planned a number of fine effects. Of course, their palace had no roof or walls, but the apartments were partitioned off with low walls of sand, and there were sand sofas and chairs, and a gorgeous throne.

The throne was a heap of sand, surmounted by a legless armchair, found in the Craigs' attic, and at court meetings draped with pink cheesecloth and garlands of flowers. The whole palace was really a "secret haunt," for a slight rise of ground screened it from view on two sides and trees shaded the other side.

The parents of both families were pleased with the whole scheme, for it kept the children occupied, and they could always be found at a moment's notice.

Sand tables were built, and on them were bits of old dishes and broken vases, all of which were desirable because they could stay out in the rain and not be harmed. Moreover, they were handy in case of a feast. At last preparations were complete and they decided to open the court next day.

"We must have a flag," said Marjorie. "I'll make it. The court colors are red and yellow, and our emblem will be, -- what shall our emblem be?"

"A pail of sand," suggested Tom.

"Yes; I can cut out a pail of red flannel, and sew it on to a yellow flag. I'll make that this afternoon, and we'll hold court to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. We must all wear some red and yellow. Sashes will do for you boys, and I'll have, -- well, I'll fix up a rig of some kind."

Marjorie was a diligent little worker when she chose to be, and that afternoon she made a very creditable flag, showing a pail, red; on a field, yellow. She made also sashes for them all, of red and yellow cheesecloth, and she made herself a court train of the same material, which trailed grandly from her shoulders.

Next morning the Sand Club assembled on the Maynards' veranda, to march to Sandringham Palace.

Mrs. Craig had helped out the costumes of her royal children, and the Grand Sandjandrum was gorgeous in a voluminous yellow turban, with a red cockade sticking up on one side.

Sandow and the Sand Crab had soldier hats made of red and yellow paper, and big sailor collars of the same colors.

The Sand Piper wore his sash jauntily with a huge shoulder knot, and he, too, had a cockaded headgear.

Marjorie, as Queen Sandy, wore her trailing court robe and a crown of yellow paper with red stars on it. She had a sceptre, and Sandow carried the flag.

The Sand Piper marched ahead, playing on a tuneful instrument known as a kazoo. Next came the Grand Sandjandrum, then the Queen, then the Sand Crab, and finally, Sandow with the flag.

Slowly and with great dignity the procession filed out toward the palace. King was playing the Star Spangled Banner, or thought he was. It sounded almost as much like Hail Columbia, -- but it didn't really matter, and they're both difficult tunes, anyway.

Blithely they stepped along, and prepared to enter the palace with a flourish of trumpets, as it were, when King's music stopped suddenly.

"Great Golliwogs!" he cried. "Look at that!"

"Look at what?" said Tom, who was absorbed in the grand march.

But he looked, and they all looked, and five angry exclamations sounded as they saw only the ruins of the beloved Sandringham Palace.

Somebody had utterly demolished it. The low walls were broken and scattered, the sand tables and chairs were torn down, and the throne was entirely upset.

"Who did this?" roared Tom.

But as nobody knew the answer, there was no reply.

"It couldn't have been any of your servants, could it?" asked King of the Craigs. "I know it wasn't any of ours."

"No; it wasn't ours, either," said Tom. "Could it have been your little sister?"

"Mercy, no!" cried Marjorie. "Rosy Posy isn't that sort of a child. Oh, I do think it's awful!" and forgetting her royal dignity, Queen Sandy began to cry.

"Why, Mops," said King, kindly; "brace up, old girl. Don't cry."

"I'm not a cry baby," said Midget, smiling through her tears. "I'm just crying 'cause I'm so mad! I'm mad clear through! How could anybody be so ugly?"

"I'm mad, too," declared Tom, slowly, "but I know who did it, and it's partly my fault, I s'pose."

"Your fault!" exclaimed Midget. "Why, Tom, how can it be?"

"Well, you see it was this way. Yesterday afternoon Mrs. Corey came to call on my mother, and she brought Hester with her."

"That red-headed girl?"

"Yes; and she has a temper to match her hair! Mother made me talk to her, and, as I didn't know what else to talk about, I told her about our Sand Club, and about the Court to-day and everything. And she wanted to belong to the club, and I told her she couldn't, because it was just the Maynards and the Craigs. And she was madder'n hops, and she coaxed me, and I still said no, and then she said she'd get even with us somehow."

"But, Tom," said King, "we don't know that girl to speak to. We hardly know her by sight."

"But we do. We knew her when we were here last summer, but, you see, this year we've had you two to play with, so we've sort of neglected her, -- and she doesn't like it."

"But that's no reason she should spoil our palace," and Marjorie looked sadly at the scene of ruin and destruction.

"No; and of course I'm not sure that she did do it. But she said she'd do something to get even with you."

"With me? Why, she doesn't know me at all."

"That's what she's mad about. She says you're stuck up, and you put on airs and never look at her."

"Why, how silly! I don't know her, but somehow, from her looks, I know I shouldn't like her."

"No, you wouldn't, Marjorie. She's selfish, and she's ill-tempered. She flies into a rage at any little thing, and, -- well, she isn't a bit like you Maynards."

"No! and I'm glad of it! I wouldn't want to be like such a stuck-up thing!"

These last words were spoken by a strange voice, and Marjorie looked round quickly to see a shock of red hair surmounting a very angry little face just appearing from behind the small hill, beneath whose overhanging shadow they had built their palace.

"Why, Hester Corey!" shouted Tom. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you like your old sand-house!" she jeered, mockingly, and making faces at Marjorie between her words. Marjorie was utterly astonished. It was her first experience with a child of this type, and she didn't know just how to take her.

The newcomer was a little termagant. Her big blue eyes seemed to flash with anger, and as she danced about, shaking her fist at Marjorie and pointing her forefinger at her, she cried, tauntingly, "Stuck up! Proudy!"

Marjorie grew indignant. She had done nothing knowingly to provoke this wrath, so she faced the visitor squarely, and glared back at her.

"I'd rather be stuck up than to be such a spiteful thing as you are!" she declared. "Did you tear down this palace that we took such trouble to build?"

"Yes, I did!" said Hester. "And if you build it again, I'll tear it down again, -- so, there, now!"

"You'll do no such thing!" shouted Tom.

"Huh, Smarty! What have you got to say about it?"

The crazy little Hester flew at Tom and pounded him vigorously on the back.

"I hate you!" she cried. "I hate you!"

As a matter of fact, her little fists couldn't hurt the big, sturdy boy, but her intense anger made him angry too.

"You, Hester Corey!" he cried. "You leave me alone!"

King stood a little apart, with his hands in his pockets, looking at the combatants.

"Say, we've had about enough of this," he said, speaking quietly, and without excitement. "We Maynards are not accustomed to this sort of thing. We squabble sometimes, but we never get really angry."

"Goody-goody boy!" said Hester, sneeringly, and making one of her worst faces at him. For some reason this performance struck King as funny.

"Do it again," he said. "How do you ever squink up your nose like that! Bet you can't do it three times in succession."

The audacious Hester tried it, and the result was so ludicrous they all laughed.

"Now look here," went on King, "we're not acquainted with you, but we know you're Hester Corey. We know you spoiled our Sand Palace, just out of angry spite. Now, Hester Corey, you've got to be punished for that. We're peaceable people ourselves, but we're just, also. We were about to have a nice celebration, but you've put an end to that before it began. So, instead, we're going to have a trial. You're the prisoner, and you've pleaded guilty, -- at least, you've confessed your crime. Queen Sandy, get into that throne, -- never mind if it is upset, -- set it up again. Grand Sandjandrum, take your place on that mussed up sand heap. You two other chaps, -- stand one each side of the prisoner as sentinels. I'll conduct this case, and Queen Sandy will pronounce the sentence. It's us Maynards that Hester Corey seems to have a grudge against, so it's up to us Maynards to take charge of the case. Prisoner, stand on that board there."

"I won't do it!" snapped Hester, and the red locks shook vigorously.

"You will do it," said King, quietly, and for some reason or other Hester quailed before his glance, and then meekly stood where he told her to.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" King went on. "Any excuse to offer for such a mean, hateful piece of work?"

Hester sulked a minute, then she said:

"Yes, I was mad at you, because you all have such good times, and wouldn't let me in them."

"What do you mean by that? You never asked to come in."

"I did. I asked Tom Craig yesterday, and he wouldn't ask you."

"Then why are you mad at us?"

"Because you're so proud and exclusive. You think yourselves so great; you think nobody's as good as you are!"

"That isn't true, Hester," said King, quite gently; "and even if it were, are you proving yourself better than we are by cutting up this mean, babyish trick? If you want us to like you, why not make yourself likeable, instead of horrid and hateful?"

This was a new idea to Hester, and she stared at King as if greatly interested.

"That's right," he went on. "If people want people to like them, they must be likeable. They must be obliging and kind and pleasant, and not small and spiteful."

"You haven't been very nice to me," muttered Hester.

"We haven't had a chance. And before we get a chance you upset everything by making us dislike you! What kind of common sense is that?"

"Maybe you could forgive me," suggested Hester, hopefully.

"Maybe we could, later on. But we're for fair play, and you treated us unfairly. So now, you've got to be punished. Queen Sandy, Grand Sandjandrum, which of you can suggest proper punishment for this prisoner of ours?"

Tom thought for a moment, then he said:

"Seems 's if she ought to put this palace back in order, just as it was when she found it, -- but that's too hard work for a girl."

"I'll help her," said Harry, earnestly. "I'm sorry for her."

"Sorry for her!" cried Tom, with blazing eyes. "Sorry for the girl that spoiled our palace!"

"Well, you see," went on Harry, "she's sorry herself now."



Chapter IV

Sand Court


With one accord, they all looked at Hester. Sure enough, it was easily to be seen that she was sorry. All her anger and rage had vanished, and she stood digging one toe into the sand, and twisting from side to side, with her eyes cast down, and two big tears rolling slowly down her cheeks.

Marjorie sprang up from her wabbly throne, and running to Hester, threw her arms around her.

"Don't cry, Hester," she said. "We'll all forgive you. I think you lost your temper and I think you're sorry now, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I am!" sobbed Hester. "But I envied the good times you had, and when Tom wouldn't let me into your club, I got so mad I didn't know what to do."

"There, there, don't cry any more," and Midget smoothed the tangled red mop, and tried to comfort the bad little Hester.

Tom looked rather disappointed.

"I say," he began, "she did an awful mean thing, and she ought to be --  -- "

"Hold on a minute, Tom," said Marjorie. "I'm Queen of this club, and what I say goes! Is that right, my courtiers?"

She looked round at the boys, smiling in a wheedlesome way, and King said, "Right, O Queen Sandy! Right always and ever, in the hearts of your gentlemen-in-waiting."

"You bet you are!" cried Tom, quick to follow King's lead. "Our noble Queen has but to say the word, and it is our law. Therefore, O Queen, we beg thee to mete out a just punishment to this prisoner within our gates."

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" said Midget, with great dramatic fervor. "I hereby forgive this prisoner of ours, because she's truly sorry she acted like the dickens. And as a punishment, I condemn her to rebuild this royal palace, but, following Harry's example, we will all help her with the work."

Then King burst forth into song:

"Hooray, Hooray, for our noble Queen, The very best monarch that ever was seen. There's nobody quite so perfectly dandy, As our most gracious, most noble Queen Sandy!"

They all repeated this chorus, and the Queen bowed and smiled at her devoted court.

"And also," her Royal Highness went on, "we hereby take into our club Miss Hester Corey as a new member. I'm glad to have another girl in it, -- and what I say goes!"

This time Tom made up the song:

"What she says, goes! She's sweet as a rose, From head to toes, So what she says, goes!"

"Miss Hester Corey is now a member," said Midget, "and her name is, -- is --  -- "

"Sand Witch," suggested Tom.

"Yes," said King; "you expect witches to cut up tricks."

"All right," said Hester. "Call me Sand Witch, and you'll see there are good witches as well as bad."

"Come on, then," said Marjorie, "and show us how you can work. Let's put this palace back into shape again as quick as scat!"

They all fell to work, and it didn't take so very long after all. Hester was conquered by the power of Marjorie's kindness, and she was meek as a lamb. She did whatever she was told, and was a quick and willing worker.

"Now," said Midget, after it was all in order once more, "now we'll have our celebration. You see, we have six in our court now, instead of five, and I think it's nicer. I'll give the Sand Witch my sash to wear, and she can be my first lady-in-waiting."

This position greatly pleased Hester, and she took her place at the side of the enthroned Queen, while Tom stood at her other side. King played a grand tune, and they all sang.

The song was in honor of the flag-raising, and was hastily composed by Marjorie for the occasion:

"Our Flag, our Flag, our Sand Club Flag! Long may she wave, long may she wag! And may our Sand Club ever stand A glory to our Native Land."

Tom persisted in singing "a glory to our native sand," and King said strand, but after all, it didn't matter.

Then Sandow, bearing the flag, stepped gravely forward, and the boys all helped to plant it firmly in the middle of Sand Court, while the Queen and her lady-in-waiting nodded approval.

"Ha, Courtiers! I prithee sit!" the Queen commanded, when the flag was gaily waving in the breeze.

Her four courtiers promptly sat on the ground at her feet, and the Queen addressed them thus:

"Gentlemen-in-waiting of Sandringham Palace, there are much affairs of state now before us. First must we form our club, our Sand Club."

"Most noble Queen," and Tom rose to his feet, "have I your permission to speak?"

"Speak!" said the Queen, graciously, waving her sceptre at him.

"Then I rise to inquire if this is a secret organization."

"You bet it is!" cried King, jumping up. "The very secretest ever! If any one lets out the secrets of these secret meetings, he shall be excommunicated in both feet!"

"A just penalty!" said Tom, gravely.

"Is all well, O fair Queen? Do you agree?"

"Yes, I agree," said the Queen, smiling. "But I want to know what these secrets are to be about."

"That's future business," declared King. "Just now we have to elect officers, and all that."

"All right," said Marjorie, "but you must be more courtly about it. Say it more, -- you know how I mean."

"As thus," spoke up the lady-in-waiting, dropping on one knee before the Queen.

"What is the gracious will of your Royal Highness in the matter of secretary and treasurer, O Queen!"

"Yes, that's better. Well, my court, to tell you the truth, I don't think that we need a secretary and such things, because it isn't a regular club. Let us content ourselves with our present noble offices. Grand Sandjandrum, what are the duties of thy high office?"

"No duties, but all pleasures, when serving thee, O noble and gracious Queen!"

"That's fine," said Midget, clapping her hands. "Hither, Sir Sand Piper! What are thy duties at, court?"

"Your Majesty," said King, bowing low, "it is my humble part to play the pipes, or to lay the pipes, as the case may be. I do not smoke pipes, but, if it be thy gracious wish, I can blow fair soap bubbles from them."

"Sand Piper, I see you know your business," said the Queen. "Ha! Sand Crab, what dost thou do each day?"

"Just scramble around in the sand," replied Harry, and suiting the action to the word, he gave such a funny scrambling performance that they all applauded.

"Right well done, noble Sand Crab," commented the smiling Queen. "And thou, O Sandow?"

"I do all the strong-arm work required in the palace," said Dick, doubling up his little fist, and trying to make it look large and powerful.

"Now, thee, my fair lady-in-waiting, what dost thou do in this, my court?"

Hester shook back her mop of red curls, and her eyes danced as she answered, gaily:

"I am the Court Sand Witch! I cut up tricks of all sorts, as doth become a witch. Aye, many a time will I cause enchantments to fall upon thee, one and all! I am a magic witch, and I can cast spells!"

Hester waved her arms about, and swayed from side to side, her eyes fixed in a glassy stare, and her red curls bobbing.

"Good gracious!" cried Marjorie. "You're like a witch I saw on the stage once in a fairy pantomime. Say, Hester, let's have a pantomime entertainment some day."

"All right. My mother'll help us. She's always getting up private theatricals and things like that. She says I inherit her dramatic talent."

"All right," said Tom, warningly; "but don't you turn your dramatic talent toward tearing down our palace again."

"Of course I won't, now I'm a member."

"Of course she won't," agreed Marjorie. "Now, my courtiers, and lady-in-waiting, there's another subject to come before your royal attention. We must have a Court Journal."

"What's that?" inquired Harry.

"Why, a sort of a paper, you know, with all the court news in it."

"There isn't any."

"But there will be. We're not fairly started yet. Now who'll write this paper?"

"All of us," suggested Tom.

"Yes; but there must be one at the head of it, -- sort of editor, you know."

"Guess it better be King," said Tom, thoughtfully. "He knows the most about writing things."

"All right," agreed King. "I'll edit the paper, only you must all contribute. We'll have it once a week, and everybody must send me some contribution, if it's only a little poem or something."

"I can't write poems," said Harry, earnestly, "but I can gather up news, -- and like that."

"Yes," said Marjorie, "that's what I mean. But it must be news about us court people, or maybe our families."

"Can't we make it up?" asked Hester.

"Yes, I s'pose so, if you make it real court like and grand sounding."

"What shall we call our paper?" asked King.

"Oh, just the Court Journal," replied Midget.

"I don't think so," objected Hester. "I think it ought to have a name like The Sand Club."

"The Jolly Sandboy," exclaimed Tom. "How's that?"

"But two of us are girls!" said Marjorie.

"That doesn't matter, it's just the name of the paper, you know. And it sounds so gay and jolly."

"I like it," declared King, and so they all agreed to the name.

"Now, my courtiers and noble friends," said their Queen, "it's time we all scooted home to luncheon. My queen-dowager mother likes me to be on time for meals. Also, my majesty and my royal sand piper can't come back to play this afternoon. But shall this court meet to-morrow morning?"

"You bet, your Majesty!" exclaimed Tom, with fervor.

"That isn't very courtly language, my Grand Sandjandrum."

"I humbly beg your Majesty's pardon, and I prostrate myself in humble humility!" And Tom sprawled on his face at Marjorie's feet.

"Rise, Sir Knight," said the gracious Queen, and then the court dispersed toward its various homes.

"Well, we had the greatest time this morning you ever heard of!" announced Marjorie as, divested of her royal trappings and clad in a fresh pink gingham, she sat at the luncheon table.

"What was it all about, Moppets?" asked Mrs. Maynard.

So King and Marjorie together told all about the intrusion of Hester on their celebration, and how they had finally taken her into the Sand Club as a member.

"I think my children behaved very well," said Mrs. Maynard, looking at the two with pride.

"I did get sort of mad at first, Mother," Marjorie confessed, not wanting more praise than was her just due.

"Well, I don't blame you!" declared King. "Why, that girl made most awful faces at Mops, and talked to her just horrid! If she hadn't calmed down afterward we couldn't have played with her at all."

"I've heard about that child," said Mrs. Maynard. "She has most awful fits of temper, I'm told. Mrs. Craig says that Hester will be as good and as sweet as a lamb for days, -- and then she'll fly into a rage over some little thing. I'm glad you children are not like that."

"I'm glad, too," said King. "We're not angels, but if we acted up like Hester did at first we couldn't live in the house with each other!"

"Her mother is an actress," observed Marjorie.

"Oh, no, Midget, you're mistaken," said her mother. "I know Mrs. Corey, and she isn't an actress at all, and never was. But she is fond of amateur theatricals, and she is president of a club that gives little plays now and then."

"Yes, that's it," said King. "Hester said her mother had dramatic talent, and she had inherited it. Have you dramatic talent, Mother?"

"I don't know, King," said Mrs. Maynard, laughing. "Your father and I have joined their dramatic club, but it remains to be seen whether we can make a success of it."

"Oh, Mother!" cried Marjorie. "Are you really going to act in a play? Oh, can we see you?"

"I don't know yet, Midget. Probably it will be an entertainment only for grown-ups. We've just begun rehearsals."

"Have we dramatic talent, Mother?"

"Not to any astonishing degree. But, yes, I suppose your fondness for playing at court life and such things shows a dramatic taste."

"Oh, it's great fun, Mother! I just love to sit on that throne with my long trail wopsed on the floor beside me, and my sceptre sticking up, and my courtiers all around me, -- oh, Mother, I think I'd like to be a real queen!"

"Well, you see, Midget, you were born in a country that doesn't employ queens."

"And I'm glad of it!" cried Marjorie, patriotically. "Hooray! for the land of the free and the home of the brave! I guess I don't care to be a real queen, I guess I'll be a president's wife instead. Say, Mother, won't you and Father write us some poems for The Jolly Sandboy?"

"What is that, Midget?"

"Oh, it's our court journal, -- and you and Father do write such lovely poetry. Will you, Mother?"

"Yes, I 'spect so."

"Oh, goody! When you say 'I 'spect so,' you always do. Hey, King, Rosy Posy ought to have a sandy kind of a name, even if she doesn't come to our court meetings."

"'Course she ought. And she can come sometimes, if she doesn't upset things."

"She can't upset things worse'n Hester did."

"No; but I don't believe Hester will act up like that again."

"She may, Marjorie," said Mrs. Maynard. "I've heard her mother say she can't seem to curb Hester's habit of flying into a temper. So just here, my two loved ones, let me ask you to be kind to the little girl, and if she gets angry, don't flare back at her, but try 'a soft answer.'"

"But, Mother," said King, "that isn't so awful easy! And, anyway, I don't think she ought to do horrid things, -- like tumbling down our palace, -- and then we just forgive her, and take her into the club!"

"Why not, King?"

King looked a little nonplussed.

"Why," he said, "why, -- because it doesn't seem fair."

"And does it seem fairer for you to lose your temper too, and try what children call 'getting even with her'?"

"Well, Mother, it does seem fairer, but I guess it isn't very, -- very noble."

"No, son, it isn't. And I hope you'll come to think that sometimes nobility of action is better than mere justice."

"I see what you mean, Mother, and somehow, talking here with you, it all seems true enough. But when we get away from you, and off with the boys and girls, these things seem different. Were you always noble when you were little, Mother?"

"No, Kingdon dear, I wasn't always. But my mother tried her best to teach me to be, -- so don't you think I ought to try to teach you?"

"Sure, Mothery! And you bet we'll do our bestest to try to learn. Hey, Mops?"

"Yes, indeedy! I want to do things right, but I seem to forget just when I ought to remember."

"Well, when you forget, come home and tell Mother all about it, and we'll take a fresh start. You're pretty fairly, tolerably, moderately good children after all! Only I want you to grow a little speck better each day."

"And we will!" shouted King and Marjorie together.



Chapter V

"The Jolly Sandboy"


The Sand Club was not very strict in its methods or systems. Some days it met, and some days it didn't. Sometimes all the court was present, and sometimes only three or four of them.

But everything went on harmoniously, and there were no exhibitions of ill temper from the Sand Witch.

In fact, Hester was absorbed in doing her part toward the first number of The Jolly Sandboy.

The child was quite an adept at drawing and painting, and she was making several illustrations for their court journal. One, representing Marjorie seated on her sand throne, was really clever, and there were other smaller pictures, too.

Kingdon worked earnestly to get the paper into shape. He had contributions from all the club, and from Mr. and Mrs. Maynard also. He had a small typewriter of his own, and he laboriously copied the contributions on fair, white pages, and, with Hester's pictures interspersed, bound them all into a neat cover of red paper.

This Hester ornamented with a yellow sand-pail, emblem of their club, and tied it at the top with a yellow ribbon. Altogether, the first number of The Jolly Sandboy was a strikingly beautiful affair.

And the court convened, in full court dress, to hear it read.

The court wardrobes had received various additions. Often a courtier blossomed out in some new regalia, always of red or yellow, or both.

The several mothers of the court frequently donated old ribbons, feathers, or flowers, from discarded millinery or other finery, and all these were utilized by the frippery loving courtiers.

Hester had contrived a witch costume, which was greatly admired. A red skirt, a yellow shawl folded cornerwise, and a very tall peaked hat of black with red and yellow ribbons, made the child look like some weird creature.

Marjorie's tastes ran rather to magnificent attire, and she accumulated waving plumes, artificial flowers, and floating gauze veils and draperies.

The boys wore nondescript costumes, in which red jerseys and yellow sashes played a prominent part, while King achieved the dignity of a mantle, picturesquely slung from one shoulder. Many badges and orders adorned their breasts, and lances and spears, wound with gilt paper, added to the courtly effect.

"My dearly beloved Court," Marjorie began, beaming graciously from her flower decked throne, "we are gathered together here to-day to listen to the reading of our Court Journal, -- a noble paper, -- published by our noble courtier, the Sand Piper, who will now read it to us."

"Hear! Hear!" cried all the courtiers.

"Most liege Majesty," began King, bowing so low that his shoulder cape fell off. But he hastily swung it back into place and went on. "Also, most liege lady-in-waiting, our noble Sand Witch, we greet thee. And we greet our Grand Sandjandrum, and our noble Sandow, and our beloved Sand Crab. We greet all, and everybody. Did I leave anybody out of this greeting?"

"No! No!"

"All right; then I'll fire away. The first article in this paper is an editorial, -- I wrote it myself because I am editor-in-chief. You're all editors, you know, but I'm the head editor."

"Why not say headitor?" suggested Tom.

"Good idea, friend Courtier! I'm the headitor, then. And this is my headitorial. Here goes! 'Courtiers and Citizens: This journal, called The Jolly Sandboy, shall relate from time to time the doings of our noble court. It shall tell of the doughty deeds of our brave knights, and relate the gay doings of our fair ladies. It shall mention news of interest, if any, concerning the inhabitants of Seacote in general, and the families of this court in particular. Our politics are not confined to any especial party, but our platform is to grow up to be presidents ourselves.' This ends my headitorial."

Great applause followed this masterpiece of journalistic literature, and the Sand Piper proceeded:

"I will next read the column of news, notes, and social events, as collected by our energetic and capable young reporter, the Sand Crab:

*    *    *    *    *

"'The Queen and her lady-in-waiting went bathing in the ocean this morning. Our noble Queen was costumed in white, trimmed with blue, and the Sand Witch in dark blue trimmed with red. Both noble ladies squealed when a large breaker knocked them over. The whole court rushed to their rescue, and no permanent damage resulted.

"Three gentlemen courtiers of this court, who reside in the same castle, had ice-cream for dinner last night. The colors were pink and white. It was exceeding good.

"A very young princess, a sister of our beloved Queen, went walking yesterday afternoon with her maid of honor. The princess wore a big white hat with funny ribbon bunches on it. Also white shoes.

"Mr. Sears has had his back fence painted. (We don't know any Mr. Sears, and he hasn't any back fence, but we are making up now, as our real news has given out and our column isn't full.)

"Mrs. Black spent Sunday with her mother-in-law, Mrs. Green. (See above.)

"Mr. Van Winkle is building a gray stone mansion of forty rooms on Seashore Drive. We think it is quite a pretty house.

"This is all the news I can find for this time. Yours truly. -- THE SAND CRAB."

*    *    *    *    *

"Noble Sand Crab, we thank you for your fine contribution to our midst," announced the Queen, and the Sand Crab burrowed in the sand and kicked in sheer delight at such praise.

"The next," announced the Sand Piper, "is an original poem by our most liege majesty, the Queen. It's pretty fine, I think.

"Most noble Court, I greet you now, From Grand Sandjandrum to small Sandow. From old Sand Piper, and gay Sand Witch, To Sand Crab, with hair as black as pitch. I hope our Court will ever be Renowned for its fun and harmony. And as I gaze on this gorgeous scene, I'm glad I am your beloved Queen."

"Jinks! that's gay!" exclaimed Tom. "How do you ever do it, Marjorie? I did a poem, but it doesn't run nice and slick like yours."

"I'll read it next," said King. "I think it's pretty good.

"I love the people named Maynard, I like to play in their back yard. We have a jolly Sand Court, Which makes the time fly very short. Except going in the ocean bathing, There's nothing I like so much for a plaything."

"That's very nice, Tom," said Marjorie, forgetting her rôle.

"No, it isn't. It seems as if it ought to be right, and then somehow it isn't. Bathing and plaything are 'most alike, and yet they sound awful different."

"That's so. Well, anyway, it's plenty good enough, and it's all true, Tom."

"Yes, it's all true."

"Then it must be right, 'cause there's a quotation or something that says truth is beauty. We wouldn't want all our poems to be just alike, you know."

"No, I s'pose not," and Tom felt greatly encouraged by Marjorie's kind criticism.

"Next," said King, "is our Puzzle Department. It's sort of queer, but it's Sandow's contribution, and he said to put it in, and he'd explain about it. So here it is.

*    *    *    *    *

"SANDY PRIZE PUZZLE. Prize, a musical top, donated by the author. Question: Is the number of sands on the seashore odd or even? Anybody in this court who can answer this question truthfully will receive the prize. Signed, SANDOW."

*    *    *    *    *

"That's nonsense," cried Hester. "How can anybody tell whether we answer truthfully or not?"

"I can tell," said Sandow, gravely. "Whoever first answers it truthfully will get the prize."

"But it's ridiculous," said King. "In the first place, how much seashore do you mean? Only that here at Seacote, or all the Atlantic shore? Or all the world?"

Dick considered. "I mean all the seashore in all the world," he said, at last.

"Then that's silly, too," said Tom, "for how far does the seashore go? Just to the edge of the ocean, or all the way under?"

"All the way under," replied Dick, solemnly.

"Then you really mean all the sand in all the world!"

"Yes; that's it. Of course, all the sand in all the world numbers a certain number of grains. Now, is that number odd or even?"

"You're crazy, Dick!" said Hester, but Marjorie said, "No, he isn't crazy; I think there's a principle there somewhere, but I can't work it out."

"I guess you can't!" said King. "I give it up."

"So do I!" declared Tom, and at last they all gave it up.

"Now you must answer it yourself, Dick," said King.

"Then nobody gets the prize," objected Sandow.

"No, you keep it yourself. Have you got one, anyhow?"

"Yes, a nice musical top Uncle John sent to me. I've never used it much, it's as good as new. I wish somebody would guess."

Nobody did, and Dick sighed.

"Bet you can't answer your old puzzle, yourself," said Hester.

"Yes, I can," averred Dick, "but you must ask it to me."

"All right," said King. "Mr. Sandow, honorable and noble courtier of Sand Court, is the number of sea sands odd or even? Answer truthfully now."

"I don't know," replied Dick, "and that's the truth!"

How they all laughed! It was a quibble, of course, but the Maynard children were surprised at themselves that they hadn't seen through the catch.

Dick sat on the sand, rocking back and forth with laughter.

"The witch ought to have guessed it," he cried; "or else the Queen ought to."

"Yes, my courtier, we ought," Marjorie admitted. "You caught us fairly, and we hereby give you the post of wizard of this court. Sand Piper, what's next in your journal?"

"The next is a poem by the Honorable Edward Maynard. That is, he wrote part of it, and then, as he had to go to New York on business, his honorable wife finished it. Here it is:

"Royal Courtiers, great and grand, Ruling o'er your court of sand, Take this greeting from the pen Of an humble citizen. May you, each one, learn to be Filled with true nobility; Gentle, loving, brave, and kind, Strong of arm and pure of mind. May you have a lot of fun, And look back, when day is done, O'er long hours of merry play Filled with laughter blithe and gay. May your court of mimic rule Teach you lore not learned in school; Rule your heart to think no ill, Rule your temper and your will."

"Gee, that's real poetry, that is!" exclaimed Tom. "Say, your people are poets, aren't they?"

"Why, I think they are," said Marjorie, "but Father says they're not."

"I'd like a copy of that poem," said Hester, looking very serious.

"All right," said King, catching the witch's glance. "I'll make you a nice typewritten copy of it to-morrow."

"And now, my royal Sand Piper, is there any more poetic lore for us to listen to?"

"Aye, my liege Queen, there is one more poem. This is a real poem also, but it is of the humorous variety. It was composed by the mother of our royal Sand Witch, and was freely contributed to our paper by that estimable lady. Methinks she mistook our club for a debating club, and yet, perhaps not. This may be merely a flight of fancy, such as poets are very fond of, I am told. I will now read Mrs. Corey's contribution:

"There once was a Debating Club, exceeding wise and great; On grave and abstruse questions it would eagerly debate. Its members said: 'We are so wise, ourselves we'll herewith dub The Great Aristophelean Pythagoristic Club." And every night these bigwigs met, and strove with utmost pains To solve recondite problems that would baffle lesser brains. They argued and debated till the hours were small and wee; And weren't much discouraged if they didn't then agree. They said their say, and went their way, these cheerful, pleasant men, And then came round next evening, and said it all again. Well, possibly, you'll be surprised; but all the winter through The questions they debated on numbered exactly two. For as they said: "Of course we can't take up another one, Till we have solved conclusively the two that we've begun." They reasoned and they argued, as the evenings wore along; And each one thought that he was right, and deemed the others wrong. They wrangled and contended, they disputed and discussed, They retorted and rebutted, they refuted and they fussed; But though their wisdom was profound, and erudite their speech, A definite conclusion those men could never reach. And so the club disbanded, and they read their last report, Which told the whole sad story, though it was exceeding short: Resolved -- We are not able to solve these problems two: "Does Polly want a cracker?" and "What did Katy do?""

"Well, isn't that fine!" cried Marjorie. "Why, Hester, your mother is more a poet than ours."

"She does write lovely poetry," said Hester, "but I like your mother's poem, too, because it, -- well, you know what I mean."

Somehow the children all understood that tempestuous Hester appreciated the lines that so gently advised the ruling and subduing of an unruly temper and will, but nobody knew just how to express it.

So King broke a somewhat awkward silence by saying, heartily, "Yep, we know!" and all the others said "Yep" in chorus.

"I think, O Royal Court," the Queen began, "that our first paper is fine. How often shall we issue The Jolly Sandboy?"

"'Bout once a week, I think," said Tom.

"All right," agreed King; "and you fellows get your stuff in a little earlier next week so's I can typewrite it in time."

"And now, my beloved court," resumed Midget, "I think we have sat still long enough, and I decree that we have a game of Prisoner's Base. And what I say goes!"

There was no dissenting voice. The Queen unpinned her court train from her shoulders, the Sand Witch laid aside her tall, peaked hat, and the courtiers discarded such details of their costumes as seemed likely to impede progress in the game. Prisoner's Base was followed by Hide and Seek, and then it was time for the court to repair to its several homes.

"It's all so lovely, Marjorie," said Hester. "I'm so glad you let me play with you."

"That's all right, Hester, as long as you don't smash things or make faces at us."

"Oh, I never will again; truly, Marjorie. I'm going to learn that poem of your mother's by heart, and I know I'll never lose my temper again, Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Hester," and after an affectionate kiss the two girls parted.

"Goo'-bye, Queenie Sandy," called Tom, as they separated at the turn of the path.

"Good-bye, Tom, you old Grand Sandjandrum!" and then the Maynards ran into their own house.

"Gently, my lad and lassie; gently!" warned Mrs. Maynard, as her two young hopefuls flung themselves upon her.

"Oh, Mothery," cried Marjorie, "we had such a good time! And our court journal was lovely! Want to see it? And King fixed it up so beautifully, and Hester made such dear pictures for it! Oh, Mother, isn't it splendid to have so much fun?"

"Yes, dearie," and Mrs. Maynard stroked the flushed brow of her energetic and excitable daughter. "But when you come in from your play, you must be a little bit quieter and more ladylike. I don't want to think that these merry companions of yours are making you really boisterous."

"They are, though," said King. "I like the Craigs and Hester Corey, but they sure are the noisy bunch!"

"Oh, King, not quite so much slang!"

"No, Mother, we won't get gay! We'll try to please you every way! But we're feeling rather spry to-day! So please excuse us, Mothery May!"



Chapter VI

Two Welcome Guests


It was Saturday afternoon. The Maynard children had been told that guests were expected to dinner, and they must put on festival array.

And so when King and Marjorie, in white serge and white piqué respectively, wandered out on to the front veranda, they found their parents and a very dressy-looking Rosamond there before them.

"Who are coming to dinner, Mother?" asked Midget.

"Ask your father, my dear."

"Why, don't you know, Mother? Well, who are they, Daddy?"

"Somebody and somebody else," replied Mr. Maynard, smiling.

"Oho, a secret!" exclaimed Midget. "Then it must be somebody nice! Let's guess, King."

"All right. Are they kids or grown-ups, Father?"

"Grown-ups, my son."

"Oh!" and Marjorie looked disappointed. "Do we know them?"

"You have met them, yes."

"Do they live at Seacote?"

"They are here for the summer."

"Where do they live winters?" asked King.

"Under the Stars and Stripes."

"Huh! that may mean the Philippines or Alaska!"

"It may. Have you met many people who reside in those somewhat removed spots?"

"Not many," said King, "and that's a fact. Well, are they a lady and gentleman?"

"They are."

"Oh, I know!" cried Marjorie. "It's Kitty and Uncle Steve! He said they'd come down here some time while we're here! Am I right, Father?"

"Not quite, Mopsy. You see, I said they are grown-ups."

"Both of them?"

"Both of them."

"Well, I don't care much who they are, then," declared King. "I don't see anything in it for us, Mops."

"No, but we ought to guess them if they're spending the summer here and we've met them. Of course, it couldn't be Kitty! She isn't spending the summer here. Is it the Coreys or Craigs, Father?"

"No, neither of those names fit our expected guests."

"Then it must be some of those people the other side of the pier. I don't know any more on this side except the fishermen. Is it any of them?"

"Well, no. I doubt if they'd care to visit us. But never mind our guests for the moment; I want you two children to go on an errand for me."

"Right-o!" said King. "Where?"

"Walk along the shore road three blocks, then turn inland and walk a block and a half. Do you know that place with lots of vines all over the front of the house?"

"Yes, I do," said Marjorie, "but nobody lives there."

"All right. I want you to take a message to Mr. Nobody."

"Oh, Father, what do you mean?"

"Just what I say. You say nobody lives there, and that's the very man I mean."

"All right," said King. "We'll go, if you tell us to. Hey, Mops?"

"'Course we will! What shall we say to Mr. Nobody, Father?"

"First you must ring the doorbell, and if Nobody opens the door, walk in."

"Ho! If Nobody opens the door, how can we walk in?"

"Walk in. And then if Nobody speaks to you, answer him politely, and say your father, one Mr. Maynard, desires his advice and assistance."

"Oh, Father, I do believe you're crazy!" exclaimed Marjorie.

"Never mind," said King, "if Father's crazy, we'll be crazy too! What next, for orders?"

"After that, be guided by your own common sense and good judgment. And, -- you wouldn't be frightened at Nobody, would you?"

"No!" declared King. "Nobody could frighten me!"

"Oh, he could, could he? Well, you are a foolish boy if Nobody could frighten you!"

King looked a little confused, and then he laughed and said, "Well, I'd just as lieve fight Nobody, if he attacks me."

"There'll be no cause to fight, my boy. Now, skip along, and remember your message."

"Yes, Mr. Edward Maynard wants advice and assistance from Nobody! Well, I guess that's right, Father, but it all sounds to me like an April Fool joke. Come on, Midget."

As the two children skipped away, King said, thoughtfully, "What does it all mean, Mops?"

"I dunno, King. But it means something. It isn't a wild-goose chase, or an April-fool sort of joke. I know Father has some nice surprise for us the way his eyes twinkled."

"Well, but this empty house business seems so silly! I know nobody lives there, for I passed there a few days ago, and it was all shut up."

"Well, we'll soon find out," and the children turned the corner toward the house in question. Sure enough, the blinds were closed and there was no sign of habitation.

"Mr. Nobody lives here, all right!" said King as they entered the gate.

"And such a pretty place, too," commented Marjorie, looking at the luxuriant vines that ran riot over the front veranda.

King rang the bell, feeling half-angry and half-silly at the performance. In a moment the door swung open, but no person was seen.

"Well!" exclaimed King. "Nobody opened that door!"

"We must walk in," said Midget. "Father said so."

"Oh, I hate to! We really haven't any right to go into a strange house like this!"

"But Father said to! Come on!" And grasping King's hand, Midget urged him inside. They stood in the middle of a pretty and attractively furnished hall, but saw or heard no people.

"Hello, Mr. Nobody!" said Marjorie, still clasping King's hand tightly, for the situation was a little weird.

"Hello, yourself!" responded a cheery voice, but they couldn't see any one.

The voice reassured King, and he said, humorously, "I see Nobody! How do you do, sir?"

"Quite well," answered the same voice, but it was a bit muffled, and they couldn't judge where it came from. Also it sounded very gay and laughing, and Marjorie thought it seemed a bit familiar, though she couldn't place it.

"My father sent a message," went on King, sturdily. "He says he wants Nobody's advice and assistance."

"What a self-reliant man!" said the voice, and then from behind a portière a laughing face appeared, followed by a man's active body. At the same time, from an opposite portière, a lady sprang out and took Marjorie in her arms.

"Cousin Ethel!"

"Cousin Jack!"

And the children laughed in glee as they recognized Mr. and Mrs. Bryant.

"You dear things!" the lady exclaimed. "I think it's awful to startle you so, but it's the joke of your father and your Cousin Jack. I was afraid it would scare you. Did it?"

"Not exactly," said Marjorie, cuddling in Cousin Ethel's arms, but King protested:

"No, indeed!" he declared. "I wasn't scared, but I felt a little queer."

"You're two Ducky Daddles!" Cousin Ethel cried, and Cousin Jack slapped King on the shoulder and said, "You're a trump, old man!" and King felt very grown-up and manly.

"What's it all about?" he inquired, and Mr. Bryant replied:

"Well, you see, if you've room for us here in Seacote, we're going to stay here for a while. In fact, we've taken this shack with such an intention."

"Oh!" cried Marjorie. "You've taken this house for the summer, and Father knew it, and sent us over here to be surprised!"

"You've sized up the situation exactly, Mehitabel," said Cousin Jack, who loved to call Midget by this old-fashioned name. "And now, if we were properly invited, and very strongly urged, we might be persuaded to go home to dinner with you."

"Oh," cried Marjorie, a light breaking in upon her, "you're the dinner guests they're expecting!"

"We sure are!" said Cousin Jack. "And as this is the first time we've been invited out to dinner in Seacote, we're impatient to go."

So they set off for the Maynard house, and Midget led the way with Cousin Ethel.

"When did you come?" she inquired.

"Only this morning, dear. We're not quite set to rights yet, though I brought my own servants, and they'll soon have us all comfy."

"And how did you and Father fix up this plan?"

"He was over here this afternoon, and he and Cousin Jack planned it. Then, as soon as you left your house, your father telephoned over here, and we prepared to receive you in that crazy fashion. Of course, Jack opened the door and stayed behind it. You weren't frightened, were you?"

"No, not really. But it seemed a little, -- a little creepy, you know."

"Of course it did!" cried Cousin Jack from behind them. "But that house is so overhung with creepers it makes you feel creepy anyway. I'm going to call it Creeper Castle."

"Oh, don't!" said Marjorie. "It sounds horrid! Makes you think of caterpillars and things like that!"

"So it does! Well, Mehitabel, you name it for us. I can't live in a house without a name."

"I'd call it Bryant Bower. That sounds flowery and pretty."

"Just the ticket! You're a genius for names! Bryant Bower it is. What's the name of your house, -- Maynard Mansion?"

"Maynard Manor is prettier," suggested Cousin Ethel.

"So it is! Maynard Manor goes! I don't know anybody with prettier manners than the Maynards, especially the younger generation of them," and though Cousin Jack spoke laughingly, there was an earnest undertone in his voice that greatly pleased King and Marjorie.

"Hooray!" cried that hilarious gentleman, as they reached the Maynards' veranda. "Hello, Ed. How d'ye do, Helen? Here we are! We're returning your youngsters right side up with care. Why, look who's here!" and catching up Rosy Posy, he tossed her high in the air, to the little girl's great delight.

Dinner was a festive occasion indeed, and afterward they all sat on the wide veranda and listened to the roar of the waves.

"This is a restful place," said Cousin Ethel, as she leaned back comfortably in her wicker rocker.

"So it is," agreed her husband, "but, if you ask me, I think it's too restful. I like a place with some racket to it, don't you, Hezekiah?"

This was his pet name for King, and the boy replied:

"There's fun enough here, Cousin Jack, if you make it yourself."

"That's so, is it? Well, I guess I'll try to make some. Let's see, isn't Fourth of July next week?"

"Yes, it is," said Marjorie. "Next week, Wednesday."

"Well, that's a good day to have fun; and an especially good day for a racket. What shall we do, kiddies?"

"Do you mean for us to choose?" asked Marjorie.

"No, Mehitabel; you suggest, and I'll choose. You think of the very nicest sort of celebrations you know, and I'll select the nicest of them all."

"Well," said Midget, thoughtfully, "there's a party or a picnic. How many people do you mean, Cousin Jack? And do you mean children or grown-ups?"

"Now I feel aggrieved, and insulted, and chagrined, and many other awful things!" Cousin Jack looked so woe-begone that they almost thought him in earnest. "You know, Mehitabel, that I'm but a child myself! I'm not a grown-up, and I never will be!"

"That's so!" laughed his wife.

"And so, us children will have a celebration of the children, for the children, and by the children! How many perfectly good children do you know down here?"

"Not many," said King; "hardly any, in fact, except the Sand Club."

"The Sand Club! That sounds interesting. Tell me about it."

So King and Marjorie told all about the Sand Club and its six members, and Cousin Jack declared that was just enough for his idea of a Fourth of July celebration.

"Now for the plan," he went on. "How about a picnic in the woods, which I see sticking up over there, and then come back to Bryant Bower for some fireworks later?"

"I think that sounds beautiful!" said Marjorie, and King entirely agreed.

"Why not have the fireworks here?" said Mr. Maynard. "You're too good to these children, Jack."

"Not a bit of it. We can have a celebration here some other night. But I've picked out the glorious Fourth for my own little racketty-packetty party. You see, on that day we can make all the noise we like and not get arrested."

"Can we dress up, Cousin Jack?" asked Marjorie.

"Sure, child; wear your best bib and tucker, if you like, but I like you better in your play-clothes."

"I don't mean that. I mean costumes."

"Midget is great for dressing up," explained King. "She always wants some cheesecloth wobbed around her, and veils and feathers on her head."

"Oh, I see! Why, yes, I rather guess we can dress up."

"I'll wear a red, white, and blue sash, and a liberty cap," said Midget, her eyes dancing.

"Oh, we can do better than that," responded Cousin Jack. "Let's see; we'll make it a sort of reception affair, and you, Mehitabel, can be the Goddess of Liberty, or Miss Columbia, whichever you like. Hezekiah, you can be Uncle Sam! Your respected Cousin Ethel and I will guarantee your costume."

"I want to be a somefin'," spoke up Rosamond, who had been allowed to stay up later than usual, in honor of the guests.

"So you shall, Babykins. I guess we'll let Sister be Miss Columbia, and you shall be a dear little Goddess of Liberty all your own self! How's that?" and Cousin Jack beamed at the smiling Rosy Posy.

"Now, where shall the picnic be?" asked Cousin Ethel, ready to help along the plans.

"There's a lovely grove over beyond the pier," said Midget; "we might go there."

"The very place!" said Cousin Jack; "and we'll have a sand-pail picnic. Didn't you say your coat-of-arms was a sand-pail?"

"Yes, that's the Emblem of the Club."

"And a fine emblem for a picnic. We'll have pails of sandwiches and cakes, and a pail of lemonade, and a pail of ice cream. How's that for emblems?"

"Fine!" said King. "Shall I invite the guests?"

"Yes, my boy. Tell them to assemble here at three o'clock, and we'll depart at once. Tell them all to wear red, white, and blue in honor of the day."

"And do we catch firecrackers?"

"Little ones, -- and torpedoes. But no cannon crackers or cap-pistols or bombs or any firearms. I'm not going to have a hospitalful of gunpowder victims on my hands the next day."

"And now," said Mrs. Maynard, "as these wonderful affairs of the nation seem to be all settled, I think you young patriots must skip to bed. Your father and I would like a few words ourselves with these guests of ours."

"Guests of ours," corrected Midget, gayly. "Cousin Jack says he's never going to grow up!"'

But after lingering good-nights, the brother and sister, arm in arm, went into the house.

"Aren't they dandies!" exclaimed King, as they went upstairs.

"Gay!" agreed Marjorie. "Won't we have fun on the Fourth! Oh, I was so surprised to see them, weren't you, King?"

"Yep. The Craigs will like Cousin Jack, won't they?"

"Yes, indeed, and Hester, too. Good-night, King."

"Good-night, Mopsy Midget. Here!" and as a final compliment, King pulled off her hair-ribbon and handed it to her with a dancing-school bow.

Marjorie gave his hair an affectionate tweak, and with these good-natured attentions they parted.



Chapter VII

The Glorious Fourth


The sun rose early on Fourth of July morning. For he knew many patriotic young hearts were beating with impatience for the great day to begin. Moreover, he rose clear and bright, and yet he didn't shine down too hotly for the comfort of those same young people. In fact, it was a perfect summer day.

Marjorie sprang out of bed and began to dress, with glad anticipations. The Bryants were to spend the day at Maynard Manor, until time for the afternoon picnic, and after the picnic came the reception at Bryant Bower.

Midget put on a fresh white piqué, and tied up her mop of curls with wide bows of red, white, and blue ribbon.

When all ready she went dancing downstairs, pausing on her way to tap at King's door.

"All ready, Kinksie?" she called out.

"In a minute, Mops. Wait for me!"

Midget sat down on the staircase window-seat, and in a moment King joined her there.

"Hello, Mopsy-Doodle! Merry Fourth of Ju -- New Year's!"

"Hello, yourself! Oh, King, isn't it a gorgeous day? What shall we do first?"

"I dunno! We can't shoot things or make much noise, until Father and Mother get up. It would be mean to wake them."

"Oh, pshaw! they can't be asleep through all this racket that is going on. Hear the shooting all around."

"Well, we'll see. Let's get outdoors, anyhow."

The children opened the front door, and there, sitting on the veranda steps, his head leaning against a pillar, sat Cousin Jack, apparently sound asleep.

"Will you look at that!" said King, in a whisper. "Has he been here all night, do you s'pose?"

"No, 'course not. But I s'pose he's been here some time. Do you think he's really asleep?"

"He looks so. What shall we do with him?"

"Dress him up," commanded Marjorie, promptly, and pulling off her wide hair-ribbons, she proceeded to tie one around Cousin Jack's neck, and one around his head, giving that gentleman a very festive appearance.

After she had arranged the bows to her satisfaction, Cousin Jack obligingly woke up, -- though, as a matter of fact, he hadn't been to sleep!

"Why, if here isn't Mehitabel!" he exclaimed; "and Hezekiah, too! What a surprise!"

"How do you like your decorations?" asked Marjorie, surveying him with admiration.

"Oh, are these ribbons real? I thought I was dreaming, and had a Fourth of July nightmare."

"How long have you been here, Cousin Jack?" asked King.

"Well, I was waking, so I called early; I don't know at what hour, but I've been long enough alone, so I'm glad you two young patriots came down to help me celebrate. Polly want a firecracker?" He held out a pack of small ones to Marjorie, but she declined them.

"No, thank you; give those to King. I'd rather have torpedoes."

"All right, my girlie, here you are! And here's a cap to replace the ribbons you so kindly gave me."

Cousin Jack drew from his pocket a tissue-paper cap, that had evidently come in a snapping-cracker. Then he produced another one for King, and one which he laid aside for Rosy Posy. They were gay red, white, and blue caps, with cockades and streamers.

"Now, we'll be a procession," he went on. From a nook on the veranda, where he had hidden them, he produced a drum, a tambourine, and a cornet.

The cornet was his own, and he presented the drum to King, and the tambourine to Marjorie.

"Form in line!" he ordered; "forward, -- march!"

He led the line, and the two children followed.

Being a good cornet player, Cousin Jack made fine martial music, and King and Midget had sufficient sense of rhythm to accompany him on the drum and tambourine. After marching round the house once, Cousin Jack went up the steps and in at the front door. Upstairs and through the halls, and down again.

Nurse Nannie and Rosamond appeared at the nursery door, and were instructed to fall in line behind the others. Then Sarah, the waitress, was discovered, looking on from the dining-room, and she, too, was told to march.

At last Mr. and Mrs. Maynard appeared, laughing at this invasion of their morning nap.

They sat in state in the veranda-chairs, as on a reviewing-stand, while the grand parade marched and countermarched on the lawn in front of them.

"All over!" cried Cousin Jack, at last. "Break ranks!"

The company dispersed, and Sarah returned, giggling, to her duties.

"Such a foine man as Misther Bryant do be!" she said to the cook. "Shure, he's just like wan of the childher."

And so he was. Full of patriotic enthusiasm, Cousin Jack set off bombs and firecrackers, until the elder Maynards declared that their ears ached, and the roisterers must come in to breakfast.

"I must go home," announced their guest. "I have a wife and six small children dependent on me for support."

As a matter of fact, the Bryants had no children, and Mrs. Maynard declared she should telephone for Cousin Ethel to come to breakfast, too, so Cousin Jack consented to stay.

The breakfast party was an unexpected addition to the day's festivities, but Mrs. Maynard was equal to the occasion. She scurried around and found flags to decorate the table, and tied a red, white, and blue balloon to the back of each chair, which gave the room a gay appearance.

The vigorous exercise had produced good appetites, and full justice was done to Ellen's creamed chicken and hot rolls and coffee.

"Who's for a dip in the ocean?" asked Cousin Jack, when breakfast was over.

All were included in this pleasing suggestion, and soon a bathing-suited party threw themselves into the dashing whitecaps.

Cousin Jack tried to teach Marjorie to swim, but it is not easy to learn to swim in the surf, and she made no very great progress. But Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant swam out to a good distance, and King was allowed to accompany them, as he already was a fair swimmer.

Marjorie held fast to the rope, and jumped about, now almost carried away by a big wave, and now thrown back toward the beach by another.

It was rather rough bathing, so the ladies of the party and Midget left the water before the others.

"Aren't we having fun!" exclaimed Marjorie, as she trudged, dripping, through the sand, to the bath-house. "Oh, Cousin Ethel, I'm so glad you came down here."

"I'm glad, too, dear. I believe Jack enjoys you children more than he does any of his friends of his own age."

"Jack's just like a boy," said Mrs. Maynard, "and I think he always will be. He's like Peter Pan, -- never going to grow up."

And it did seem so. After the bath, Mr. Bryant marched the children down to the pier for ice cream.

Mrs. Maynard remonstrated a little, but she was informed that Fourth of July only came once a year, and extra indulgences were in order.

So King and Midget and Cousin Jack went gayly along the long pier that ran far out into the ocean. On either side were booths where trinkets and seaside souvenirs were sold, and Cousin Jack bought a shell necklace for Midget, and a shell watch-fob for King.

Then he ordered a dozen little tin pails sent to his own house.

"For my picnic," he explained, as Midget looked at him wonderingly. "It's to be a sand-pail picnic, you know."

As they neared the ice-cream garden, Marjorie noticed a forlorn-looking little boy, near the entrance. So wistful did he look, that she turned around to look at him again.

"Who's your friend, Mehitabel?" said Mr. Bryant, seeing her glance.

"Oh, I don't know, Cousin Jack!" she cried, impulsively; "but he seems so poor and lonesome, and we're all so happy. Couldn't I go without my ice cream, and let him have it? Oh, please let me!"

"H'm! he isn't a very attractive specimen of humanity."

"Well, he isn't very clean, but, see, he has a nice face, and big brown eyes! Oh, do give him some ice cream, Cousin Jack; I'll willingly go without."

"I'll go without," said King, quickly; "you can have mine, Mops."

Cousin Jack looked quizzically at the children.

"I might say I'd give you each ice cream, and the poor kiddie also. But that would be my charity. Now, if you two really want to do the poor little chap a kindness, you may each have a half portion, and give him a whole plate. How's that?"

"Fine!" exclaimed Marjorie; "just the thing! But, truly, Cousin Jack, it isn't much sacrifice for us, for we'll have ice cream at the picnic, anyhow."

"That's right, girlie; don't claim any more credit than belongs to you. Well, next thing is to invite your young friend."

So Marjorie went over to the poor little boy, and said, kindly:

"It's Fourth of July, and we'd like you to come and eat ice cream with us."

The child's face brightened up, but immediately a look of distrust came into his eyes, and he said:

"Say, is youse kiddin' me?"

"No," said King, for Marjorie didn't know quite what he meant; "we mean it. We're going to have ice cream, and we want you to have some with us."

"Kin I bring me brudder?"

"Where is he?" asked Cousin Jack, smiling at this new development of the case.

"Over dere, wit' me sister. Kin I bring 'em both?"

Marjorie laughed outright at this, but Mr. Bryant said, gravely:

"How many in your entire family? Let me know the worst at once!"

"Dat's all; me brudder an' sister. Kin they come, too?"

"Yes, if they're fairly clean," and the boy ran to get them. He came back bringing a boy but little smaller than himself, and a tiny girl.

Though not immaculate, they were presentable, and soon the six were seated at a round table.

Cousin Jack conformed to his decree that the Maynard children should have but a half-portion each, but he added that this was partly due to his consideration for their health, as well as his willingness that the charity should be partly theirs. But he told his three guests that they could eat as much as they chose; and noting their generally hungry appearance, he ordered a first course of sandwiches for them, which kindness was greatly appreciated.

"Gee! Youse is a white man!" exclaimed the oldest visitor, as he scraped his saucer almost through its enamel.

"What does he mean?" asked Midget, laughing. "Of course, you're a white man."

"That's slang, Marjorie, for a desirable citizen."

"Funny sort of slang," Midget commented; "a white man is plain English, isn't it?"

"I mean, he's white clear through," volunteered the boy, whose quick eyes darted from one face to another of his benefactors.

"Yes, I can understand that," said Midget, slowly; "it just means you're good all through, Cousin Jack, and I quite agree to that."

After the small visitors' hunger was entirely appeased, Cousin Jack presented them each with a flag and a packet of torpedoes, and sent them away rejoicing.

"Poor little scraps of humanity," he said; "I hope, Mehitabel, you'll always bring a little sunshine into such lives when opportunity presents itself."

"I will, Cousin Jack. Are they very poor?"

"No, not so very. But they never have any fun, or anything very good to eat. Of course, you can't be an organized charity, but once in a while, if you can make a poor child happy by the expenditure of a small sum, do it."

"We will," cried King, impressed by Cousin Jack's earnestness. "But we don't have much money to spend, you know."

"You have an allowance, don't you?"

"Yes; we each have fifty cents a week, Mops and Kitty and I."

"Well, Kitty isn't here, so I can't ask her; but I'm going to ask you two dear friends of mine, to give away one-tenth of your income to charity. Now, how much would that be?"

"Five cents a week," replied Marjorie.

"Well, will you do it? Every week give a nickel, or a nickel's worth of peanuts or lemonade or something to some poor little kiddie who doesn't have much fun in life? And you needn't do it every week, if it isn't convenient, but lay aside the nickel each week, and then give a larger sum, as it accumulates."

"Sure we will, Cousin Jack," said King, and Midget said, "Yes, indeed! I'll be glad to. We can most always catch a poor child, somewhere."

"Well, if not, just save it up till you do. You'll find plenty of opportunities in the winter, in Rockwell, I'm sure."

"Yes, sir-ee!" said Midget, remembering the poor family whose house burned down not long ago. "And I'm glad you advised us about this, Cousin Jack. I'm going to ask the Craig boys and Hester to do it, too."

"Better be careful, Mehitabel. I can advise you, because we're good chums, and I'm a little older than you, though I don't look it! But I'm not sure you ought to take the responsibility of advising your young friends. You might suggest it to them, -- merely suggest it, you know, and if their agree and their parents agree, why, then, all right. And now home to our own luncheon. I declare it made me hungry to see those children eat!"

Promptly at three o'clock that afternoon the Sand Club gathered for the Sand-Pail Picnic. By making two trips the Maynards' big motor carried them all to the picnic grove, about a mile distant.

Here Cousin Jack provided all sorts of sports for them. At a target, they shot with bows and arrows, and the boys were allowed a little rifle-shooting.

There was that funny game of picking up potatoes with teaspoons, followed by a rollicking romp at Blindman's Buff. Then Cousin Jack marshalled his young friends into line, and they all sang "Star-Spangled Banner," and "Columbia," and "America," and cheered, and fired off mild explosives, and had a real Fourth of July celebration. Then the feast was brought on.

The children sat cross-legged on the grass, and each one was given a tin sand-pail.

But instead of sand, the pail was found to contain sandwiches and crisp little cakes known as sand-tarts.

After these there were served dainty little paper pails, from a caterer's, filled with ice cream.

"What a lovely sand picnic!" exclaimed Marjorie, as she sat on the sand, blissfully disposing of her ice cream. "I'm going to call Cousin Jack, The Sandman!"

"Ho! a Sandman puts you to sleep!" cried Tom Craig; "let's get a better name than that for Mr. Bryant."

"Call him Sandy Claus," piped up Dick, and they all laughed.

"A little out of season, but it's all right, my boy," said Cousin Jack. "Call me anything you like, as long as you call me early and often. Now, shall we be trotting home again, to continue our revels?"

With a sigh of utter content, Marjorie climbed into the motor, and they went spinning home to dress for the "Reception."

At the reception more guests were invited, and Bryant Bower quite justified its pretty name.

Japanese lanterns dotted the grounds, and hung among the vines of the veranda. Flags and bunting were everywhere, and a small platform, draped with red, white, and blue, had been erected for the receiving party.

This consisted of King, Midget, and Rosy Posy in patriotic costume.

King, as Uncle Sam, presented a funny figure with his white beaver hat, his long-tailed blue coat, and red and white striped trousers. Midget wore a becoming "Miss Columbia" costume, with a liberty cap and liberty pole and flag. Rosamond was a chubby little Goddess of Liberty, but she preferred to run around everywhere, rather than stand still and receive.

King and Midget did the honors gracefully, and after all the guests had assembled, they took seats on the lawn to watch the fireworks.

These were of a fine quality, and as the flowerpots and bombs burst into stars in the sky both children and grown-ups joined in loud applause.

There was patriotic music, and more ice cream, and when, at last, it was all over, the Sand Club went together to thank Cousin Jack for the entertainment.

"Glad you liked it," he said, heartily; "and now, scamper home and to bed, all of you, so your parents won't say I made you lose your beauty sleep."



Chapter VIII

A Revelation


Marjorie was practising.

It was a lovely afternoon, and she wanted to go out and play, but her hour's practising must be done first. She was conscientious about it, and tried very hard to hold her hands just right, as she counted, one -- two -- three -- four; one -- two -- three -- four.

Mrs. Corey, Hester's mother, was calling on Mrs. Maynard, and the two ladies sat on the veranda, just outside the window near which the piano stood.

Marjorie did not listen to their conversation, for it was of no interest to her, and, too, she was devoting all her attention to her exercises. Usually, she didn't mind practising, but to-day the Sand Club was waiting for her, and her practice hour seemed interminable.

"One -- two -- three -- four," she counted to herself, when something Mrs. Corey said arrested her attention.

"Your oldest daughter?" Marjorie heard her exclaim; "you amaze me!"

Midget had no thought of eavesdropping, and as the piano was near the open window, surely they could hear her practising, and so knew she was there.

But Mrs. Maynard answered, in a low, serious voice, "Yes, my oldest girl. She is not our child. She is a foundling. We adopted her when an infant."

"Really?" said Mrs. Corey, much interested. "How did that happen?"

"Well," said Mrs. Maynard, "my husband desired it, and I consented. She has grown up a good girl, but of course I can't feel toward her as I feel toward my own children."

"No, of course not," agreed Mrs. Corey. "The others are all your own?"

"Yes, they are my own."

"She doesn't know this, does she?"

"Oh, no, we have never let her suspect it. She thinks I am her mother, and she thinks I love her as I do my own children. But it is hard for me to pretend affection for her, when I remember her humble origin."

"Your husband? Does he care for her?"

"He feels much as I do. You see, she is not of as fine a nature as our own children. Of course he can't help seeing that. But we both do our best for the girl."

"Good for you, Mrs. Maynard; that's fine!"

"Do you really think so, Mrs. Corey? I'm afraid that --  -- "

But Marjorie heard no more. She had stopped her practising at the first words of these awful disclosures.

Not her mother's own child! She, Marjorie Maynard! It couldn't be possible! But as the conversation went on, perfectly audible, though not in loud tones, she could no longer doubt the truth of what her mother was saying.

Dreadful it might be, -- unbelievable it might be, -- but true it must be.

"One -- two -- three -- four," mechanically she tried to strike the keys, but her fingers refused to move.

She left the piano, and went slowly up to her own room.

Her pretty room that her mother, -- no, that Mrs. Maynard, -- had fixed up for her with flowering chintz hangings and frilly white curtains.

Not her mother! Who, then, was or had been her mother?

And then Marjorie's calm gave way. She threw herself on her little white bed, and burying her face in the pillow she sobbed convulsively. Her thoughts flew to her father, -- but no, he wasn't her father! King wasn't her brother, -- nor Kitty her sister! Nor Rosy Posy --  -- ?

It was all too dreadful. At every fresh thought about it, it grew worse. Dear old King, she had never realized before how much she loved him. And Kitty! And Father and Mother! She would call them that, even though they were no relation to her.

For a long time Marjorie cried, -- great, deep, heart-racking sobs that wore her out.

At last she settled down into a calm of despair.

"I am going away," she said, to herself. "I won't stay here where they have to pretend they love me! Oh, Mother, Mother!"

But no one heard the little girl's grief. Mrs. Maynard still sat on the veranda, talking to Mrs. Corey; King was down at Sand Court; and the nurse had taken Rosamond out for a walk.

"I must go away," poor Marjorie went on; "I can't stay here, I should suffocate!"

She sat up on the edge of her bed, and clasped her hands in utter desolation. Where could she go? Not to Cousin Ethel's, she'd only bring her back home. Home! She hadn't any home, -- no real home! She thought of Grandma Sherwood's, but she wasn't her grandma at all! Then she thought of Grandma Maynard. That was a curious thought, for though Grandma Maynard wasn't her own grandmother, either, yet, a few months ago, she had begged Marjorie to live with her and be her little girl. Surely she must have known that Midget wasn't really her granddaughter, and yet she had really loved her enough to want her to live there.

Then Grandma Maynard wouldn't have to pretend to love her.

Clearly, that was the only thing to do. She couldn't run away, with no destination in view.

She had no claim on Grandma Sherwood or Uncle Steve, but Grandma Maynard had wanted her, -- really wanted her.

Marjorie looked at the little clock on her dressing table. It was almost three o'clock. She knew there was a train to New York about three, and she resolved to go on it.

At first she thought of taking some things in a bag, but she decided not to, as she didn't want any of the things the Maynards had given her.

"Oh," she thought, while the tears came afresh; "my name isn't even Maynard! I don't know what it is!"

She put on a blue linen dress, and a blue hat with roses on it. Some instinct of sadness made her tie her hair with black ribbon.

As she went downstairs, she heard Mrs. Corey say, "I am astounded at these revelations!" and her mother replied, "Dear friend, I knew you would be."

Marjorie wasn't crying then, she felt as if she had no tears left. She shut her teeth together hard, and went out by a side door. This way she could reach the street unobserved, and she walked straight ahead to the railroad station. She had a five-dollar gold piece that Uncle Steve had sent her on Christmas, and that, with a little silver change, she carried in her pocketbook. But she left behind her pearl ring and all the little trinkets or valuables she possessed.

She felt as if her heart had turned to stone. It wasn't so much anger at Mr. and Mrs. Maynard as it was that awful sense of desolation, -- as if the world had come to an end.

At one moment she would think she missed King the most; then with the thought of her father, a rush of tears would come; and then her poor little tortured heart would cry out, "Oh, Mother, Mother!"

She knew perfectly well the way to New York, and though the station agent looked at her sharply when she bought a ticket, he said nothing. For Marjorie was a self-possessed little girl, of good manners and quiet air when she chose to be. With her ticket in her hand, she sat down to wait for the train. There were few people in the station at that hour, and no one who knew her.

When the train came puffing in, she went out and took it, in a matter-of-fact way, as if quite accustomed to travelling alone.

Really, she felt very much frightened. She had never been on a train alone before, and the noise of the cars and the bustle of the people, and the shouting of the trainmen made her nervous.

And then, with a fresh flood of woe, the remembrance of why she was going would come over her, and obliterate all other considerations.

For perhaps half an hour she kept the tears back bravely enough; but as she rode on, and realized more and more deeply what it all meant, she could control herself no longer, and burst into a paroxysm of weeping.

She was sitting next the window, and, as there were few passengers, no one was in the seat with her.

But when she raised her head, exhausted by her outburst of tears, a burly red-faced man sat beside her.

"Come, come, little one, what's it all about?" he said.

His tone was kind, but his personality was not pleasant, and Marjorie felt no inclination to confide in him.

"Nothing, sir," she said, drawing as far away from him as possible.

"Now, now, little miss, you can't cry like that, and then say there's nothing the matter."

Marjorie wanted to rebuke his intrusion, but she didn't know exactly what to say, so she turned toward the window and resolutely kept looking out.

The trees and fields flying by were not very comforting. Every mile took her farther away from her dear ones, for they were dear, whether related to her or not.

She pressed her flushed cheeks against the cool window pane. She was too exhausted to cry any more. She seemed to have only enough strength to say, brokenly, "Oh, Mother, Mother!" and then from sheer weariness of flesh she fell into a troubled sleep.

Meantime Marjorie was missed at home. The Sand Club grew tired of waiting for her, and King went up to the house to investigate the delay.

He trudged, whistling, up the driveway, and seeing Mrs. Corey, he whipped off his cap, and greeted her politely.

"Where's Midget, Mother?" he asked.

"I don't know, son; isn't she with you?"

"No'm, and I'm tired waiting for her."

"Is Hester there?" asked Mrs. Corey.

"Yes, Mrs. Corey, Hester's been with us an hour, and we're waiting for Mopsy. She said she'd come as soon as she finished her practising."

"She stopped practising some time ago," said Mrs. Corey. "I haven't heard the piano for half an hour or more."

"I'll bet she's tucked away somewhere, reading!" exclaimed King; "I'll hunt her out!"

"Perhaps she's gone over to Cousin Ethel's," suggested Mrs. Maynard.

"I'll hunt her up," repeated King, and he went into the house.

"Marjorie Mops! I say! Come out of that!" he cried, banging at the closed door of her bedroom.

Getting no reply, he opened the door and looked in, but she wasn't there.

"You old scallywag Mops!" he cried, shaking his fist at her empty room, "I never knew you to go back on your word before! And you said you'd come to Sand Court as soon as you could!"

He looked in the veranda hammock, and in the library, and any place where he thought Midget might be, absorbed in a book; he inquired of the servants; and at last he went back to his mother.

"I can't find Mopsy," he said.

"Then she must be over at Cousin Ethel's. She does love to go over there."

"Well, she oughtn't to go when she's promised to come out with us. I never knew old Midge to break a promise before."

"Perhaps Cousin Ethel telephoned for her," suggested Mrs. Maynard. "Though in that case, she should have told me she was going. Run over there and see, son."

"I'll telephone over, that'll be quicker," said King, and ran back into the house.

"Nope," he said, returning; "she isn't there, and hasn't been there to-day. Mother, don't you think it's queer?"

"Why, yes, King, it is a little queer. But she can't be far away. Perhaps she walked down to the train to meet Father."

"Oh, Mother, that would be a crazy thing to do, when she knew we were waiting for her."

"Well, maybe she went walking with Rosamond and Nurse Nannie. She's certainly somewhere around. Run away now, King. Mrs. Corey and I are busy."

King walked slowly away.

"It's pretty queer," he said to Hester and the Craig boys; "Mops is nowhere to be found."

"Well, don't look so scared," said Tom; "she can't be kidnapped. If it was your baby sister, that would be different. But Midget has just gone off on some wild-goose chase, -- or she is hiding to tease us."

"Perhaps she wrote to Kitty," suggested Hester, "and went down to the post-office to mail it."

"Not likely," said King. "She knows the postman collects at six o'clock. Well, I s'pose she is hiding somewhere, reading a book. Won't I give it to her when I catch her! For she said she'd come out here, right after her practice hour."

A dullness seemed to fall on the Sand Club members present. Not only was Marjorie their ringleader and moving spirit, but somehow King's uneasiness impressed all of them, and soon Dick Craig said, "I'm going home."

King raised no objection, and, after sitting listlessly around for a few moments, the others all went home.

But Tom turned back.

"I say," he began, "you know Mopsy is somewhere, all right."

"Of course she's somewhere, Tom, but she never did anything like this before, and I can't understand it. The only thing I can think of is, that she's gone down on the pier. But she never goes there alone."

"Well, there's lots of things she might be doing. Come on, let's go down on the pier and take a look."

The two boys walked out to the end of the pier and back again, but saw no sign of Marjorie.

On their way home, Tom turned in at his own house.

"Good-by, old chap," he said; "don't look so worried. Midget will be sitting up laughing at you when you get home."

King said good-by, and went on. He felt a strange depression of heart, as if something must have happened to Midget. He knew his mother felt no alarm, and perhaps it was foolish, but the fact remained that Midge had never acted like that before. Mr. Maynard came home at six o'clock, and Marjorie had not yet made an appearance.

He looked very much alarmed, and at sight of his anxiety, Mrs. Maynard grew worried.

"Why, Ed," she exclaimed, "you don't think there's anything wrong, do you?"

"I hope not, Helen, but it's so unusual. I can only think of the ocean. Does she ever go down and sit on the beach alone?"

"No," said King, positively; "she never does anything like that, alone. We're always together."

"And you hadn't had any quarrel, or anything?"

"Oh, no, Father; nothing of the sort. She went to practise right after luncheon, and said she'd be out in an hour."

"I heard her practising, while Mrs. Corey was here," said Mrs. Maynard, reminiscently; "but I don't remember just when she stopped."

"Well," said Mr. Maynard, "it's extraordinary, but I can't think anything's wrong with the child. You know she always has been mischievous, and I think she's playing some game on us. We may as well go to dinner."

But nobody could eat dinner. The sight of Midget's empty chair began to seem tragic, and King choked and left the table.

Mrs. Maynard burst into tears, and rose also. Her husband followed her.

"Don't worry, Helen," he urged; "she's sure to be safe and sound somewhere."

"Oh, I don't know, Ed! Such a thing as this never happened before! Oh, find her, Ed, do find her!"

King had run over to the Bryants' and now returned, accompanied by those two very much alarmed people.

"We must do something!" exclaimed Cousin Jack. "Of course something has happened to the child! She isn't one to cut up any such game on purpose. Have you looked in her room?"

"What for?" asked Mrs. Maynard, helplessly.

"Why, to see if you can discover anything unusual. I'm going up!"

Mr. Bryant flew upstairs two steps at a time, and they all followed. But nothing unusual was to be seen. The pretty room was in order, and no clothing of any sort was lying about.

Mrs. Maynard looked in the cupboard.

"Why, her blue linen is gone!" she said, "and here's the white piqué she had on at luncheon. And her blue hat is gone; she must have dressed up to go out somewhere to call, and unexpectedly stayed to dinner."

"Does she ever do that?" demanded Cousin Jack.

"She never has before," answered Mrs. Maynard, falling weakly back on Marjorie's bed. "Why, this pillow is all wet!"

They looked at each other in consternation. They saw, too, the deep imprint of a head in the dented pillow. Surely, this meant tragedy of some sort, for if the child had sobbed so hard, she must have been in deep trouble.

"We must find her!" said Cousin Jack, starting for the stairs.



Chapter IX

The Search


It was fortunate that the Bryants were there to take the initiative, for Mr. and Mrs. Maynard seemed incapable of action. Usually alert and energetic, they were so stunned at the thought of real disaster to Marjorie that they sat around helplessly inactive.

"Come with me, King," said Cousin Jack, going to the telephone in the library.

Then he called up every house in Seacote where Marjorie could possibly have gone, and King helped by suggesting the names of acquaintances.

But no one could give any news of the little girl; no one whom they asked had seen or heard of her that afternoon.

Cousin Jack's face grew very white, and his features were drawn, as he said: "You stay here, Ed, with Helen and Ethel; King and I will go out for a bit. Come, King."

Kingdon said nothing; he snatched up his cap and went along silently by Mr. Bryant's side, trying to keep up with his companion's long, swift strides.

To the beach they went; it was not yet quite dark, but of course they saw no sign of Marjorie.

"Are you thinking she might have been washed away by the waves?" asked King, in a quivering voice.

"That's all I can think of," replied Mr. Bryant, grimly.

"But it isn't likely, Cousin Jack. Mopsy is really a heavyweight, you know. And there's not a very big surf on now."

"That's so, King. But where can she be?" Then they went and talked with the fishermen, and then on to the Life-saving Station.

The big, good-hearted men all knew Marjorie, and all declared she had not been on the beach that afternoon, -- at least, not within their particular locality.

Discouraged, Cousin Jack and King turned down toward the pier. Their inquiries were fruitless; though many people knew Midget, by sight, none had seen her. There was nothing to do but go back home.

"Have you found her?" cried Cousin Ethel, as they entered the house.

"No; but the beach people haven't seen her, so I'm sure there's no accident of that sort." Cousin Jack wouldn't make use of the word drowning, but they all knew what he meant.

Mrs. Maynard sat staring, in a sort of dull apathy. She couldn't realize that Marjorie was lost, she couldn't believe an accident had befallen her, yet, where was she?

"Let's search the house," she said, jumping up suddenly. "I must do something. Couldn't she have gone somewhere to read quietly, and fallen asleep?"

This was a possibility, and the house was searched from top to bottom by eager hunters. But no Marjorie was found.

As it neared midnight, the ladies were persuaded to go to bed.

"You can do nothing, dear, by remaining up," said Mr. Maynard to his wife. "The Bryants will stay with us to-night, so you and Ethel go to your rooms, and King, too. Jack and I will stay here in the library for a while."

King demurred at being sent away, but his father explained that if he wanted to help, all he could do was to obey orders. So King went upstairs, but not to his own room. About an hour later he came down again, to find his father and Mr. Bryant still sitting in the library waiting for morning.

"Father," said King, his eyes shining bright beneath his tousled hair, "I've been rummaging in Midget's room. I thought I might find out something to help us. And she's taken her pocketbook, and the gold piece Uncle Steve gave her last Christmas. I know, because I know where she always kept it, -- and it's gone."

"Well, King," said his father, thoughtfully, "what do you make out from that?"

"Only that she has gone somewhere especial. I mean somewhere to spend that money, -- not just for a walk on the beach, or down to the pier."

"That's encouraging," said Cousin Jack, "for if she went away on some special errand, she's more likely to be safe and sound, somewhere. Did you notice anything else missing, King?"

"Not a thing. And you know how wet her pillow was. Well, I think she heard about some poor person or poor family, and she cried about them, and then she took her gold piece and went to help them."

"That's ingenious, King," said Mr. Maynard, "and it may be true. I hope so, I'm sure. But why should she stay away so long and not let us know?"

"Well, you see, the poor family may live at some distance, and not have any telephone, and they may be ill, or something, and she may be there yet, helping. You know Mopsy is awful kind-hearted. Remember the Simpsons' fire? She forgot everything else in caring for them."

"That's so, my son; at any rate, it's the most comforting theory we've had yet, and I'll go and tell your mother about it. It will help her, I know."

Mr. Maynard went away, and King remained downstairs.

"I'm not going to bed, Cousin Jack," he said; "I'm old enough now to stay up with you men, in trouble like this."

"All right, King. You're showing manly traits, my boy, and I'm proud of you. Now, old chap, between you and me, I don't subscribe to your poor-family theory. It's possible, of course, but it doesn't seem probable to me."

"Well, then, Cousin Jack, what can we do next?"

"We can't do anything till morning; then I think we must see the police."

"Oh, that seems so awful!"

"I know, but if it's the means of finding Marjorie?"

"Then, of course, we'll do it! How early can we see them?"

"We can telephone as early as we like, I suppose. But I've little confidence in the powers of the police down here. They're all right to patrol the beach, but they're not like city policemen."

At last the night wore away, and daybreak came.

They telephoned the police, and in a few minutes two of them arrived at the Maynard house for consultation.

"I know the child well," said one of them, "I often see her about, -- a well-behaved little lady, but full o' fun, too. D'ye think she might have been kidnapped, now?"

"It might be," said Mr. Bryant, "though she's pretty big for that. And, too, she took extra money with her."

"Then she may have been goin' somewhere by rail."

"That's so! I never thought of that!" and Cousin Jack almost smiled.

"But where would she go?" said Mr. Maynard, hopelessly. "She never travelled alone, and though impulsively mischievous, sometimes, she wouldn't deliberately run away."

The policemen went away to begin their quest, and the Maynards and their guests went to breakfast.

No one felt like eating, yet each urged the others to do so.

"Where's Middy?" inquired baby Rosamond, at table. "Middy gone 'way?"

"Yes, dear," said Cousin Jack, for no one else could speak. "Middy's gone away for a little while."

"I know," said the child, contentedly, "Middy gone to Gramma's to see Kitty!"

"Why, perhaps she did!" exclaimed Mr. Maynard.

But Mrs. Maynard had no such hope. It was too unlike Marjorie to do such a thing.

"Well, let's find out," urged King. "Let's get Uncle Steve on the long-distance wire."

"Don't alarm Grandma," said Mrs. Maynard. "There's no use stirring her up, until we know ourselves what has happened."

"Leave it to me," said Cousin Jack. "I'll find out."

After some delay, he succeeded in getting Uncle Steve on the telephone. Then he asked for Kitty.

"Hello, Susannah!" he cried, assuming a merry voice, in his kind desire not to alarm her. "This is your Cousin Jack!"

"Oh, hello, Cousin Jack!" exclaimed Kitty, in delight. "How nice of you to call me up! How is everybody?"

"We're well, thank you! How are you all?"

"Oh, we're all right."

"Are you lonesome, away from your family?"

"No, not lonesome, though I'd like to see them. Tell Midget there are two hundred incubator chicks now."

"Well, that is a lot! Now, good-by, Kitsie; I can't run up too big a telephone bill for your father. We all send love. Be a good girl. Good-by."

Cousin Jack hung up the receiver and buried his face in his hands. It had been a great strain on his nerves to appear gay and carefree to Kitty, and the implied assurance that Marjorie was not there nearly made him give way.

"She isn't there," he said, dully, as he repeated to the family what Kitty had said. And then the telephone rang, and it was the police department.

Mr. Maynard took the receiver.

"We've traced her," came the news, and the father's face grew white with suspense. "She bought a ticket to New York, and went there on the three-o'clock train yesterday afternoon. Nothing further is known, as yet, but as soon as we can get in touch with the conductor of that train, we will."

"New York! Impossible!" cried Cousin Ethel, when she heard the message, and Mrs. Maynard fainted away.

Marjorie! on a train, going to New York alone!

"Come on, King," said Cousin Jack, abruptly, and leaving the others to care for Mrs. Maynard, these two strode off again. Straight to the railroad station they went to interview the agent themselves.

He corroborated the story. He did not know Marjorie's name, but he described the child so exactly that there was no room for doubt of her identity.

But he could tell them no more. She had bought her ticket and taken the train in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, as any passenger would do.

"Did she look as if she had been crying?" asked King, almost crying himself.

"Why, yes, now you speak of it, her face did look so. Her eyes was red, and she looked sorter sad. But she didn't say nothin', 'cept to ask for a ticket to New York."

"Return ticket?" put in Mr. Bryant.

"No, sir; a single ticket. Just one way."

The conductor couldn't be seen until afternoon, as his run was a long one, and his home far away.

"I can't understand it," said King, as they walked homeward; "and I can't believe it. If Midget went to New York alone, she had lost her mind, -- that's all."

But when they reached home, they found the Maynards quite hopeful. It had occurred to them that, by some strange freak, Marjorie had decided to visit Grandma Maynard, and had started off there alone.

"I'm trying to get them on the long-distance," Mr. Maynard announced, quite cheerily, as they entered.

"Let me take it," said Cousin Jack. "If she isn't there, we don't want to alarm them, either."

"That's so!" said Mr. Maynard. "All right, Jack, take it. Bless you, old fellow, for your help."

But when connection had been made, and Cousin Jack found himself in communication with Grandma Maynard, he didn't know what to say. He caught at the first pretext he could think of, and said:

"How do you do, Mrs. Maynard? You don't know me, but I'm Jack Bryant, a guest at Ed Maynard's house in Seacote. Now, won't you tell me when Marjorie's birthday comes?"

"Ah, I've heard of you, Mr. Bryant," said Grandma Maynard, pleasantly. "I suppose you want to surprise the child with a present or a party. Well, her birthday is next week, -- the fifteenth of July."

"Oh, thank you. She is getting a big girl, isn't she? When, -- when did you see her last?"

Cousin Jack's voice faltered, but the unsuspecting lady, listening, didn't notice it.

"About two months ago. They were here in May. I love Marjorie, and I wish I could see her again, but there's little hope of it. She wrote to me last week that they would be in Seacote all summer."

"Yes, that is their plan," said Cousin Jack.

He could say no more, and dropped the receiver without even a good-by.

But though Grandma Maynard might think him rude or uncourteous, she could not feel frightened or alarmed for Marjorie's safety, because of anything he had said.

"She isn't there," he said, quietly; "but I still think she started for there, and now we have a direction in which to look."

But what a direction! Marjorie, alone, going to New York, endeavoring to find Grandma Maynard's house, and not getting there! Where had she been all night? Where was she now?

There were no answers to these questions. And now Mr. Maynard took the helm. He cast off the apathy that had seemed to paralyze him, and, rising, he began to talk quickly.

"Helen," he said, "try to rouse yourself, darling. Keep up a good hope, and be brave, as you have always been. King, I am going out to find Marjorie. You cannot go with me, for I want to leave your mother in your care. You have proved yourself manly in your search for your sister, continue to do so in caring for your mother. Ethel, I'd be glad if you would stay here with Helen, and, Jack, -- will you come with me?"

"Of course," replied Mr. Bryant.

"And, King," his father went on, "keep within sound of the telephone. I may call you at any moment. Get your sleep, my boy, -- if I should be gone over night, -- but sleep here on the library couch, and then the bell will waken you."

"Yes, Father, I'll look after Mother, and I'll be right here if you call me. Where are you going?"

"I don't know, my son. I only know I must hunt for Marjorie with such help and such advice as I can procure. Come on, Jack."

After affectionate farewells, the two men went away.

"First for that conductor," said Mr. Maynard. "I cannot wait till afternoon; I shall try to reach him by telephone or go to his home."

At length he learned that the conductor lived in Asbury Park. He was off duty at that hour, and Mr. Maynard tried to get him by telephone, but the line was out of order.

"To his house we go, then," and the two men boarded the first possible train.

At Asbury Park they found his house, but the conductor's wife, Mrs. Fischer, said her husband was asleep and she never disturbed him at that hour of the day, as he had a long run before him, and needed his rest.

But after a few words of explanation of their quest, the good lady became sympathetic and helpful.

"Of course I'll call him," she cried; "oh, the poor mother! my heart aches for her!"

Mr. Fischer came downstairs, rubbing his eyes. It was about noon, and he was accustomed to sleep soundly until two o'clock.

"Why, yes," he said, in answer to their queries. "I remember that girl. I didn't think much about her, -- for a good many children travel alone between stations on the shore road. But, somehow, I don't think that child went to New York, -- no, I don't think she did."

"Where did she get off?" asked Mr. Maynard, eagerly.

"Ah, that I don't know. You see, the summer crowds are travelling now and I don't notice individuals much."

"Can't you tell by your tickets?" asked Mr. Bryant.

"No, sir; I don't see's I can. You know, lots of people did go to New York on my train, and so, I've lots of New York tickets, but of course I couldn't tell if I had hers. And yet, -- seems to me, -- just seems to me, -- that child got off at a way station."

"Then," said Mr. Maynard, with a businesslike air, "I must telephone or telegraph or go personally to every way station between Seacote and New York. It's a strange case. I can only think my daughter became suddenly demented; I can think of no other reason for her conduct. Can you, Jack?"

"No, Ed, I can't. And yet, Marjorie is a child who always does unexpected things. Some crotchet or whimsey of her childish mind might account for this strange freak, quite naturally."

"I can't see how. But we will do what we can. Good-day, Mr. Fischer, and thank you for your help and interest."



Chapter X

Jessica Brown


Meantime, where was Marjorie?

To go back to where we left her, in the railroad train, she had fallen asleep from utter exhaustion of nerve and body.

But her nap was of short duration. She woke with a start, and found, to her surprise, that she was leaning her head against somebody's shoulder.

She looked up, to see the red-faced man gravely regarding her, though he smiled as their eyes met.

"Feel better, little miss?" he said, and again Marjorie felt a strange repulsion, though he spoke kindly enough.

Her mind was bewildered, she was nervous and frightened, yet she had a positive conviction that she ought not to talk to this strange man. She did not like his face, even if his voice was kind.

"Yes, thank you," she said, in distantly polite tones, and again she squeezed herself over toward the window, and away from her seatmate. She sat up very straight, trying to act as grown-up as possible, and then the train stopped at a large station. There were crowds of people hurrying and scurrying about on the platform, and Marjorie was almost sure she had reached Jersey City, where she knew she must change for New York.

She wanted to inquire, but the conductor was not in sight, and she didn't like to ask the man beside her.

So she rose, as if to leave the car.

The red-faced man rose also, and stepped back as she passed him. In a moment she found herself on the platform, and the train soon went on. Everything about the station looked unfamiliar, and glancing up, she saw by a large sign that she was at Newark! She had never before been in Newark, though she knew in a general way where it was. She went uncertainly into the station, and looked at the clock. It was after five. Marjorie knew she could take another train, and proceed to Jersey City, and so to New York, but her courage had failed her, and she couldn't bear the thought of travelling any further.

And yet, how could she stay where she was? Also, she began to feel very hungry. The exhaustion caused by her emotional grief, and her wearisome journey, made her feel hollow and faint.

She sank down on a seat in the waiting-room, sadly conscious of her lonely and desolate situation.

She tried to summon anew her natural pluck and independence.

"Marjorie Maynard!" she said, to herself, and then stopped, -- overwhelmed by the thought that she had no right even to that name!

Presently a voice beside her said: "Now, little miss, won't you let me help you?"

She turned sharply, and looked the red-faced man in the eyes.

He didn't look very refined, he didn't even look good, but the sound of a friendly voice was like a straw held out to a drowning man.

"How can you help me?" she said, miserably.

"Well, fust off, where've ye set out fur?"

The man was uncultured, but there was a note of sincerity in his speech that impressed Marjorie, now that she was so friendless and alone.

"New York," she replied.

"Why'd ye get out at Newark?"

"I made a mistake," she confessed.

"An' what be ye goin' to do now?"

"I don't know."

"Ah, jest what I thought! An' then ye ask, how kin I help ye?"

"Well, how can you?"

Under the spur of his strong voice, Marjorie's spirits had revived the least bit, and she spoke bravely to him.

"Now, that's more peart-like. Wal, in the fust place I kin take ye home with me, an' my old woman'll keep ye fer the night, an' I guess that's what ye need most."

"Where do you live?"

"'Bout five miles out in the country."

"How do you get there?"

"Wal, I ain't got none o' them autymobiles, nor yet no airship; but I've got a old nag that can do the piece in an hour or so."

"Why do you want to take me home with you?" asked Marjorie, for she couldn't help a feeling that there was something wrong.

"Why, bless your heart, child, bekase you're alone and forlorn and hungry and all done out. An' it's my privit opinion as how ye've run away from home."

"No, not that," said Midget, sadly; "I haven't any home."

"Ye don't say so! Wal, wal, never mind fer to-night. You go 'long with me, an' Zeb Geary, he'll look after ye fer a spell, anyhow."

There was no mistaking the kindness now, and Marjorie looked up into the man's red face with trust and gratitude.

"I'd be glad to go with you and stay till to-morrow," she said; "but first I want to own up that I didn't 'zactly trust you, -- but now I do."

"Wal, wal, thet shows a nice sperrit! Now, you come along o' me, an' don't try to talk nor nothin'. Jest come along."

He took Midget's hand, and they went down the steps, and along the street for a block or two, to a sort of livery stable.

"Set here a minute," said Mr. Geary, and he left Marjorie on a bench, which stood outside, against the building.

After a time he returned, with an ancient-looking vehicle, known as a Rockaway, and a patient, long-suffering horse.

"Git in back," he said, and Marjorie climbed in, too tired and sad to care much whither she might be taken.

They jogged along at a fair pace, but Mr. Geary, on the front seat, offered no conversation, merely looking back occasionally, as if to assure himself that his guest was still with him.

After a mile or two, Marjorie began to think more coherently.

She wondered what she would have done if she hadn't chanced to fall in with this kind, if rough, friend.

She wondered whether she could ever have reached Grandma Maynard's house in safety, for the crowds and confusion were much worse than she had anticipated, and in New York they would be worse still.

At any rate, she would gladly accept shelter and hospitality for the night, and continue her journey next day, during the earlier hours.

It was well after six o'clock when the jogging old horse turned into a lane, and finally stopped at a somewhat tumble-down porch. An old woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Wal, Zeb," she called out, "did ye get back?"

"Yes, Sary, an' I brought ye a visitor for the night."

"A what! Wal, I do declar'!" and Mrs. Geary stepped down and peered into the back seat of the Rockaway. "Who in creation is that?"

"I don't know," returned her husband.

"Ye don't know! I swan, Zeb Geary, you must be plumb crazy! Whar'd ye get her?"

"Thar, thar, now, Sary, don't be askin' questions, but take the pore lamb in, an' cuddle her up some. She's plumb beat out!"

"Come on, dearie," said the old wife, who had caught sight of Marjorie's winsome face and sad eyes. "Come along o' me, -- I'll take keer o' ye."

Marjorie let herself be helped from the rickety old vehicle, and went with her hostess, in at the kitchen door.

It wasn't an attractive kitchen, such as Eliza's, at Grandma Sherwood's; it was bare and comfortless-looking, though clean and in good order.

"Now, now, little miss," said Mrs. Geary, hobbling about, "fust of all, let's get some supper down ye. When did ye eat last?"

"This noon," said Marjorie, and then, at the remembrance of the happy, merry luncheon table at Seacote, she put her head down on her arms, and sobbed as if she had never cried before.

"Bless 'ee, bless 'ee, now, my lamb; don't go fer to take on so. There, there, have a sup o' warm milk! Oh, my! my!"

In deference to Mrs. Geary's solicitude, Marjorie tried hard to conquer her sobs, and had finally succeeded, when Mr. Geary came in.

"Don't bother her any to-night, Mother," he said, after a sharp glance at Marjorie; "she's all on edge. Feed her up good, and tuck her into bed."

"Yes, yes; here, my lamb, here's a nice soft-boiled egg for your tea. You'll like that, now?"

"Thank you," said Marjorie, her great, dark eyes looking weird in the dimly lighted kitchen.

After a satisfying supper, Mrs. Geary took the child up to a low, slant-ceiled room, that was as bare and clean as the kitchen. The old woman bathed Marjorie's face and hands with unexpected gentleness, and then helped her to undress. She brought a coarse, plain nightgown of her own, but it was clean and soft, and felt comfortable to the tired child.

Then she was tucked between coarse sheets, on a hard bed, but so weary was she that it seemed comfortable.

Mrs. Geary patted her arm and hummed softly an old hymn-tune, and poor little Marjorie dropped asleep almost at once.

"What do you make of it, Father?" asked the old woman, returning to the kitchen.

"She run away from her home fer some reason. Said she hadn't got no home. Stepmother, I shouldn't wonder. We'll find out to-morrow, an' I'll tote her back."

"Mebbe there'll be a reward."

"Mebbe so. But we'll do our best by her, reward or no. But if so be they is one, I'll be mighty glad, fer I had pore luck sellin' that hay to-day."

"Wal, chirk up, Father; mebbe things'll grow brighter soon."

"Mebbe they will, Sary, -- mebbe they will."

In her unaccustomed surroundings, Marjorie woke early. The sun was just reddening the eastern horizon, and the birds were chirping in the trees.

She had that same sinking of the heart, that same feeling of desolation, but she did not cry, for her nerves were rested, and her brain refreshed, by her night's sleep. She lay in her poor, plain bed and considered the situation.

"It doesn't matter," she said, sternly, to herself, "how bad I feel about it, it's true. I'm not a Maynard, and never was. I don't know who I am, or what my name is. And I don't believe I'd better go to Grandma Maynard's. Perhaps she doesn't know I'm not really her granddaughter, and then she wouldn't want me, after all. For I'd have to tell her. So I just believe I'll earn my own living and be self-supporting."

This plan appealed to Marjorie's imagination. It seemed grand and noble and heroic. Moreover, she was very much in earnest, and in this crisp, early morning she felt braver and stronger than she had felt the night before.

"Yes," she thought on, "I ought to earn my living, -- for I've no claim on Fa -- on Mr. Maynard. Perhaps these people here can find me some work to do. At any rate, I'll ask them."

She jumped up, and dressed herself, for she heard Mr. and Mrs. Geary already in the kitchen.

"My stars!" said her hostess, as she appeared; "how peart you look! Slept good, didn't ye?"

"Fine!" said Midget; "good-morning, both of you. Can't I help you?"

Mrs. Geary was transferring baked apples from a pan to an old cracked platter. Though unaccustomed to such work, Marjorie was quick and deft at anything, and in a moment she had the apples nicely arranged and placed on the table. She assisted in other ways, and chattered gayly as she worked.

Too gayly, Mrs. Geary thought, and she glanced knowingly at her husband, for they both realized Marjorie's flow of good spirits was forced, -- not spontaneous.

After breakfast was over, Midget said, "Now, I'll wash up the dishes, Mrs. Geary, and you sit down and take a little rest."

"Land sake, child! I ain't tired. An' you ain't used to this work, I see you ain't."

"That doesn't matter. I can do it, and I must do something to pay for my board, -- I have very little money."

"Hear the child talk! Wal, you kin help me with the work, a little, an' then we must come to an understandin'."

Marjorie worked with a nervous haste that betrayed her inexperience as well as her willingness, and after a time the plain little house was in order.

Mr. Geary came in from doing his out-of-door "chores," and Marjorie saw the "understandin'" was about to be arrived at. But she was prepared; she had made up her mind as to her course, and was determined to pursue it.

"Now, fust of all," said Mr. Geary, kindly, but with decision, "what is your name?"

"Jessica Brown," said Marjorie, promptly.

She had already assured herself that as she had no real right to the name she had always used, she was privileged to choose herself a new one. Jessica had long been a favorite with her, and Brown seemed non-committal.

Mr. Geary looked at her sharply, but she said the name glibly, and Jessica was what he called "highfalutin" enough to fit her evident station in life, so he made no comment.

"Where do you live?" he went on.

"I have no home," said Marjorie, steadily; "I am a findling."

"A what?"

"A findling, -- from the asylum."

The term didn't sound quite right to her, -- but she couldn't think of the exact word, -- and having used it, concluded to stick to it.

Zeb Geary was not highly educated, but this word, so soberly used, struck his humorous sense, and he put his brawny hand over his mouth to hide his smiles.

"Yep," he said, after a moment, "I understand, -- I do. And whar'd ye set out fer?"

"I started for New York, but I've decided not to go there."

"Oh, ye hev, hev ye? An' jes' what do ye calkilate to do?"

"Well, Mr. Geary," Marjorie looked troubled, -- "and Mrs. Geary, I'd like to stay here for a while. I'll work for you, and you can pay me by giving me food and lodging. I s'pose I wouldn't be worth very much at first, but I'd learn fast, -- you know, -- I do everything fast, -- Mother always said so, -- I, -- I mean, the lady I used to live with, said so. And I'd try very hard to please you both. If you'd let me stay a while, perhaps you'd learn to like me. You see, I've got to earn my own living, and I haven't anywhere to go, and not a friend in the world but you two."

These astonishing words, from the pretty, earnest child, in the dainty and fashionable dress of the best people, completely floored the old country couple.

"Well, I swan!" exclaimed Mr. Geary, while Mrs. Geary said, "My stars!" twice, with great emphasis.

"Please," Marjorie went on, "please give me a trial; for I've been thinking it over, and I don't see what I can possibly do but 'work out.' Isn't that what you call it? And if I learn some with you, I might work out in New York, later on."

"Bless your baby heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Geary, wiping her eyes which were moist from conflicting emotions. "Stay here you shall, if you want to, -- though land knows we can't well afford the keep of another."

"Oh, are you too poor to keep me?" cried Marjorie, dismayed. "I don't want to be a burden to you. I thought I could help enough to pay for my 'keep.'"

"So ye kin, dearie, -- so ye kin," said old Zeb, heartily. "We'll fix it some way, Mother, at least for the present. Now, Jessiky, don't ye worrit a mite more. We'll take keer on ye, and the work ye'll do'll more'n pay fer all ye'll eat."

This was noble-hearted bluff on Zeb's part, for he was hard put to it to get food for himself and his old wife.

He was what is known as "shif'less." He worked spasmodically, and spent hours dawdling about, accomplishing nothing, on his old neglected farm.

But, somehow, a latent ambition and energy seemed to reawaken in his old heart, and he determined to make renewed efforts to "get ahead" for this pretty child's sake. And meantime, if she liked to think she was helping, by such work as those dainty little hands could do, he was willing to humor her.

Beside all this, Zeb didn't believe her story. He still thought she had run away from a well-to-do home; and he believed it was because of an unloving stepmother.

But he was not minded to worry the child further with questions at the present time, and it was part of his nature calmly to await developments.

"Let it go at that, Mother," he advised. "Take Jessiky as your maid-of-all-work, on trial," -- he smiled at his wife over Marjorie's bowed head, -- "an' ef she's a good little worker, we'll keep her fer the present."

"My stars!" said Mrs. Geary, and then sat in helpless contemplation of these surprising events.

"And I will be a good worker!" declared Marjorie, "and perhaps, sometime, we can sort of decorate the house, and make it sort of, -- sort of prettier."

"We can't spend nothin'," declared Mr. Geary, "'cause we ain't got nothin' to spend. So don't think we kin, little miss."

"No," said Marjorie, smiling at him, "but I mean, decorate with wild flowers, or even branches of trees, or pine cones or things like that."

A lump came in Midget's throat, as she remembered how often she had "decorated" with these things in honor of some gay festivity at home.

Oh, what were they doing there, now? Had they missed her? Would they look for her? They never could find her tucked away here in the country.

And Kitty! What would she say when she heard of it? And all of them! And Mother, -- Mother!

But all this heart outcry was silent. Her kind old friends heard no word or murmur of complaint or dissatisfaction. If the forlorn old house were distasteful to Marjorie, she didn't show it; if her room seemed to her uninhabitable, nobody knew it from her. She ran out to the fields, and returned with an armful of ox-eyed daisies, and bunches of clover; and, with some grapevine trails, she made a real transformation of the dingy, bare walls.

"Well, I swan!" Mr. Geary said, when he saw it; and his wife exclaimed, "My stars!"



Chapter XI

The Reunion


After leaving the conductor's house in Asbury Park, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant went to a telephone office, and pursued the plan of calling up every railroad station along the road between Seacote and New York.

But no good news was the result. It was difficult to get speech with the station men, and none of them especially remembered seeing a little girl of Marjorie's description get off the train.

"What can we do next?" asked Mr. Maynard, dejectedly; "I can't go home and sit down to wait for police investigation. I doubt if they could ever find Marjorie. I must do something."

"It seems a formidable undertaking," said Mr. Bryant, "to go to each of these way stations; and yet, Ed, I can't think of anything else to do. We have traced her to the train, and on it. She must have left it somewhere, and we must discover where."

Mr. Maynard looked at his watch.

"Jack," he said, "it is nearly time for that very train to stop here. Let us get on that, and we may get some word of her from the trainmen other than the conductor."

"Good idea! and meanwhile we'll have just time to snatch a sandwich somewhere; which we'd better do, as you've eaten nothing since breakfast."

"Neither have you, old chap; come on."

After a hasty luncheon, the two men boarded at Asbury Park, the same train which Marjorie had taken at Seacote the day before. Conductor Fischer greeted them, and called his trainmen, one by one, to be questioned.

"Sure!" said one of them, at last, "I saw that child, or a girl dressed as you describe, get off this train at Newark. She was a plump little body, and pretty, but mighty woe-begone lookin'. She was in comp'ny with a big, red-faced man, a common, farmer-lookin' old fellow. It struck me queer at the time, them two should be mates."

Mr. Maynard's heart sank. This looked like kidnapping. But the knowledge of where Marjorie had alighted was help of some sort, at least.

After discussing further details of her dress and appearance, Mr. Maynard concluded that it was, indeed, Midget who had left the train at Newark with the strange man, and so he concluded to get off there also.

"We're on the trail, now," said Jack Bryant, cheerily; "we're sure to find her."

Mr. Maynard, though not quite so hopeful, felt a little encouraged, and impatiently the two men sprang off the train at Newark. Into the station they went and interviewed an attendant there.

"Yep," he replied, "I seen that kid. She was with old Zeb Geary, an' it got me, what he was doin' with a swell kid like her!"

"Where did they go?" asked Mr. Maynard, eagerly.

"I dunno. Prob'ly he went home. He lives out in the country, and he takes a little jaunt down to the shore now and then. He's sort of eccentric, -- thinks he can sell his farm stuff to the hotel men, better'n any other market."

"How can I get to his house?"

"Wanter see Zeb, do you? Well, he has his own rig, not very nobby, but safe. I guess you could get a rig at that stable 'cross the way. An' they can tell you how to go."

"Couldn't I get a motor-car?"

"Likely you could. Go over there and ask the man."

The station attendant had duties, and was not specially interested in a stranger's queries, so, having rewarded him, as they thought he deserved, the two men hastened over to the livery stable.

"Zeb Geary?" said the stable keeper. "Why, yes, he lives five miles out of town. He leaves his old horse here when he goes anywhere on the train. It's no ornament to my place, but I keep it for the old fellow. He's a character in his way. Yes, he went out last night and a little girl with him."

"Could we get a motor here, to go out there?"

"Right you are! I've good cars and good chauffeurs."

In a few moments, therefore, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant were speeding away toward Zeb Geary, and, as they hoped, toward Marjorie.

While the car was being made ready, Mr. Maynard had telephoned to King that they had news of Marjorie, and hoped soon to find her. He thought best to relieve the minds of the dear ones at home to this extent, even if their quest should prove fruitless, after all.

"I can't understand it," said Mr. Maynard, as they flew along the country roads. "This Geary person doesn't sound like a kidnapper, yet why else would Midget go with him?"

"I'm only afraid it wasn't Marjorie," returned Mr. Bryant. "But we shall soon know."

*    *    *    *    *

Marjorie had worked hard all day. Partly because she wanted to prove herself a good worker, and partly because, if she stopped to think, her troubles seemed greater than she could bear.

But a little after five o'clock everything was done, supper prepared, and the child sat down on the kitchen steps to rest. She was tired, sad, and desolate. The slight excitement of novelty was gone, the bravery and courage of the morning hours had disappeared, and a great wave of homesickness enveloped her very soul. She was too lonely and homesick even to cry, and she sat, a pathetic, drooped little figure, on the old tumble-down porch.

She heard the toot of a motor-horn, but it was a familiar sound to her, and she paid no attention to it. Then she heard it again, very near, and looked up to see her father and Cousin Jack frantically waving, as the car fairly flew, over many minor obstacles, straight to that kitchen doorway.

"Marjorie!" cried Mr. Maynard, leaping out before the wheels had fairly stopped turning, and in another instant she was folded in that dear old embrace.

"Oh, Father, Father!" she cried, hysterically clinging to him, "take me home, take me home!"

"Of course I will, darling," said Mr. Maynard's quivering voice, as he held her close and stroked her hair with trembling fingers. "That's what we've come for. Here's Cousin Jack, too."

And then Midget felt more kisses on her forehead, and a hearty pat on her back, as a voice, not quite steady, but determinedly cheerful, said: "Brace up now, Mehitabel, we want you to go riding with us."

Marjorie looked up, with a sudden smile, and then again buried her face on her father's shoulder and almost strangled him as she flung her arms round his neck. Then she drew his head down, while she whispered faintly in his ear. Three times she had to repeat the words before he could catch them:

"Are you my father?" he heard at last. The fear flashed back upon him that Midget's mind was affected, but he only held her close to him, and said, gently, "Yes, Marjorie darling, my own little girl," and the quiet assurance of his tone seemed to content her.

"Wal, wal! an' who be you, sir?" exclaimed a gruff voice, and Mr. Maynard looked up to see Zeb Geary approaching from the barn.

"You are Mr. Geary, I'm sure," said Cousin Jack, advancing; "we have come for this little girl."

"Wal, I'm right down glad on't! I jest knew that purty child had a home and friends, though she vowed she hadn't."

"And you've been kind to her, and we want to thank you! And this is Mrs. Geary?"

"Yep, that's Sary. Come out here, Mother, and see what's goin' on."

Out of shyness, Mrs. Geary had watched proceedings from the kitchen window, but fortified by her husband's presence, she appeared in the doorway.

"They've been so good to me, Father," said Marjorie, still nestling in his sheltering arms.

"Wal, we jest done what we could," said Mrs. Geary. "I knowed that Jessiky belonged to fine people, but she didn't want to tell us nothin', so we didn't pester her."

"And we ain't askin' nothin' from you, neither," spoke up Zeb. "She's a sweet, purty child, an' as good as they make 'em. An' when she wants to tell you all about it, she will. As fer us, -- we've no call to know."

"Now, that's well said!" exclaimed Mr. Bryant, holding out his hand to the old man. "And, for the present, we're going to take you at your word. If you agree, we're going to take this little girl right off with us, because her mother is anxiously awaiting news of her safety. And perhaps, sometime later, we'll explain matters fully to you. Meantime, I hope you'll permit us to leave with you a little expression of our appreciation of your real kindness to our darling, and our gratitude at her recovery."

A few whispered words passed between the two gentlemen, and then, after a moment's manipulation of his fountain pen and checkbook, Mr. Bryant handed to old Zeb Geary a slip of paper that took his breath away.

"I can't rightly thank you, sir," he said, brokenly; "I done no more'n my duty; but if so be's you feel to give me this, I kin only say, Bless ye fer yer goodness to them that has need!"

"That's all right, Mr. Geary," said Cousin Jack, touched by the old man's emotion; "and now, Ed, let's be going."

Mrs. Geary brought Marjorie's hat and her little purse, and in another moment they were flying along the country road toward Newark.

Marjorie said nothing at all, but cuddled into her father's arm, and now and then drew long, deep sighs, as if still troubled.

But he only held her closer, and murmured words of endearment, leaving her undisturbed by questions about her strange conduct.

In Newark they telephoned the joyful news to Mrs. Maynard, and then took the first train to Seacote.

All through the two-hour ride, Marjorie slept peacefully, with her father's arm protectingly round her.

The two men said little, being too thankful that their quest was successfully ended.

"But I think her mind is all right," whispered Mr. Maynard, as Mr. Bryant leaned over from the seat behind. "She has some kind of a crazy notion in her head, -- but when she's thoroughly rested and wide awake, we can straighten it all out."

The Maynards' motor was waiting at Seacote station, and after a few moments' ride, Marjorie was again in the presence of her own dear people.

"Mother, Mother!" she cried, in a strange, uncertain voice, and flew to the outstretched arms awaiting her.

Though unnerved herself, Mrs. Maynard clasped her daughter close and soothed the poor, quivering child.

"Are you my mother?" wailed Marjorie, in agonized tones; "are you?"

"Yes, my child, yes!" and there was no doubting that mother-voice.

"Then why, -- why did you tell Mrs. Corey I was a findling?"

"Tell Mrs. Corey what?"

"Why, when I was practising, you were talking to her, and I heard you tell her that you took me from an asylum when I was a baby, -- and that I didn't really belong to you and Father?"

"Oh, Marjorie! Oh, my baby!" and dropping into the nearest armchair, with Marjorie in her lap, Mrs. Maynard laughed and cried together.

"Oh, Ed," she exclaimed, looking at her husband, "it's those theatricals! Listen, Marjorie, darling. Our Dramatic Club is going to give a play called 'The Stepmother,' and Mrs. Corey and I were learning our parts. That's what you heard!"

"Truly, mother?"

"Truly, of course, you little goosie-girl! And so you ran away?"

"Yes; I couldn't stay here if I wasn't your little girl, -- and Father's, -- and King's sister, -- and all. And you said I was different from your own children and, --  -- "

"There, there, darling, it's all right now. And we'll hear the rest of your story to-morrow. Now, we're going to have some supper, and then tuck you in your own little bed where you belong. Have you had your supper?"

"No, -- but I set the table," and Marjorie began to smile at the recollection of the Geary kitchen. "You see, Mother, I've been maid-of-all-work."

"And now you've come back to be maid-of-all-play, as usual," broke in Cousin Jack, who didn't want the conversation to take a serious turn, for all present were under stress of suppressed emotion.

"I say, Mops, you ought to have known better," was King's brotherly comment, but he pulled off her black hair-ribbons in the old, comforting way, and Midget grinned at him.

"Let's dispense with these trappings of woe," said Cousin Jack, dropping the black ribbons in a convenient waste-basket.

So Midget went out to supper without any ribbons, her mop of curls tumbling all over her head and hanging down her shoulders.

"My, but I'm hungry!" she said, as she saw once again her own home table, with its pretty appointments and appetizing food.

"You bet you are!" said King, appreciatively; "tell us what you had to eat in the rural district."

"Boiled beef," said Midget, smiling; "and gingerbread and turnips!"

"Not so awful worse," commented King.

"No? Well, s'pose you try it once! I like these croquettes and Saratoga potatoes a whole heap better!"

"Well, I 'spect I do, too. I say, Mops, I'm glad you didn't break your word to come out and play, -- at least, not intentionally."

"No, I never break my word. But I guess if you thought you didn't have any father or mother or brother or sister, you'd forget all about going out to play, too."

"I haven't any brother," said King, looking very sad and forlorn.

"I'll be a brother to you," declared Cousin Jack, promptly; "you behaved like a man, last night, old fellow, -- and I'm proud to claim you as a man and a brother."

"Pooh, I didn't do anything," said King, modestly.

"Yes, you did," said his mother. "You were fine, my son. And I never could have lived through to-day without you, either."

"Dear old Kingsy-wingsy!" said Midget, looking at him with shining eyes. And then, -- for it was their long-established custom, -- she tweaked his Windsor scarf untied.

As this was a mark of deep affection, King only grinned at her and retied it, with an ease and grace born of long practice.

"Well, Mehitabel," said Cousin Jack, "I always said you were a child who could do the most unexpected things. Here you've been and turned this whole house upside down and had us all nearly crazy, -- and here you are back again as smiling as a basket of chips. And yet you did nothing for which any one could blame you!"

"Indeed they can't blame her!" spoke up Mrs. Maynard; "the child thought I was talking to Mrs. Corey, instead of reading my part in the play. Marjorie sha'n't be blamed a bit!"

"That's just what I said," repeated Cousin Jack, smiling at the mother's quick defense of her child; "why, if anybody told me I was a, -- what do you call it? -- a findling, -- I'd run away, too!"

"Don't run away," said Cousin Ethel, laughing. "I'd have to run with you, or you'd get lost for keeps. And I'd rather stay here. But I think we must be starting for Bryant Bower, and leave this reunited family to get along for awhile without our tender care."

"But don't think we don't realize how much we are indebted to you," said Mr. Maynard, earnestly, for the two good friends in need had been friends indeed to the distracted parents.

"Well, you can have a set of resolutions engrossed and framed for us," said Cousin Jack, "or, better yet, you can give me a dollar bill, in full of all accounts. By the way, Mehitabel, it's lucky you came home from your little jaunt in time for your birthday. I incidentally learned that it will be here soon, and we're going to have a celebration that will take the roof right off this house!"

"All right, Cousin Jack; I'm ready for anything, now that I know I've got a father and mother."

"And a brother," supplemented King, "and such a brother!" He rolled his eyes as if in ecstasy at the thought of his own perfections, and Marjorie lovingly pinched his arm.

"And a couple of sisters," added Cousin Ethel; "I like to speak up for the absent."

"Yes, and two dearest, darlingest cousins," said Marjorie, gleefully. "Oh, I think I've got the loveliest bunch of people in the whole world!"



Chapter XII

A Letter Of Thanks


"Mother," said Marjorie, the next day, "what is a bread-and-butter letter?"

"Why, dearie, that's a sort of a humorous term for a polite note of acknowledgment, such as one writes to a hostess after making a visit."

"Yes, that's what I thought. So I'm going to write one to Mrs. Geary."

"You may, if you like, my child; but, you know your father gave those old people money for their care of you."

"Yes, I know; but that's different. And I think they'd appreciate a letter."

"Very well, write one, if you like. Shall I help you?"

"No, thank you. King and I are going to do it together."

"What did you call it, Mops?" asked her brother, as she returned to the library, where he sat, awaiting her.

"A bread-and-butter letter; Mother says it's all right."

"Well, but you had other things to eat besides bread and butter."

"Yes, but that's just the name of it. Now, how would you begin it, King?"

"'Dear Mrs. Geary,' of course."

"Well, but I want it to be to him, too. He was real nice, -- in his queer way. And if he hadn't looked after me, where would I have been?"

"That's so. Well, say, 'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary, both.'"

So Marjorie began:

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both: This is a bread-and-butter letter --  -- "

"I tell you, Mops, they won't like it. They're not up in social doings, and they won't understand that bread and butter means all the things. I think you ought to put 'em all in."

"Well, I will then. How's this?

"' -- and a turnip letter, and a boiled-beef letter, and a baked-apple letter, and a soft-boiled egg letter.'"

"That's better. It may not sound like the fashionable people write, but it will please them. Now thank them for taking care of you."

"'I thank you a whole heap for being so good to me, and speaking kindly to me in the railroad train, when I wasn't so very polite to you.'"

"Weren't you, Mops?"

"No; I squeezed away from him, 'cause I thought he was rough and rude."

"Well, you can't tell him that."

"No; I'll say this:

"'I wasn't very sociable, Sir, because I have been taught not to talk to strangers, but, of course, those rules, when made, did not know I would be obliged to run away.'"

"You weren't obliged to, Midget."

"Yes I was, King! I just simply couldn't stay here if I didn't belong, could I? Could you?"

"No, I s'pose not. I'd go off and go to work."

"Well, isn't that what I did?

"'But you were kind and good to me, Mr. Geary and Mrs. Geary Both, and I am very much obliged. I guess I didn't work very well for you, but I am out of practice, and I haven't much talent for houseworking, anyway. You seem to have, dear Mrs. Geary.'

"That's a sort of a compliment, King. Really, she isn't a very good housekeeper."

"Oh, that's all right. It's like when people say you have musical talent, and you know you play like the dickens."

"Yes, I do. Well, now I'll finish this, then we can go down to the beach."

"'And so, dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both, I write to say I am much obliged --  -- '

"Oh, my gracious, King, I ought to tell them how it happened. About my mistake, you know, thinking Mother was talking in earnest."

"Oh, don't tell 'em all that, you'll never get it done. But I suppose they are curious to know. Well, cut it short."

"'You see, dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both, I am not a findling, as I supposed.'"

"That's not findling, Midget, -- you mean foundling."

"I don't think so. And, anyway, they mean just the same, -- I'm going to leave it.

I find I have quite a large family, with a nice father and mother, some sisters and a brother. You saw my father. Also, I have lovely cousins and four grand-parents and an uncle. So you see I am well supplied with this world's goods. So now, good-by, dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both, and with further thanks and obliges, I am,

Your friend, MARJORIE MAYNARD.

P.S. The Jessica Brown was a made-up name"

"Do you think that's all right, King?"

"Yep, it's fine! Seal her up, and write the address and leave it on the hall table, and come on."

And so the "bread-and-butter" letter went to Mr. and Mrs. Geary both, and was kept and treasured by them as one of their choicest possessions.

"I knew she was a little lady by the way she pretended not to notice our poor things," said old Zeb.

"I knew by her petticoats," said his wife.

*    *    *    *    *

And so the episode of Marjorie's runaway passed into history. Mrs. Maynard, at first, wanted to give up her part in the play of "The Stepmother," but she was urged by all to retain it, and so she did. As Mr. Maynard said, it was the merest coincidence that Marjorie overheard the words without knowing why they were spoken, and there was no possibility of such a thing ever happening again. So Mrs. Maynard kept her part in the pretty little comedy, but she never repeated those sentences that had so appalled poor Marjorie, without a thrill of sorrow for the child and a thrill of gladness for her quick and safe restoration to them.

And the days hurried on, bringing Marjorie's birthday nearer and nearer.

On the fifteenth of July she would be thirteen years old.

"You see," said Cousin Jack, who was, as usual, Director General of the celebration, "you see, Mehitabel, thirteen is said to be an unlucky number."

"And must I be unlucky all the year?" asked Marjorie, in dismay.

"On the contrary, my child. We will eradicate the unluck from the number, -- we will cut the claws of the tiger, -- and draw the fangs of the serpent. In other words, we shall so override and overrule that foolish superstition about thirteen being unlucky that we shall prove the contrary."

"Hooray for you, Cousin Jack! I'm lucky to have you around for this particular birthday, I think."

"You're always lucky, Mehitabel, and you always will be. You see, this business they call Luck is largely a matter of our own will-power and determination. Now, I propose to consider thirteen a lucky number, and before your birthday is over, you'll agree with me, I know."

"I 'spect I shall, Cousin Jack. And I'm much obliged to you."

"That's right, Mehitabel. Always be grateful to your elders. They do a lot for you."

"You needn't laugh, Cousin Jack. You're awful good to me."

"Good to myself, you mean. Not having any olive-branches of my own, I have to play with my neighbors'. As I understand it, Mehitabel, you're to have a party on this birthday of yours."

"Yes, sir-ee, sir! Mother says I can invite as many as I like. You know there are lots of girls and boys down here that I know, but I don't know them as well as I do the Craigs and Hester. But at a party, I'll ask them all."

"All right. Now, this is going to be a Good-Luck Party, to counteract that foolish thirteen notion. You don't need to know all about the details. Your mother and I will plan it all, and you can just be the lucky little hostess."

So Marjorie was not admitted to the long confabs between her mother and Cousin Jack. She didn't mind, for she knew perfectly well that delightful plans were being made for the party, and they would all be carried out. But there was much speculation in Sand Court as to what the fun would be.

"I know it will be lovely," said Hester, with a sigh. "You are the luckiest girl I ever saw, Marjorie. You always have all the good times."

"Why, Hester, don't you have good times, too?"

"Not like you do. Your mother and father, and those Bryants just do things for you all the time. I don't think it's fair!"

"Well, your mother does things for you, -- all mothers do," said Tom Craig.

"Not as much as Marjorie's. My mother said so. She said she never saw anything like the way Marjorie Maynard is petted. And it makes her stuck up and spoiled!"

"Did your mother say my sister was stuck-up and spoiled?" demanded King, flaring up instantly.

"Well, -- she didn't say just that, -- but she is, all the same!" And Hester scowled crossly at Midget.

"Why, Hester Corey, I am not!" declared Marjorie. "What do I do that's stuck-up?"

"Oh, you think yourself so smart, -- and you always want to boss everything."

"Maybe I am too bossy," said Marjorie, ruefully, for she knew that she loved to choose and direct their games.

"Yes, you are! and I'm not going to stand it!"

"All right, Hester Corey, you can get out of this club, then," said Tom, glaring at her angrily; "Marjorie Maynard is Queen, anyway, and if she hasn't got a right to boss, who has?"

"Well, she's been Queen long enough. Somebody else ought to have a chance."

"Huh!" spoke up Dick; "a nice queen you'd make, wouldn't you? I s'pose that's what you want! You're a bad girl, Hester Corey!"

"I am not, neither!"

"You are, too!"

"Jiminy Crickets!" exclaimed King; "can't this Club get along without scrapping? If not, the Club'd better break up. I'm ashamed of you, Dick, to hear you talk like that!"

"Hester began it," said Dick, sullenly.

"Oh, yes; blame it all on Hester!" cried that angry maiden, herself; "blame everything on Hester, and nothing on Marjorie. Dear, sweet, angel Marjorie!"

"Now, Hester Corey, you stop talking about my sister like that, or I'll get mad," stormed King. "She's Queen of this Club, and she's got a right to boss. And you needn't get mad about it, either."

"You can be Queen, if you want to, Hester," said Midget, slowly. "I guess I am a pig to be Queen all the time."

"No, you're not!" shouted Tom. "If Hester's Queen, I resign myself from this Club! So there, now!"

"Go on, and resign!" said Hester; "nobody cares. I'm going to be Queen, Marjorie said I could. Give me your crown, Marjorie."

Midget didn't want to give up her crown a bit, but she had a strong sense of justice, and it did seem that Hester ought to have her turn at being Queen. So she began to lift the crown from her head, when King interposed:

"Don't you do it, Midget! We can't change Queens in a minute, like that! If we do change, it's got to be by election and nomination and things like that."

"It isn't!" screamed Hester; "I won't have it so! I'm going to be Queen!"

She fairly snatched the crown from Marjorie's head, and whisked it onto her own head.

As it had been made to fit Midget's thick mop of curls, it was too big for Hester, and came down over her ears, and well over her eyes.

"Ho! ho!" jeered Dick; "a nice Queen you look! Ho! ho!"

But by this time Hester was in one of her regular tantrums.

"I will be Queen!" she shrieked; "I will, I tell you!"

"Come on, Mops, let's go home," said King, quietly.

The Maynard children were unaccustomed to outbursts of temper, and King didn't know exactly what to say to the little termagant.

"All right, we'll go home, too," said Tom; "come on, boys!"

They all started off, leaving Hester in solitary possession of Sand Court.

The child, when in one of her rages, had an ungovernable temper, and, left alone, she vented it by smashing everything she could. She upset the throne, tore down the decorations, and flew around like a wildcat.

Marjorie, who had turned to look at her, said:

"You go on, King; I'm going back to speak to Hester."

"I'm afraid she'll hurt you," objected King.

"No, she won't; I'll be kind to her."

"All right, Midge; a soft answer turneth away rats, but I don't know about wildcats!"

"Well, you go on." And Marjorie turned, and went back to Sand Court.

"Say, Hester," she began a little timidly.

"Go away from here, Stuck-up! Spoiled child! I don't want to see you!"

As a matter of fact, Hester presented a funny sight. She was a plain child, and her shock of red hair was straight and untractable. Her scowling face was flushed with anger, and the gold paper crown was pushed down over one ear in ridiculous fashion.

Marjorie couldn't help laughing, which, naturally, only irritated Hester the more.

"Yes, giggle!" she cried; "old Smarty-Cat! old Proudy!"

"Oh, Hester, don't!" said Midget, bursting into tears. "How can you be so cross to me? I don't mean to be stuck-up and proud, and I don't think I am. You can be Queen if you want to, and we'll have the election thing all right. Please don't be so mean to me!"

"Can I be Queen?" demanded Hester, a little mollified; "can I, really?"

"Why, yes, if the boys agree. They have as much say as I do."

"They don't either! You have all the say! You always do! Now, promise you'll make the boys let me be Queen, or, -- or I won't play!"

Hester ended her threat rather lamely, as she couldn't think of any dire punishment which she felt sure she could carry out.

"I promise," said Marjorie, who really felt it was just that Hester should be Queen for a time.

"All right, then," and Hester's stormy face cleared a little. "See that you keep your promise."

"I always keep my promises," said Marjorie, with dignity; "and I'll tell you what I think of you, Hester Corey! I think you ought to be Queen, -- it isn't fair for me to be it all the time. But I think you might have asked me in a nicer way, and not call names, and smash things all about! There, that's what I think!" and Marjorie glared at her in righteous indignation.

"Maybe I ought," said Hester, suddenly becoming humble, as is the way of hot-tempered people after gaining their point. "I've got an awful temper, Marjorie, but I can't help it!"

"You can help it, Hester; you don't try."

"Oh, it's all very well for you to talk! You never have anything to bother you! Nothing goes wrong, and everybody spoils you! Why should you have a bad temper?"

"Now, Hester, don't be silly! You have just as good a home and just as kind friends as I have."

"No, I haven't! Nobody likes me. And everybody likes you. Why, the Craig boys think you're made of gold!"

Marjorie laughed. "Well, Hester, it's your own fault if they don't think you are, too. But how can they, when you fly into these rages and tear everything to pieces?"

"Well, they make me so mad, I have to! Now, I'm going home, and I'm going to stay there till you do as you promised, and get the boys to let me be Queen."

"Well, I'll try --  -- " began Marjorie, but Hester had flung the torn gilt crown on the ground, and stalked away toward home. Midget picked up the crown and tried to straighten it out, but it was battered past repair.

"I'll make a new one," she thought, "and I'll try to make the boys agree to having Hester for Queen. But I don't believe Tom will. I know it's selfish for me to be Queen all the time, and I don't want to be selfish."

Seeing Hester go away, Tom came back, and reached Sand Court just as Midget was about to leave.

"Hello, Queen Sandy!" he called out; "wait a minute. I saw that spitfire going away, so I came back. Now, look here, Mopsy Maynard, don't you let that old crosspatch be Queen!"

"I can't, unless we all elect her," returned Midget, smiling at Tom; "but I wish you would agree to do that. It isn't fair, Tom, for me to be Queen all the time."

"Why isn't it? It's your Club! You got it up, and Hester came and poked herself in where she wasn't wanted."

"Well, we took her in, and now we ought to be kind to her."

"Kind to such an old Meany as she is!"

"Don't call her names, Tom. I don't believe she can help flying into a temper, and then, when she gets mad, she doesn't care what she says."

"I should think she didn't! Well, make her Queen if you want to, but if you do, you can get somebody else to take my place."

"Oh, Tom, don't act like that," and Marjorie looked at him, with pleading eyes.

"Yes, I will act like that! Just exactly like that! I won't belong to any Court that Hester Corey is queen of!"

Marjorie sighed. What could she do with this intractable boy? And, she almost knew that King would feel the same way. Perhaps, if she could win Tom over to her way of thinking, King might be more easily influenced.

"Tom," she began, "don't you like me?"

"Yes, I do. You're the squarest girl I ever knew."

"Then, don't you think you might do this much for me?"

"What much?"

"Why, just let Hester be Queen for a while."

"No, I don't. That wouldn't be any favor to you."

"Yes, it would. If I ask you, and you refuse, I'll think you're real unkind. And yet you say you like me!"

Marjorie had struck a right chord in the boy's heart. He didn't want Hester for Queen, but still less did he want to refuse Midget her earnest request.

"Oh, pshaw!" he said, digging his toe in the sand; "if you put it that way, I'll have to say yes. Don't put it that way, Midget."

"Yes, I will put it that way! And if you're my friend, you'll say yes, yourself, and then you'll help me to make the other boys say yes. Will you?"

"Yes, I s'pose so," said Tom, looking a little dubious.



Chapter XIII

Thirteen!


Marjorie's thirteenth birthday dawned bright and clear.

Her opening eyes rested on some strange thing sticking up at the foot of her bed, but a fully-awakened glance proved it to be a big No. 13, painted on a square of white pasteboard, and decorated with painted four-leaved clovers.

The motto "Good Luck" was traced in ornamental letters, and the whole was in a narrow wood frame.

"That's my birthday greeting from Cousin Jack and Cousin Ethel!" Marjorie said to herself; "I recognize her lovely painting, and it's just like them, anyway. I'll hang that on my bedroom wall, till I'm as old as Methusaleh."

"Happy Birthday, darling!" said her mother, coming in, and sitting on the side of the bed; "many happy returns of the day."

"Oh, dearie Mother! I'm so glad I've got you! and I'm so glad you're really my very own mother! Give me thirteen kisses, please, ma'am!"

"Merry Birthday, Midget!" called her father, through the crack of the door. "You two had better stop that love-feast and get down to breakfast!"

So Marjorie sprang up, and made haste with her bathing and dressing, so that in less than half an hour she was dancing downstairs to begin her Lucky Birthday. Her presents were heaped round her plate, and the parcels were so enticing in appearance, that she could scarcely eat for impatience.

"Breakfast first," decreed her father, "or I fear you'll become so excited you'll never eat at all."

So Marjorie contented herself with pinching and punching the bundles, while she ate peaches and cream and cereal.

"Oh, what is in this squnchy one?" she cried, feeling of a loosely done-up parcel. "It smells so sweet, and it crackles like silk!"

"Kitty sent that," answered her mother, smiling, "and she wrote me that she made it herself."

But at last the cereal-saucer was empty, and the ribbons could be untied.

Kitty's gift proved to be a lovely bag, of pink and blue Dresden silk.

"What's it for?" asked King, not much impressed with its desirability.

"Oh, for anything!" cried Marjorie. "Handkerchiefs, -- or hair-ribbons, -- or, -- or just to hang up and look pretty."

"Pretty foolish," opined King, but he greeted with joy the opening of the next bundle.

"Jumping Hornets!" he exclaimed; "isn't that a beauty! Just what I wanted!"

"Whose birthday is this, anyhow?" laughed Marjorie, as she carefully unrolled the tissue-paper packing from a fine microscope. Uncle Steve had sent it, and it was both valuable and practical, and a thing the children had long wished for.

"Well, you'll let a fellow take a peep once in a while, won't you?"

"Yes, if you'll be goody-boy," said Midget, patronizingly.

Grandma Sherwood's gift was a cover for a sofa-pillow, of rich Oriental fabric, embroidered in gold thread.

"Just the thing for my couch, at home," said Midget, greatly pleased.

"Just the thing to pitch at you, after it gets stuffed," commented King. "Go on, Mops, open the big one."

The big one proved to be a case, from Mother and Father, containing a complete set of brushes and toilet articles for Marjorie's dressing-table. They were plain shapes, of ivory, with her monogram on each in dark blue.

"Gorgeous!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "Just what I longed for, -- and so much nicer than silver, 'cause that has to be cleaned every minute. Oh, Mothery, they are lovely, and Fathery, too. Consider yourselves kissed thirteen hundred times! Oh, what's this?"

"That's my present," said King. "Open it carefully, Mops."

She did so, and revealed a pincushion, but a pincushion so befrilled and belaced and beflowered one could scarce tell what it was.

"I picked it out myself," said King, with obvious pride in his selection. "I know how you girls love flummadiddles, and I took the very flummadiddlyest the old lady had. Like it, Mops?"

"Like it! I love it! I adore it! And it will go fine with this beauty ivory set."

"Yes, you'll have a Louis Umpsteenth boudoir, when you get back to Rockwell."

"I shan't use it down here," said Marjorie, fingering the pretty trifle, "for the sea air spoils such things. But when I get home I'll fix my room all up gay, -- may I, Mother?"

"I 'spect so. It's time you had a new wallpaper, anyway, and we'll get one with little pink rosebuds to match King's pincushion."

The Bryants' gift came next.

It was in a small jeweller's box, and was a slender gold neck chain and pendant, representing a four-leafed clover in green enamel on gold, on one petal of which were the figures thirteen in tiny diamonds.

"Oh, ho! Diamonds!" cried King. "You're altogether too young to wear diamonds, Mops. Better give it to me for a watch fob."

"I'm not, am I, Father?" said Marjorie, turning troubled eyes to her father.

"No, Midget. Not those little chips of stones. A baby could wear those. And by the way, where is Baby's gift?"

"My p'esent!" cried Rosy Posy, who had sat until now silent, in admiration of the unfolding wonders. "My p'esent, Middy! It's a palumasol!"

"Then it's this long bundle," said Marjorie, and she unwrapped a beautiful little parasol of embroidered white linen.

"Oh, Rosy Posyeums!" she cried. "This is too booful! I never saw such a pretty one!"

"Me buyed it! Me and Muvver! Oh, it's too booful!" and the baby kicked her fat, bare legs in glee at her own gift.

Grandma and Grandpa Maynard sent a silver frame, containing their photographs, and Grandma sent also a piece of fine lace, which was to be laid away until Marjorie was old enough to put it to use. It was her custom to send such a piece each year, and Marjorie's collection was already a valuable one.

There were many small gifts and cards from friends in Rockwell, and from some of the Seacote children, and when all were opened, Midget begged King to help her take them to the living-room, where they might be displayed on a table.

And then the Bryants arrived, and the house rang with their greetings and congratulations.

"Unlucky Midget!" cried Cousin Jack. "Poor little unlucky Mopsy Midget Mehitabel! Oh, what a sad fate to be thirteen years old, and to be so loaded down with birthday gifts that you don't know where you're at!

"Mopsy Midget Mehitabel May Has come to a most unlucky day! Nothing will happen but feasting and fun, And gifts, -- pretty nearly a hundred and one! Jolly good times, and jolly good wishes, A jolly good party with jolly good dishes. Every one happy and everything bright, Good Luck is here -- and bad Luck out of sight. 'Tis the luckiest day that ever was seen, For Marjorie Maynard is just thirteen!"

"Oh, Cousin Jack, what a beautiful birthday poem! I'm sure there couldn't be a luckier little girl than I! I've got everything!"

"And we've got you!" cried her father, catching her in his arms with a heart full of gratitude that she was safe at home with them.

*    *    *    *    *

The party was to begin at four o'clock, and the guests were invited to stay until seven. In good season Marjorie was dressed, and down on the veranda ready to receive her little friends.

She wore a pretty, thin white frock, with delicate embroidery, and the pendant that had been her birthday gift.

The family were all assembled when she came down, and though it would be half an hour before they could expect the guests, they all seemed filled with eager anticipation.

"What's the matter?" asked Midget, looking from one smiling face to another.

"Nothing, nothing!" said King, trying to look unconcerned.

"Nothing, nothing," said Cousin Jack, pulling a wry face.

But Mrs. Maynard said, "There's another birthday surprise for you, Marjorie dear. It has just come, and it's in the living-room. Go and hunt for it."

Marjorie danced into the house, and they all followed. She began looking about for some small object, peering into vases and under books, till her father said:

"Look for something larger, Midget; something quite large."

"And be careful of your frock," warned her mother, for Midget was down on her hands and knees, looking under the big divan.

"Keep on your feet!" advised King. "And look everywhere."

"Pooh! If I keep on my feet, I can't find anything big!" exclaimed Midget. "Where could it be hidden?"

"That's for you to find out!" returned King.

"I'll give you a hint," said Cousin Jack. "Turn, Mehitabel, turn."

Marjorie turned slowly round and round, but that didn't help her any.

"Turn, turn, turn, turn," Cousin Jack kept saying in a monotone, and suddenly it flashed on Marjorie that he meant for her to turn something else beside herself.

She turned the key of a bookshelf door, and opened it, but found nothing but books.

"Turn, turn, turn, turn," droned Cousin Jack.

"Oh," thought Marjorie, "the closet!" and flying to the door of a large closet in the room, she turned the knob, the door flew open, and there she saw, -- Uncle Steve and Kitty!

"Oh, Kit!" she cried, and in a moment the two girls were so tangled up that detriment to their party frocks seemed inevitable.

But they were persuaded to separate before too much damage was done, and then Marjorie turned to greet Uncle Steve.

"I daren't rumple your fine feathers," he said, standing 'way off, and extending his fingertips to her. "But I'm terrible glad to see you, and to find that you've grown up as good as you are beautiful."

This made Marjorie laugh, for she didn't think she was either.

"How did you happen to come?" she cried, for she couldn't realize that Kitty was really there.

"Oh, it was just a stroke of good luck," said Cousin Jack. "You know to-day is your lucky day."

"'Deed it is!" declared Marjorie. "Come on, Kit, let's go and sit in the swing till the people come to the party."

The sisters had time for a short, merry chat, and then the guests began to arrive. There were about twenty-five boys and girls, and with the grown-ups this made quite a party.

It was fun, indeed, to have both Cousin Jack and Uncle Steve present, for these two men just devoted themselves to the cause, and made so much fun and merriment that they seemed like big children themselves.

They gave a burlesque wrestling match on the lawn that sent the young people off into peals of laughter. They made up funny dialogue, and were always playing good-natured tricks on some of the children. Then Cousin Jack said:

"Now we will play the Good Luck game. Into the hall, all of you!"

The children scampered into the hall, and on the wall they saw a large placard which read:

"Pins         one Hairpins        two Four-leafed clovers  five Horse-shoes      ten Pennies        fifteen Black cats       twenty-five."

Each guest was given a small fancy basket, with ribbons tied to the handle. Then they were instructed to hunt all the rooms on the lower floor, the veranda, and the nearby lawns, and gather into their baskets such of the above mentioned articles as they could find. A prize would be given to the one who had the most valuable collection, according to the values given on the placard.

At the word "go!" they scuttled away, and hunted eagerly, now and then stooping to pick up a pin from the floor, or reaching up to get a horseshoe from the mantelpiece. The rooms had been literally sown with the small objects; the clovers and horseshoes being cut from pasteboard and painted, and the black cats being tiny china, wooden, or bronze affairs.

Cousin Jack must have had an immense store of these findings, for the baskets filled rapidly, and yet there seemed always more to be found.

"How are you getting along, Hester?" asked Marjorie as she met her.

"Can't find any hardly. I never have any luck! I s'pose you have a basket full!"

"Nearly," said Marjorie, laughing at Hester's ill-nature in the midst of the others' merriment.

"Say, Hester, I'll tell you what! I'll change baskets with you. Want to?"

"Will you?" and Hester's eyes sparkled. "Oh, Marjorie, will you?"

"Yes, I will, on condition that you'll be nice and pleasant, and not go around looking as cross as a magpie!"

"All right, give me your basket," and Hester put on a very bright smile in anticipation of winning the game.

"What did you do that for?" asked Kitty, who saw the transfer of baskets.

"Oh, because. Never mind now, Kit, I'll tell you to-morrow," and Midget danced away with Hester's almost empty basket hanging from her arm.

She picked up a few more things here and there, and then Cousin Jack rang a bell to announce that the game was over. The baskets, each having its owner's name on a card tied to it, were all put on the hall table, and Mrs. Maynard and Cousin Ethel appraised the contents, while the children went to another game.

This time Uncle Steve conducted affairs. Several tables in the living-room were surrounded by the players, and each was given a paper and pencil.

"I see," Uncle Steve began, "that this is a Good Luck party. So each of you write the words 'good luck' at the top of your paper. Have you done so? Good! Now, I hope you will all of you have all good luck always, but if you can't get it all, get part. So try your hand at it by making words of four letters out of those two words you have written. Use each letter only once, -- unless it is repeated, like o in 'good.' However, that's the only one that is a repeater, so use the others only once in any word you make. The words must be each of four letters, -- no more and no less. And they must all be good, common, well-known English words. Now go ahead, and the best list takes a prize."

How the children scribbled! How they nibbled their pencils and thought! How they whispered to each other to ask if such a word was right!

Marjorie was quick at puzzles, but she didn't think it would be polite to take the prize at her own party, so she didn't hand in her list. Neither did Kitty nor King. So when the lists were handed in, Uncle Steve rapidly looked them over.

"The longest list," he announced, "contains ten words."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Hester. "Isn't that just my bad luck! I had nine."

"So did I," said several others, but it was Tom Craig's list that had ten, so he received the prize. His list, as Uncle Steve read it out, was: Cook, loud, duck, cool, cold, lock, look, dock, clod, gold. The prize was a box of candy made in the shape of a four-leafed clover, so it was really four boxes.

Tom generously offered to pass the sweets around at once, but Uncle Steve advised him not to, as supper would be served pretty soon.

The children all liked the game, and clamored for a repetition of it, but Cousin Jack said it was his turn for a game now, and if they'd all stay at the tables, he'd give it to them.

"This is my own game," he said, "because it is called jackstraws, and my name is Jack. I am not a man of straw, however, as you'd soon find if you tried to knock me over! The game is almost like ordinary jackstraws, but with slight additions."

Then there were passed around bunches of jackstraws for each table. They were just like ordinary jackstraws, except they were of different colors, and a little card told how to count. White ones were one; red ones, two; blue ones, five; silver ones, ten; and gold ones, twenty. Then one marked Good Luck counted fifteen, and another, marked thirteen, counted twenty-five. This proved that thirteen was not an unlucky number!

It's always fun to play jackstraws, and the children went at it with a zest. Midget, at the next table, was not surprised to hear Hester complaining, "Oh, you joggled me! That isn't fair! I ought to have another turn! I never have any luck!" Marjorie smiled across at her, and, seeming to remember the condition of the basket exchange, Hester tried to smile, and succeeded fairly well.

Milly Fosdick won that prize, and they all laughed when it turned out to be a straw hat of Indian make. It was of gay pattern basket work, and adorned with beads and feathers. Milly was delighted with it, and said she should always keep it as a souvenir.

By that time the ladies had completed their task, and the prize for the Good Luck hunt fell to Hester Corey. This was the prettiest prize of all, being a beautifully illustrated copy of Grimms' "Fairy Tales," and Hester was enchanted with it. She took it eagerly, and never seemed to think for a moment that perhaps it wasn't quite fairly won; nor did she thank Marjorie for the assistance she gave.

Then they all went out to supper. And such a supper as it was! The table was decorated with green four-leafed clovers, and gilt horseshoes, and black cats, and yellow new moons. And every one had a little rabbit's foot, mounted like a charm, for a souvenir; and also a bright lucky penny of that very year.

And the sandwiches were cut like clovers, and the cakes like new moons, and the ice-cream was shaped like horseshoes, and everybody wished everybody else good luck all through Marjorie's thirteenth year. And when the young guests went away they all sang:

"Good luck, ladies; good luck, ladies; Good luck, ladies; We're going to leave you now."



Chapter XIV

Queen Hester


"Kit's my bestest birthday present," declared Marjorie, as they sat together in the veranda swing the morning after the party.

Kitty pulled her sister's curls in absent-minded affection, and remarked, thoughtfully:

"Mopsy, I don't seem to care much for that red-headed Hester girl."

"She's a queer thing," Marjorie returned, "but I sort of like her, too. You see, Kit, she has a fearful temper, and she can't help being spiteful."

"Oh, fiddlesticks, Mops! Anybody can help being spiteful if they want to."

"No, she can't, Kit. She flies into a rage over nothing. And then she's sorry afterward."

"Will she be at the Sand Court thing, or whatever you call it, to-day?"

"Yes, all the club will be there. Come on, let's go."

The sisters ran down to Sand Court and found King and the Craig boys already there.

"Old Crosspatch hasn't come yet," observed Dick, after they had all said "Hello!"

"Dick," said Midget, "I wish you wouldn't call our Sand Witch such unkind names."

"Well, she is a crosspatch."

"Well, never mind if she is. Don't let's call names, anyway."

And then Hester arrived. It was easily seen she was prepared for a fray. She was not smiling, and she said "Hello" with a very sour expression of face. Then she turned to Midget.

"Did you make me a new crown?" she said. "Are you going to let me be Queen?"

"We have to vote about that," returned Marjorie, "and I do hope, my courtiers, that we won't have any squabbling before our royal visitor, Miss Princess Sand, -- Sand -- well, San Diego is the only name I can think of for Kit!"

"Hail, Princess Sandeago!" cried Tom, and all the courtiers ducked almost to the ground in low bows.

"Now," went on Marjorie, "our first business this morning is the election of a new Queen."

"Queens aren't elected," growled Tom, "they, -- they, -- what do they do? Oh, they succeed!"

"That's exactly what they do!" cried Midget. "And I'm going to succeed! I mean I'm going to succeed in my plan of having Hester succeed me! I asked Father about elections, and he said people could be instructed to vote a certain way. So I hereby instruct you all, my beloved courtiers, to vote for a new Queen. The same to be our beloved Sand Witch."

"Beloved grandmother!" exclaimed Tom, irrepressibly.

"No, my Grand Sandjandrum," went on Midget, looking sternly at him, "she isn't your grandmother, but she's to be your new sovereign, so you may as well make up your mind to it."

As Hester began to think Midget was going to make the change, whether the boys wanted to or not, she suddenly became very light-hearted and smiled at everybody.

"I'll be a good Queen," she said, ingratiatingly, "and I'll do whatever you want me to."

And then King waked up to the fact that since Midget desired this change, and since it might have the effect of keeping Hester pleasant and good-natured, perhaps it was a good plan after all. So he said:

"All right; I'll vote as Queen Sandy instructs."

Tom looked at him in surprise, and then, remembering he had practically promised to do as Marjorie asked, he said:

"Well, I will too. But only on condition that the new Queen promises to be pleasant and nice all the time."

"I will," declared Hester, earnestly, her face fairly radiant now at the thought of wearing the crown.

"You ought to take an oath of office and say so," advised Kitty, who was critically watching the proceedings.

"What's that mean?" demanded Hester.

"Why, swear that you won't lose your temper."

"Oh, I wouldn't swear!" cried Hester, in dismay.

"Kit doesn't mean bad swearing," explained King. "She means official swearing, or something like that. All Queens do it, and juries, and presidents, and everything. It's only promising or vowing."

"Well, I'll promise or vow," agreed Hester, "but I won't swear."

"All right," said Marjorie. "You must hold up both hands, and say 'I promise or vow to be a good Queen and not get mad at my courtiers.' Say it now."

So Hester raised both hands as high as she could and repeated Marjorie's words.

"Now you've taken your oath of office, and you're queen," said Kitty, who was unconsciously taking charge of affairs. "Where's the crown, Mops?"

"The new Queen tore it up the other day," said Midget, demurely.

"Then she must make a new one," commanded Kitty. "Never mind; for to-day this will do."

The Princess San Diego hastily twisted some vines into a wreath, and laid it gently on the brilliant locks of the new Queen.

"I crown you Queen Sandy!" she said, dramatically.

"It's all right, Kit," said King, looking quizzical, "but just how do you happen to be running this court?"

"Oh, I might as well," returned Kitty carelessly. "I don't think the rest of you are very good at it."

"That's so," admitted Tom. "I guess we do squabble a lot."

"It isn't only that," said Kitty, "but you don't have much order and ceremony."

"I've noticed that," put in Dick. "We just talk every-day sort of talk. I think we ought to be grander."

"So do I," agreed Kitty. "Here, Hester, give me that crown; I'll be Queen for to-day, and show you how."

There was nothing bumptious or even dictatorial in Kitty's manner; she merely wanted to show them how a Queen ought to act. So she put the vine wreath on her own head, and breaking a branch from a tall shrub nearby for a sceptre, she seated herself on the dilapidated throne.

"I pray you sit," she said, condescendingly, to her court. "Ha! where is my page?"

"There is no page, O Queen," said the Grand Sandjandrum, looking mortified.

"Thus I create one!" announced Kitty, calmly. "Sand Crab, kneel before me!"

Harry sprang forward to obey, and kneeled at Kitty's feet.

"Thus I anoint thee page!" declared the Queen, dramatically tapping him three times on his shoulder. "Rise, Sir Page, and attend upon me!"

"Yes, ma'am! What shall I do?" asked the new page, greatly flustered.

"Stand thou here at my right hand. It may be I might have an errand or two now and then."

"Aye, aye, O Queen!" declaimed Dick, who was catching the spirit of Kitty's rule.

"Well spoke, fair sir. Stand thou there, I prithee. And now, Courtiers, is there any business to be discussed?"

"Nay, O Queen," said Tom, "we but wait thy pleasure."

"Then my pleasure is now to install the new Queen. And, prithee, my courtiers, when that the new Queen is enthroned, then does the receding Queen become the Sand Witch?"

"Yea, O fair Queen," said Marjorie, coming up with mincing steps and bowing before Kitty. "From now on I am the Sand Witch of this court, and I humbly beg thy favor."

"Favor be thine!" announced the temporary Queen. "And now, O my courtiers, lead to me Queen Hester Sandy, Queen of Sand Court!"

Reconciled at last to this state of things, King and Tom sprang to escort Hester. Dick and Harry marched gravely behind, while Midget stalked along ahead, and thus quite an imposing procession approached Queen Kitty and ranged themselves before her.

"O Queen," Kitty began, "you have already taken oath of office, O Queen! So now naught remains but to take the seat of royalty, the honored throne of Sand Court, O Queen!"

And then Hester scored her success. She stepped up on the sand mound that was the throne, and bowed her head while Kitty transferred the vine wreath that represented the crown. Then Hester drew herself up majestically, waved her sceptre, and declaimed:

"I, the Queen of Sand Court, accept this honor that is thus thrust upon me!"

There were some astonished faces among the courtiers at this speech, but nobody interrupted.

"I, Queen Sandy, promise to be a good Queen to my beloved courtiers, and never to lose my temper or speak cross, but to emulate the sweet and sunlighty disposition of our departing and beloved Queen, who is now a Sand Witch. Wherefore, my courtiers, I beseech your fealty and faith, and I present my compliments, and the compliments of this court to our visitor, the Princess San Diego. This lovely lady has been a great help, and we now salute her. I bid thee all salute!"

They all saluted by bowing low to Kitty; indeed, the page bowed so low that he tumbled over, but soon scrambled up again.

"And now," went on Queen Sandy, "I bid thee salute our Sand Witch. She is a witch of goodness and joy. We all love her, the court honors her, and one and all we now salute her!"

More low bows followed, and then the court resumed its upright attitude and awaited orders.

"There is no more saluting necessary," explained the gracious Queen. "You boy courtiers can't expect it. Now the court is dismissed and the Sand Club will play something."

The Queen came down from the throne, and courtly manners and speeches were laid aside.

"Let's fix up the court instead of playing," suggested Kitty, and as all thought this a good idea, they went at it.

Everybody worked with a will, for it was fun to get the court in order again, and Kitty and Midget were so fond of fixing up and decorating that when the task was over, Sand Court was far handsomer than ever before.

Shell borders outlined the throne and the courtier's seat, and the old legless chair was so draped with cheesecloth and green vines that it was a picture in itself. Then it was luncheon time, and the courtiers said good-bye and parted to go to their homes.

"She's a funny girl," said Kitty, as the Maynard trio reached their house. "As soon as she got what she wanted, she was sweet as pie. But if you hadn't given up the Queen to her, Mops, she would have been madder'n hops."

"I know it," said Midget, "but that wasn't the reason I did it. I did it 'cause I thought it was fairer for her to have a turn at being Queen."

"And it was," said Kitty, judicially. "I think you did right, Mopsy; but, all the same, she'll never keep that promise to be sweet and pleasant."

"Oh, Kitty, she'll have to! Why, she vowed it!"

"Oh, pshaw, she'll get mad and forget all about that vow. Say, Mops, what do you think? I've learned to make cake."

"You have! Who taught you?"

"Eliza did, up at Grandma's. It was fine. I'll teach you, if you like."

"Do!" urged King. "Then Midge can make little cakes for the Sand Club. Ellen makes 'em sometimes, but she says it's a bother."

Permission being granted by Mrs. Maynard, the girls tried cake-making that very afternoon.

"I'll help yez, shall I?" asked Ellen, as the two energetic damsels raided her pantry.

"No, Ellen," said Marjorie. "Miss Kitty is going to teach me. You go, -- go -- why, Ellen, you take an afternoon out!"

"It isn't me day out, Miss Midget, but I'll go to me room, an' if yez wants me, yez can send Sarah afther me, sure."

"Can I help?" asked King, who wanted to be in the fun.

"Yes, you can stone raisins," said Kitty, kindly.

At home in Rockwell, Marjorie had always been chief directress in all their doings, but down here Kitty was more like a visitor, and the others politely deferred to her. So King went contentedly to work, stoning raisins, and the girls made the cake.

"I didn't bring my recipe book," said Kitty, "but I guess I remember how to make it. You see, Eliza is going to teach me to make lots of things, so I've quite a big book for recipes."

"How many have you so far?" asked Midget, greatly interested.

"Well, only this one; but it's sponge cake, you know. I shall have more later."

"Yes, of course," said Midget, politely, and suddenly feeling that her younger sister was getting very grown-up, with her recipe book and her sponge cake.

"Now," proceeded Kitty, "if I'm to show you, Midget, you must pay close attention."

"I will, -- oh, I will!"

"First, you break the eggs, and separate them, white from yolk, like this, -- see!"

But whether she was rattled at having such an interested audience, or whether she was not very expert as yet, Kitty couldn't make the eggs "separate" neatly. Every one she broke persisted in spilling out its yellow and white together.

"Let me try," said Marjorie, but her efforts were not much more successful. Bits of shell would fall in the bowl, and even if she got most of the white in safely, some yellow would spill in, too.

"Does it matter much?" asked King.

"Oh, I don't believe so," said Kitty. "I guess we'll beat the eggs all up together, white and yellow both."

Kitty put in the Dover eggbeater with an air of experience, and whisked its wheel "round and round."

"Let me in, too," said Midget. "There's another beater I found in the cupboard."

There was room in the big bowl for both beaters, and the two girls whizzed the wheels around like mad.

"Hold on!" cried King. "You're flirting that yellow stuff all over!"

"Well, anyway, it's well beaten," declared Kitty, looking at the frothy yellow mass with satisfaction. "Now we put in the flour, -- no, the sugar, I think."

"Butter?" suggested Marjorie.

"No, there's no butter in it. This is sponge cake."

Properly subdued, Marjorie awaited orders.

"Sugar," Kitty decided at last; "and bring a cup."

Midget brought the cup, and Kitty measured the sugar, and dumped it into the bowl of egg.

"I can't think whether it's three or four cups full," she said, holding a cup full uncertainly over the bowl.

"Dump it in!" advised King. "I like 'em pretty sweet."

So in went the sugar, and Midget was allowed to stir, while Kitty measured flour.

"We have to sift this four times," she announced, with an air of great wisdom. "I'll do this part."

She did, but she was so energetic about it, and the flour sieve so uncertain on its three iron legs, that much of the flour flew over the table, the floor, and the clothing of the workers.

"Hold up, Kit!" cried Marjorie, as a cloud of flour almost blinded her. "I can't see to beat, if you fly that flour around so!"

"Well, it has to be sifted four times," apologized Kitty, and turned it into the sieve again.

Much was lost in transit, and King declared it was already sifted as fine as it would ever be, but Kitty was unmoved by comment or criticism.

"Now it's all right," she said, peering into the pan of finally prepared flour, and ignoring the white dust that was all over everything. "But first a cup of hot water must go in."

"I'll pour it," said King, rising quickly, and taking the tea-kettle from Kitty, who was in imminent danger of scalding herself.

"Just a cup full!" said Kitty, warningly, as the hot water ran over the brimming cup and fell to the floor.

"Never mind," said King, "we'll only use what's in the cup," and carrying it as carefully as possible he poured it into the bowl of batter that Marjorie was faithfully beating.

"Oh, not all at once!" cried Kitty. "It should have been put in little by little."

"Can't help it now," said Midget, cheerfully. "I guess it won't matter. Now in with the flour, Kit; and you must have baking powder."

"I don't think Eliza put in any baking powder," said Kitty, dubiously.

"Oh, she must have!" said Midget. "That's what baking powder is for, -- to bake with. It's on that shelf, Kitty."

Kitty was uncertain about the baking powder, so took Marjorie's advice.

"But I don't know how much," she said, as she opened the tin box.

"About a tablespoonful to a cup of flour," said Marjorie. "I think I heard Mother say that once." She was not at all sure, but she greatly wanted to help Kitty if possible.

"All right," said Kitty, and having already put in three cups of flour, she added to the mixture three heaping tablespoonfuls of baking powder.

"Now for the raisins," she said.

"I didn't know sponge cake ever had raisins in it," said Marjorie.

"It doesn't, usually," said Kitty, "but I thought it would add an extra touch."

She stirred them in, and then they poured the batter into a cake tin.

"It does look lovely," said Midget, tasting it with a spoon. "It tastes pretty good, but not as good as it looks. I guess it'll be lovely when it's baked. Open the oven, King."

King threw open the oven door with a flourish, and the girls pushed the big pan inside.

"Shut it quick!" warned Kitty. "The cake falls unless you do! It must bake three-quarters of an hour."

And then they all waited patiently for the time to take it out.



Chapter XV

A Motor Ride


"Isn't it done yet?" asked King, after half an hour had elapsed.

"Nope," returned Kitty, positively. "It can't be done till three-quarters of an hour, and it's only a half."

"Smells done!" exclaimed Marjorie, sniffing "I believe it's burning, Kit."

"Pshaw, it can't be burning. That isn't a hot fire, is it, King?"

"No," replied King, after removing one of the range covers and scrutinizing the fire. "That's what the cook books call a moderate fire."

"Then that's all right," and Kitty wagged her head in satisfaction. "Sponge cake requires a mod-rit fire."

"But it's leaking out, Kitty!" cried Marjorie, dancing about the kitchen. "Oh, look, it's leaking out!"

Sure enough, smoke was coming out through the edges of the oven door, and a sticky substance began to ooze through.

"The door isn't shut quite tight," began Kitty, but before she could finish, King flung the oven door wide open.

"Better see what's up!" he said, and as the smoke poured out in a volume, and then cleared away a little, a strange sight confronted them.

The cake dough had apparently multiplied itself by ten, if not more. It had risen and run all over the sides of the pan, had dripped down through the grating to the bottom of the oven, and had bubbled up from there all over the sides and door. In fact the oven was lined with a sticky, sizzling, yellow material that had turned brown in some places, and was burned black in others.

"Something must have gone wrong," said Kitty, calmly, as she looked at the ruins. "I was almost sure it didn't need any baking powder. That's what blew it up so."

"H'm," said King. "I don't believe I care for any. Wonder what became of the raisins?"

"You can see them here and there," said Marjorie. "Those burned black spots are raisins. Phew! how it smokes! I'm going out."

"Let's call Ellen," said Kitty, "she said to."

Being summoned, Ellen arrived on the scene of action.

"Arrah, Miss Kitty," she said; "shure, an' I thought ye cuddent make cake. Now, why did ye thry, an' put all in such a pother? Belikes ye want to make me throuble."

"No, Ellen," said Kitty, smiling at her. "I didn't do it purposely for that. I thought it would be good. You see, I did make it once, and it was good."

"Ah, go 'long wid yez, -- all of yez! Shure I'll be afther clanin' up. An' niver a shcold I'll shcold yez if ye'll kape outen o' my kitchen afther this."

"Good for you, Ellen!" shouted King. "I thought you'd raise a row! Nice Ellen, good Ellen! Good-bye, Ellen!"

"Good-bye, ye bad babies! I'll make ye some tea-cakes now as ye can eat!"

"Isn't she a duck!" exclaimed Kitty.

"Oh, that's 'cause you're sort of company. If you hadn't been here, and we'd done that she'd have tuned up, all right!"

This was King's opinion, and Marjorie agreed with him. "We never go in the kitchen," she said. "I guess Ellen was so surprised she didn't know what to say."

"Well," said Kitty, quite undisturbed by the circumstances, "you see, at Grandma's, Eliza helps me, and sort of superintends what I put in."

"Yes, I see," said King. "Now you do a lot of cooking after you get back there, Kit, and try to learn your recipes better."

Kitty laughed and promised, and then the three children wandered into the dining-room to see what their elders were doing.

"Can't we start at once?" Cousin Ethel was saying. "Oh, here are the kiddies now! Come in, you three blessings in disguise! Do you want to go on a jamboree?"

"What's that?" asked Kitty.

"Oh, a lovely motor ride, with two cars, and stay all night, and lots of lovely things like that!"

"Oh, goody!" cried Marjorie. "Are we really going? Mother's been talking about a trip like that!"

"I guess we will," said Mr. Maynard. "We haven't had an Ourday for some time. How would you like to take the opportunity for one while we have Kitty-girl among us?"

"Gorgiferous! Gay!" cried Marjorie, and King threw his cap high in the air and caught it deftly on his head.

"When do we start?"

"As soon as we can get off," said Mr. Maynard, looking at his watch. "Scamper, you kiddies, and get into appropriate rigs."

"Oh, what fun!" cried Marjorie, as they flew upstairs. "What shall we wear, Mothery?"

"You'll find your frocks laid out in your rooms," said Mrs. Maynard, who was prepared for this question. "Then put on your motor coats and take your motor bonnets with you, -- but you needn't wear them unless you choose."

The girls danced away, and soon were in full regalia. They went flying downstairs to learn more of the particulars of the trip. Nurse Nannie and Rosy Posy were on the porch waiting, the little one greatly excited at thought of the journey.

"Oh, what a grand Ourday, Father!" cried Midget, giving him one of her most ferocious "bear hugs." "We have so much vacation down here, I thought we wouldn't catch any Ourdays!"

"Well, this is an extra thrown in for good measure. I suppose you don't care, Midget, which car you ride in?"

"Not a bit! We keep together, don't we?"

"Yes, as much as possible. Cousin Jack will drive his own car, and Pompton, of course, will drive ours."

"It all happened so swift I can hardly realize it," said Kitty. "Only a minute or two ago I was making cake in the kitchen, and now here I am!"

"Making what?" asked King, teasingly, but when he saw Kitty look red and embarrassed he turned the subject.

Kitty had told her mother about the cake episode, but Mrs. Maynard said it was an accident due to inexperience, and nothing further need be said about it.

"I'll divide up the passengers," said Cousin Jack as, with the two cars standing in front of the door, no one knew just which to get in.

"Ethel and I will take Marjorie and King with us, for I think Kitty will want to ride with her mother, and Babykins, too."

"All right," agreed Mr. Maynard, and then he packed Uncle Steve and Mrs. Maynard and Kitty on the back seat, Nannie and Rosamond next in front, and he climbed up beside Pompton.

Some suitcases and a basket of light luncheon were stowed away, and off they started, Ellen and Sarah waving to them from the steps as they flew down the drive. It was a perfect day for motoring. Not too hot, not too breezy, and no dust.

Their destination was Lakewood, but for quite a distance their road lay along by the shore before they turned inland.

Marjorie sat back, beside Cousin Ethel, and King sat in front with Cousin Jack.

"Let's play Roadside Euchre," said Midget.

"We go too fast for that," said King. "We couldn't see the things to count them."

"What is it, Mehitabel?" asked Cousin Jack. "We aren't going so very fast."

"Why, you count the things on each side of the road. You and I are on the right, you know, Cousin Jack, so we count all on this side. Then Cousin Ethel and King count all on their side."

"All what?"

"Well, a horse and vehicle counts one; a vehicle with two horses counts two; and a horse without any wagon or carriage counts five. An automobile counts ten; a herd of cows, fifteen; and a load of hay, twenty. A cat in a window counts twenty-five, and people count five apiece. Any animal, not a horse counts ten."

"But, as I am driving," said Cousin Jack, "I can turn either side, and so make them count as I like."

"No, you must turn just as you would, anyway. Of course, as you turn to the right, King and Cousin Ethel will count most of the vehicles we pass; but we'll make up some other way. Oh, here's a flock of chickens! I forgot to tell you, chickens count one each."

The motor seemed to go right through the flock of chickens, but Cousin Jack was a careful driver and didn't harm one of them. There was a terrific squawking and peeping and clucking as the absurd bipeds ran about in an utterly bewildered manner. The children and Cousin Ethel managed to count them fairly well, but Cousin Jack had to manage his motor.

"How many?" he asked as the last hen was left behind.

"Fourteen for our side," announced Midget, triumphantly.

"And nine for us," said King. "Never mind, we'll make up later."

But they kept fairly even. To be sure, when they met motor-cars, or any vehicles, they had to turn out to the right, which gave the count to King's side.

But on the other hand, motors sometimes passed them from behind, and if they went along on the right side they were Marjorie's count. Houses were as apt to be on one side as the other, and these added their count of dogs, cats, chickens, and cows, as well as occasional human beings.

Going through small towns was the most fun, for then it required quick counting to get all that belonged to them.

A flock of birds on either side was counted, but a flock of birds that crossed their path was omitted, as it would have counted the same for each.

The game grew more and more exciting. Sometimes one side would be more than a hundred ahead, and then the balance would swing back the other way. About six o'clock they neared Lakewood.

"The game stops as we turn into the main street," said Cousin Jack, "and the prize is this: whichever of you two children win shall select the dessert at the hotel dinner to-night."

"All right," said Marjorie, "but it isn't only us children. We each have a partner who must help us in the selection."

Cousin Jack agreed to this, and in a moment the car swung into the main street of Lakewood.

Midget and King, who had kept account of their hundreds on a bit of paper, began to add up, and it was soon found that Marjorie and Cousin Jack's side had won by about two hundred points.

"Good work!" cried King. "We losers congratulate you, and beg you'll remember that we love ice cream!"

They were following the Maynards' big car, and soon both cars stopped and all alighted and went into a beautiful hotel called "Holly-in-the-Woods."

"Oh, how lovely!" whispered Marjorie to Kitty, as she squeezed her sister's arm. "Isn't this fun, Kit?"

"I should say so!" returned Kitty. "The best Ourday ever!"

Then the children were whisked away to tidy up for dinner, and fresh white frocks were found in the suitcases. Midget and Kitty tied each other's ribbons, and soon were ready to go downstairs again. The Bryants met them in the hall, and took them down.

"Isn't it like Fairyland!" said Marjorie, enchanted by the palms and flowers and lights and music. She had never before been in such an elaborate hotel, and she wanted to see it all.

They walked about, and looked at the various beautiful rooms, and then Mr. and Mrs. Maynard came, and they all went to the dining-room.

A table had been reserved for them, and Marjorie felt very grown up and important as the waiter pushed up her chair. After their long ride, their appetites were quite in order to do justice to the good things put before them, and when it was time for dessert, Cousin Jack announced that he and Marjorie were a committee of two to select it.

"Though of course," he added, "any one who doesn't care for what we choose is entirely at liberty to choose something else."

So the two gravely studied the menu, and kept the others in suspense while they read over the long list. Many names were in French, but Marjorie skipped those.

"Ice cream," Kitty kept whispering, in low but distinct stage whispers; and at last Cousin Jack proposed to Midget that they choose what was billed as a "Lakewood Souvenir."

Marjorie had no idea what this might be, but she agreed, for she felt sure it was something nice.

And so it was, for it turned out to be ice cream, but so daintily put up in a little box that it was like a present. The box was carved with crinkly paper, and had a pretty picture of Lakewood scenery framed in gilt on the top. After every one had eaten his ice cream, the boxes were carried away as souvenirs.

Then they all went out and sat on the terrace while the elders had coffee. The three children did not drink coffee, so they were allowed to run around the grounds a little.

"How long are we going to stay here?" asked Kitty.

"Till to-morrow afternoon, I think," replied King. "I heard Father say he thought he'd do that."

"I think it's beautiful," said Midget, "but I'd just as lieve be riding, wouldn't you, Kit?"

"Oh, I don't care. I like 'em both, -- first one and then the other."

Kitty was of a contented disposition, and usually liked everything. But the other two were also easily pleased, and the three agreed that they didn't care whether they were motoring or staying at the lovely hotel.

"Now, then, little Maynards, bed for yours!" announced their father, as he came strolling out to find them.

"Father," said Marjorie, grasping his hand, "is this really an Ourday?"

"Yes, Midget; of course it is. You don't mind the Bryants sharing it, do you?"

"No, not a bit. Only, -- to-morrow can't I ride with you? If it's our Ourday, I like better to be by you."

"Of course you can!" cried Mr. Maynard, heartily. "We'll fix it somehow."

"But don't tell Cousin Ethel and Cousin Jack that I don't want to ride with them," went on Midget, "because it might hurt their feelings. But you know, -- when I thought I didn't have any father, -- I thought about all our Ourdays, and --  -- "

Midget's voice broke, and Mr. Maynard caught her to him.

"My darling little girl," he said, "I'm so glad you're back with us for our Ourdays, and you shall ride just where you want to."

"Let her take my place," said Kitty, kindly. "I'd just as lieve go in the other car, and I don't wonder Midget feels like that."

So it was settled that Kitty should ride with the Bryants next day, and then the three children were sent to bed, while the elders stayed up a few hours later.

The girls had a large room, with two beds, and with a delightful balcony, on which a long French window opened.

"Isn't it wonderful?" said Marjorie, softly, as she stepped over the sill, and stood in the soft moonlight, looking down on the hotel flower gardens.

"Yes, indeedy," agreed Kitty; "I say, Mops, I'd like to jump down, flip! into that geranium bed!"

"Oh, Kitty, what a goose you are! Don't do such a thing!"

"I'm not going to. I only said I'd like to; and I'd play it was a sea, -- a geranium sea, and I'd swim around in it."

"Kit, you're crazy! Come on to bed, before you do anything foolish."

"I'm not going to do it, really, Mops! but I like to imagine it. I'd waft myself off of this balcony, and waft down to the scarlet of the geraniums and fall in."

"Yes, and be picked up with two broken legs and a sprained ankle!"

"Well -- and then I'd see a little boat, on the red geranium sea, -- I'd be a fairy, you know, -- and I'd get in the little boat --  -- "

"You come and get in your little bed, Miss Kitty," said Nannie, from the window, and laughing gayly, the two girls went in and went to bed.

"Anyway, I'm going to dream of that red geranium bed," announced Kitty, as she cuddled into the smooth, white sheets.

"All right," said Midget, drowsily; "dream anything you like."



Chapter XVI

Red Geraniums


Wearied by the journey, and the fun of it, Marjorie fell at once into a deep, quiet sleep. Kitty's sleep was deep, too, but not quiet. The child tossed around and waved her arms, muttering about a geranium sea, and a little boat on it.

Nurse Nannie puttered about the room for some time, picking up things, and laying out the girls' clothes for the next day. Then she put out the lights and went away to her own room.

It was, perhaps, ten o'clock when Kitty threw back the bedclothing, and slowly got out of bed. She was sound asleep, and she walked across the room with a wavering, uncertain motion, but went straight to the French window, which was still part way open.

Kitty had sometimes walked in her sleep before, but it was not really a habit with her, and the family had never thought it necessary to safeguard her.

It was a still, warm night, and when she stepped out on the balcony, there was no breeze or waft of cool air to awaken her.

She paused at the low rail of the little balcony, and murmured, "Oh, the lovely soft red flowers! I will lie down on them!" and over the railing she went, plump down into the geranium bed!

As is well known, a fall is not apt to hurt a somnambulist, for the reason that in sleep the muscles are entirely relaxed; but the jar woke Kitty, and she found herself, clad only in her little white nightgown, lying in the midst of the red blossoms.

She did not scream; on the contrary, she felt a strange sense of delight in the odorous flowers and the scent of the warm, soft earth.

But in a moment she realized what had happened, and scrambled up into a sitting posture.

"My gracious! it's Kit!" exclaimed a voice, and from among the group of people on the veranda Cousin Jack ran down to her. The others followed, and in a moment Kitty was surrounded by her own people. She flew to her mother's arms, and Cousin Ethel quickly drew off her own evening wrap and put it around Kitty.

"How did you happen to fall?" asked her father, who soon saw she was not hurt, or even badly jarred.

"I was asleep, I guess," Kitty returned; "anyway I dreamed that I wanted to jump in the red geranium sea, -- so I jumped."

"You jumped! out of the window?"

"Yes, -- that is, off of the little balcony. You see, I was asleep until I landed. Then I found out where I was."

Kitty was quite calm about it, and cuddled into the folds of Cousin Ethel's satin cloak, while she told her story.

"Of course, I shouldn't have jumped if I had been awake," she said; "but you can't help what you do in your sleep, can you?"

"No," said Uncle Steve; "you weren't a bit to blame, Kitsie, and I'm thankful you came down so safely. But I think that window must be fastened before you go to sleep again. One such escapade is enough for one night."

The other guests on the veranda looked curiously at the group, but Kitty was protected from view by her own people, and, too, the big cloak hid all deficiencies of costume.

"Well, we have to get used to these unexpected performances," said Mr. Maynard, "but I do believe my children are more ingenious than others in trumping up new games."

"We are," said Kitty, "but usually it's Midget who does the crazy things. King and I don't cut up jinks much."

"That's so," agreed Uncle Steve. "Last summer Miss Mischief kept us all in hot water. But this year, Kitsie has been a model of propriety. She never walks out of second-story windows when she's at our house. I guess I'd better take her back there."

"Not to-morrow," said Kitty. "Wait till next day, won't you, Uncle Steve?"

"All right; day after to-morrow, then. But we mustn't stay away from Grandma longer than that."

"And now I think our adventurous little explorer must go back to her dreams," said Mrs. Maynard. "Who wants to carry her upstairs?"

As Uncle Steve was the biggest and strongest of the three men, he picked up the young sleepwalker, and started off with her. Mrs. Maynard followed, and they soon had Kitty safely in bed again, with the French window securely fastened against any further expeditions.

The mother sat by the little girl until she went to sleep, and this time her slumber was untroubled by dreams of geranium seas with fairy boats on them.

Next morning, Marjorie was greatly interested in Kitty's story.

"Oh, Kit," she exclaimed, "I wish I had seen you step off! Though, of course, if I had seen you, you wouldn't have done it! For I should have waked you up. Well, it's a wonder you didn't smash yourself. Come on, let's hurry down and look at that flower bed."

But by the time the girls got down there, the hotel gardener had remade the flower bed, and it now looked as if no one had ever set foot on it.

"Pshaw!" said Marjorie, "they've fixed it all up, and we can't even see where you landed. Did it make a big hole, Kit?"

"I don't know, Mops. About as big as I am, I suppose. Can't you imagine it?"

Marjorie laughed. "Yes, I can imagine you landing there, in your nightgown and bare feet! How you must have looked!"

"I s'pose I did. But, somehow, Mops, when I found myself there, it didn't seem queer at all. I just wanted to float on the red flowers."

"Kit, I do believe you're half luny," observed King; "you have the craziest ideas. But I'm jolly glad you didn't get hurt, you old sleep-trotter!" and the boy pulled his sister's curls to express his deep affection and gratitude for her safety.

Kitty was none the worse for her fall. The soft loam of the newly made flower bed had received her gently, and not even a bruise had resulted.

But the elders decided that hereafter the exits from Kitty's bedroom must be properly safeguarded at night, as no one could tell when the impulse of sleep-walking might overtake her.

There was plenty to do at Lakewood. Uncle Steve took the children for a brisk walk through the town, and bought them souvenirs of all sorts. The shops displayed tempting wares, and the girls were made happy by bead necklaces and pretty little silk bags, while King rejoiced in queer Indian relics found in a curio shop. Then back to the hotel, for a game of tennis and a romp with Cousin Jack, and in the afternoon a long motor ride, with occasional stops for ice cream soda or peanuts.

And the next day Kitty and Uncle Steve went home. They concluded to take the train from Lakewood, and not return again to Seacote.

"Grandma will be getting anxious to see us," Uncle Steve declared. "I did not intend to stay as long as this when I left home."

"Good-bye, old Kitsie," said Midget; "don't walk into any more red seas, and write to me often, won't you?"

"Yes, I will, Midge; but you don't write very often, yourself."

"I know it; it's a sort of a bother to write letters. But I love to get them."

"Well, the summer will be over pretty soon," returned Kitty, "and then we'll all be back in Rockwell."

The Maynard children were philosophical, and so they parted with cheery good-byes, and the train steamed away with Uncle Steve and Kitty waving from the window.

"Now, for our own plans," said Mr. Maynard. "What shall we do next, Jack?"

"I know what I'd like," said Cousin Ethel.

"What is it, my Angel?" asked her husband. "You may most certainly have anything you want."

"Well, instead of going right back to Seacote, I'd like to go to Atlantic City."

"You would!" said Mr. Bryant. "And would you like to go around by Chicago, and stop at San Francisco on your way home?"

"No," said Cousin Ethel, laughing; "and I don't think Atlantic City is so very far. We could go there to-day, stay over to-morrow, and back to Seacote the day after. What do you think, Jack?"

"I think your plan is great! And I'm more than ready to carry it out, if these Maynards of ours agree to it."

"I'd like it," declared Marjorie. "I've never been to Atlantic City."

"But it isn't exactly a summer place, is it?" asked Mrs. Maynard.

"Neither is Lakewood," said Cousin Ethel. "But it's a cool spell just now, and I think it would be lots of fun to run down there."

"All right," said Mr. Maynard, "let's run."

And run they did. Considering they had nine people and two motors, and several suitcases to look after, they displayed admirable expedition in getting started, and just at dusk they came upon the brilliant radiance of the lights of Atlantic City.

"This was a fine idea of yours, Ethel," said Mrs. Maynard. "This place looks very attractive."

"Oh, isn't it!" cried Marjorie. "I think it's grand! Can't we stay up late to-night, Mother?"

"You may stay up till nine o'clock, Midget, and we'll go down and see the crowds on the Boardwalk."

So after dinner they went down to the gay thoroughfare known as the Boardwalk. It was crowded with merry, laughing, chattering people, and Midget danced along in an ecstasy of enjoyment.

"I never saw such a lot of people!" she exclaimed. "Where are they all going?"

"Nowhere in particular," said her father. "They're just out here to look at each other and enjoy themselves."

"See those funny chairs, on rollers," went on Midget. "Oh, can't we ride in them? Everybody else does."

"Of course we must," said her father. "It's part of the performance."

He engaged three rolling chairs, and as each chair held two people, he said, "How shall we divide up?"

"I'll take Mehitabel," said Cousin Jack, "and Hezekiah can go with my wife. Then you two elder Maynards can use the third. How's that?"

This arrangement was satisfactory and they started off, a strong man pushing each chair.

"Don't you think this is fun, Cousin Jack?" asked Marjorie, as she watched the crowds and the lights, and Old Ocean rolling big black waves up on the shore.

"Yes, Mehitabel, I think it's gay. There's a certain something at this place that you never see anywhere else."

"Yes, it's quite different from Seacote, isn't it? Everybody here seems to be in a hurry."

"That's only because it's such a big and lively crowd. Here we are at the pier. I think we'd better go in and hear the music."

So they dismissed the chairmen, and went far down the long pier to listen to a concert.

A children's dance was being held, and Marjorie sat down, enraptured at the sight.

Lots of boys and girls about her own age, in fancy costumes, were dancing and pirouetting in time with the fine music. One little girl, especially, Marjorie admired. She was a pretty child, in a white frock and blue sash, and she wore a wreath of small rosebuds on her curly, flaxen hair. She seemed to be the best of all the dancers, and twice she danced alone, doing marvellous fancy steps and receiving great applause from the audience.

"Isn't she lovely!" exclaimed Midget. "I wish I could dance like that."

"You never can, Mopsy," said King. "You're too heavy. That girl is a featherweight."

"She looks nice," said Midget. "I'd like to know her."

And then, as it was nearing nine o'clock, they left the dancing pavilion, and made their way back to their hotel.

Marjorie kept close to her parents, for the crowd seemed to grow denser all the time, and if she lost sight of her people, she feared she'd be swept away from them forever.

They were staying at Madden Hall, and as they reached it, there, too, music was being played, and some people were dancing in the big ballroom. But there were no children about, so Midget trotted off to bed cheerfully, with lots of pleasant anticipations for the morrow.

At breakfast, next morning, she was looking around the dining room, when she spied the same little girl who had danced so prettily the night before.

"Oh, Mother," she exclaimed, "there she is! That pretty girl that danced. See, at the next table but two. Yes, it is the same one!"

"Sure it is," agreed King. "She's staying here. Perhaps we can get acquainted with her, Mops."

"Could we, Mother? Would it be right?"

"We'll see about it," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling at her impulsive daughter. After breakfast the Maynard party walked out on the veranda, and Midget soon saw the little girl, in a big rocking chair not far away.

"May I go over and speak to her, Mother?" she said.

"Why, yes, Midget, if you like. She looks like a nice child. Run along."

So Midget went over and took the next rocking chair, for there were many chairs, ranged in long rows.

"I came over to talk to you," she said; "I saw you dance last night, and I think you do dance lovely."

"Do you?" said the little girl. She seemed diffident, but pleased at Marjorie's words. "You see, it was a Children's Carnival, and Mamma let me dance. I never danced in a place like that before, and I was a little scared at first."

"You didn't look scared. You just looked lovely. What's your name? Mine's Marjorie Maynard. I live in Rockwell, when I'm home."

"Mine's Ruth Rowland, and I live in Philadelphia, when I'm home. But we're spending the summer in Seacote. We just came down here for a week."

"In Seacote! Why, that's where we're spending the summer. We have a house on Fairway Avenue."

"Oh, I know that house. I remember seeing you there when I've passed by. Isn't it funny that we should happen to meet here! We live farther down, past the pier, you know."

"Yes, I know. Will you come to see me after we both get back there?"

"Yes, indeed I will. When are you going back?"

"To-morrow, I think. When are you?"

"In a few days. Do you know Cicely Ross?"

"No, I don't know very many children in Seacote. Do you know the Craig boys?"

"No. I guess we don't know the same people. But I know Hester Corey, and you do, too, 'cause I've seen her playing in your yard."

"Oh, yes, Hester plays with us a lot."

"She's a funny girl, isn't she?"

"Well, she's nice sometimes, and sometimes she isn't. Here's my brother King. King, this is Ruth Rowland, and what do you think? She lives in Seacote! I mean, for the summer she's staying there."

"Good!" cried King. "We can play together then, after we go back."

The three children rapidly became good friends, and soon Ruth proposed that they all go for a ride in a roller chair.

"They have wide chairs," she said, "that will hold all three of us."

Midget ran to ask her mother if they might do this, but Mrs. Maynard was not willing that the children should go alone.

"But Nannie and Rosamond may go, too, in another chair," she said, "and then I shall feel that you are looked after."

So down to the Boardwalk they went, and Nurse Nannie and Rosy Posy took one chair, and the three children took another. They selected a wide one which gave them plenty of room, and off they started.

It was a lovely, clear day, and the blue sky and the darker blue ocean met at the far distant horizon, with whitecaps dotted all over the crests of the waves. A few ships and steamers were to be seen, but mostly the children's attention was attracted to the scenes on shore.

"I thought it was lovely last night," said Midget, "but it's even nicer now. The booths and shops are so gay and festive, and the ladies all look so pretty in their summer frocks and bright parasols."

They stopped occasionally, for soda water or candy, and once they stopped at a camera place and had their pictures taken in the rolling chairs.

King proposed this, because he saw a great many people doing it, and as the man finished up the pictures at once, the children were delighted with the postcards.

"I'll send one to Kit," said Midget, "she'll love it. And I'll send one to Grandma Maynard."

Ruth had several of the pictures, too, and she said she should send some to friends in Philadelphia.

"She's an awfully nice girl," said Marjorie to her mother, when telling of their morning's doings. "I'm so glad she's at Seacote. We're going to have lots of fun when we get back."

"I'm glad, too," said Mrs. Maynard. "For you have so few acquaintances there, and Ruth is certainly a very sweet child."



Chapter XVII

What Hester Did


"I won't have her!" declared Hester. "I'm Queen of this Court, and I won't have any new members taken in. You had no right, Marjorie Maynard, to ask her to belong, without consulting me!"

"Why, Hester, I had so! You may be Queen, but you don't own the whole Sand Club! And Ruth Rowland is a lovely girl. How can you dislike her, when you know how sweet and pretty she is. She says she knows you."

"Yes, I do know her. Stuck-up, yellow-haired thing!"

Sand Court was in full session, and all had been going on amicably until Marjorie had chanced to mention meeting Ruth at Atlantic City, and said she had asked her to come to the Sand Club meetings. At this, Hester had flown into one of her rages, and declared that Ruth should not become a member of their little circle.

"Look here, Hester Corey," said Tom Craig, "you promised, if you could be Queen, to be always sweet and pleasant. Do you call this keeping your promise?"

"Pooh, who cares! I only promised, if the club stayed just the same. If you're going to put in a lot of new members without asking me, my promise doesn't count."

"Ruth isn't 'a lot,'" said Marjorie, laughing at Hester's fury.

But her laughter only made Queen Sandy more angry than ever.

"I don't care if she isn't! She's a new member, and I won't have any new members, -- so, there, now!"

"Say, Hester," began King, "I don't think you're boss of this club. Just because you're Queen, you don't have any more say than the Grand Sandjandrum, or me, or anybody."

"I do, too! A Queen has all the say, -- about everything! And I say there sha'n't be any more people in this club, and so there sha'n't!"

Hester stamped her foot and shook her fist and wagged her head in the angriest possible way, and if the others hadn't been so exasperated by her ill-temper they must have laughed at the funny picture she made. Her new crown was tumbled sideways, her hair ribbons had come off, and her face, flushed red and angry, was further disfigured by a disagreeable scowl.

And just at this moment Ruth arrived. She came in, smiling, neatly dressed in a clean print frock, and broad straw hat with a wreath of flowers round it.

"Hello, Marjorie," she said, a little shyly, for she didn't know the Craig boys, and she couldn't help seeing that Hester was in a fit of temper.

"Hello, Ruth," said Marjorie, running to her, and taking her by the hand. "Come on in; this is Sand Court. These are the Craig boys, -- Tom, Dick, and Harry. And this is our Queen, -- but I think you know Hester Corey."

"Yes," began Ruth, but Hester cried out: "I don't want her to know me! She sha'n't join our club, I say!"

Ruth looked bewildered at first, and then her sweet little face wrinkled up, and the tears came into her big blue eyes.

"Don't cry, Ruth," said Midget, putting her arm round her; "Hester is sort of mad this morning, but I guess she'll get over it. Don't mind her."

"I won't get over it," screamed Hester. "I'm not going to have Ruth Rowland in this club!"

"For goodness gracious sakes, children, what is the matter?"

A grown-up voice exclaimed these words, and then Mr. Jack Bryant entered Sand Court. He took in the situation at a glance, but pretended to be ignorant of the true state of things.

"What's up, O Queen?" he said, addressing Hester. "Oh, sunny-faced, honey-voiced Queen of Sand Court, what, I prithee, is up?"

"Nothing," growled Hester, looking sullen.

"Nay, nay, not so, sweet Queen; I bethink me there is much up, indeed! Else why these unusual consternations on the faces of thy courtiers?"

Of course, Cousin Jack knew all about the doings of Sand Court. He had often been with them, and delighted them all by talking "Court language," but to-day nobody responded to his pleasantry. Ruth and Marjorie were on the verge of tears, the boys were all angry at Hester, and Hester herself was in one of her wildest furies.

She refused to answer Cousin Jack, and sat on her throne, shrugging her shoulders and twitching about, with every cross expression possible on her pouting face. Mr. Bryant became more serious.

"Children," he said, "this won't do. This Sand Club is a jolly, good-natured club, usually, and now that I see you all at sixes and sevens, I want to know what's the matter. Midget, will you tell me?"

"I want Ruth Rowland to be in our club," said Marjorie, straightforwardly; "and Hester doesn't want her. And Hester says that because she is Queen, we must all do as she says."

"Ah, ha; urn, hum. Well, Hester, my dear child, why don't you want Ruth in the club?"

"Because I don't!" and the Queen looked more disagreeable than ever.

"Because you don't! Well, now, you see, my dear, that is just no reason at all, so Ruth can be a member, as far as you're concerned."

"No, she can't! I won't have her in!"

"Why?"

"Because I don't like her!"

"Ah, now we're getting at it. And suppose any of the club shouldn't like you; then you couldn't be a member, could you?"

"They do like me!" declared Hester.

"Like you! like you! A girl that flies into rages, and says unkind things? Oh, no, nobody could like a girl like that! Now, I'll fix it. You, Hester, won't have Ruth in the club, you say. Well, then if you're not in the club yourself, of course Ruth could come in. So, the rest of the club can choose which of you two girls they'd rather have, as it seems impossible to have you both. King, as the oldest, I'll ask you first. Will you choose to have Hester or Ruth in this club?"

"Ruth," said King, promptly. "She doesn't quarrel all the time."

"Next, Tom. Which do you choose?"

"Ruth," replied Tom.

"Why, Tom Craig!" cried Hester, in surprise; "you never saw that girl till to-day!"

"No, but I've seen you," he replied; "and I can tell you, Hester, I'm tired of these scraps you're always putting up! I believe we'll have better times with Ruth Rowland."

"Marjorie," Cousin Jack went on, "which girl do you choose?"

"I'd like them both," said Midget, who couldn't quite bring herself to denounce Hester entirely.

"But Hester won't have Ruth. You must choose one or the other."

"Then I choose Ruth, Cousin Jack. For Hester does make me a lot of trouble."

Midget sighed deeply, for, truly, Hester had caused strife in the club from its very beginning.

The two smaller boys voted decidedly for Ruth, and then Cousin Jack turned to Hester.

"You see," he said, but not unkindly, "the club has unanimously expressed its preference for Ruth. I don't see that you can do anything but take your hat and go home."

Hester looked at him in amazement.

"What do you mean?" she cried. "I won't go home! I'm Queen, and I'll stay here and be Queen! Ruth can go home!"

"No," said Mr. Bryant, more decidedly this time; "Ruth is not going home. You're to go home, Hester. I happen to know that the Maynard children and the Craig boys have already shown patience and unselfishness toward your tyranny and unreasonableness -- now, they're not going to be imposed on any longer. I'll have a voice in this matter myself. Either you'll stay in the club and agree to have Ruth for a member also, and be pleasant and kind to her, or else you can take your hat and go home."

Mr. Bryant spoke quietly, but very firmly. He knew all the club had been through, in putting up with Hester's tantrums, and he thought it only fair that they should be relieved of this troublesome member.

"I won't have Ruth in," she repeated, but she dropped her eyes before Mr. Bryant's stern glance.

"I'm sorry, Hester, but if you won't have Ruth in, then you must go home, yourself, and I will ask you to go at once."

"All right, I'm glad to go!" and Hester pulled off her crown and threw it on the ground, and stamped on it. Then she broke in two her pretty gilt sceptre, and threw that down. She flung her hat on her head and marched out of Sand Court with angry glances at each one. She flirted her skirts and twitched her shoulders, and though she said nothing, she was as furious a little girl as can well be imagined.

Ruth was almost frightened, for she was unaccustomed to such scenes. Nor were the Maynards used to them, except as they had seen Hester in her rages now and then.

Cousin Jack looked after the child a little sadly. He was sorry that she could behave so, but he had made up his mind that Midget and King had been imposed on by Hester for a long time, and he had determined to put a stop to it. The advent of Ruth gave a good opportunity, and he availed himself of it.

A silence fell on them all. They watched Hester as she slowly went out of Sand Court.

But as she started across the lawn, she saw a garden hose with which a man had been sprinkling the grass. He had gone off and left it lying on the ground, partly turned off.

Hester picked it up, turned it on to run full force, and whirling herself quickly around pointed it straight at Ruth. In a moment the child was-soaked, -- her pretty fresh dress hung limp and wet, her curls were drenched, and the swift stream of water in her face almost knocked her over.

Marjorie sprang to Ruth's side, and received a drenching herself.

King ran to Hester to take the hose from her, but she turned it full in his face and sent him sprawling to the ground.

The Craig boys were treated the same way, and when Mr. Bryant manoeuvred to get behind Hester and pinion her arms, she wheeled and sent the splashing stream all over him.

"You little vixen!" cried Cousin Jack, as, unheeding the water, he grasped her right arm.

But the child was wonderfully agile and like an eel she squirmed out of his grasp, and wielding her ungainly weapon with her left hand, she again sprayed the water on the two girls.

"You stop that, Hester Corey!" yelled King, as he scrambled to his feet, and in another moment he and Cousin Jack succeeded in getting the hose away from Hester.

"She ought to have it turned on her!" said Cousin Jack, looking at the little fury, now dancing up and down in her angry rage. "But, I don't want anything more to do with you, miss. Go home at once, and tell your mother all that has happened."

Glad to get away without further reprimand, Hester, her wrath spent now, walked slowly across the lawn and out of the gate.

"She's a terror!" Cousin Jack commented; "now forget it, kiddies, and let's go into the house and get dried out. Are you girlies much wet?"

"Not so awfully," replied Marjorie. "Mostly our hair and, oh, yes, the front of Ruth's skirt is soaked!"

"Well, we'll build a fire in the library, and hang ourselves up to dry. Come on, all you Sand boys and girls."

They went in the house, and while they dried their hair and clothes, Cousin Jack told them funny stories and made no mention of Hester or of the Sand Club.

"Now we're going to play a game," he announced, after everybody was dry, and the fire had died away to ashes. "Here are the things to play it with."

He produced what looked like some rolls of ribbon, and six pairs of scissors. But it wasn't ribbon, it was the white paper that comes rolled in with ribbon, when bought by the piece. This paper was about an inch wide and he had enough to cut six pieces, each about ten feet long.

These pieces he fastened by one end to the wainscoting with thumb tacks, and giving the other end of each piece to one of the children, he bade them stand in a row, far enough away to hold their paper strips out straight across the room.

Then, at his given signal, each one was to begin to cut, with the scissors, straight through the middle of the paper, lengthwise, the game being to cut clear to the end without tearing the paper. Of course, if carefully done, this would divide each paper into two strips of equal width.

But the game was also to see which reached the end first, and the winner was promised a prize. If the scissors inadvertently cut off either strip, the player was "out."

"Go!" cried Cousin Jack, "and strive only for the greatest speed consistent with safety. If you go too fast, you're very likely to snip off your strips; and if you go too slow, somebody else will beat you. Hurry up, Ruth, you're going evenly, but you'll never get there at that rate! Oh, hold up, Harry! if you go so fast you'll snip it off. You're terribly close to one edge, now! Ah, there you go! one strip is chopped right off. Well, never mind, my boy, stand here by me, and watch the others. What, Tom out, too? Well, well, Tom, the more haste the less speed! Careful, Midget, you'll be out in a minute. There you go! Out it is, for Mehitabel! Well, we have three still in the running. Easy does it, King! You're getting along finely. Hurry up, Ruth. You can go faster than that, and still be safe. Dick just says nothing and saws wood. That's it, Dick, slow and sure!"

Those who were "out" watched the others with breathless interest. It would have been an easy task had there been no competition. To cut a long paper into two strips is not difficult, but to cut that paper in haste, with others looking on and commenting, is more trying. The scissors seem bewitched. The paper twists and curls, and one's fingers seem to be all thumbs. King was doing well, but he gave an impatient jerk as the paper curled round his finger, and then he was out.

Dick worked steadily, and Ruth plodded slowly along.

As they neared the end at the same time the watchers grew greatly excited.

"I bet on Ruth!" cried King; "go it, Ruth! get up! g'lang there!"

"Go on, Dick," cried Marjorie. "Clk! Clk! go 'long!"

On sped the cutters, but just as it seemed as if they must finish at the same time, Dick gave a little nervous jerk at his paper, and it tore right off.

"Oh," said Midget, "you're out, Dicksie!"

And then Ruth, slowly and carefully, cut the last few inches of her paper, and held up her two strips triumphantly. She looked so sweet and happy about it that they all declared she ought to have been the winner, and Dick said, shyly: "I'm glad you won."

The prize was a shell box that Cousin Jack had brought from Atlantic City, and Ruth dimpled with pleasure as she took it.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Bryant," she said, prettily; "I never won a prize before, and I shall always keep it."

"I'm glad you won it, Ruth," said Cousin Jack, "and I want you to let it help you forget any unpleasantness of to-day. Will you forget all that happened at Sand Court, and just remember that the Maynards and the Craigs are kind and polite children, and never mind about anybody else. And come again some time, and play in Sand Court, won't you? And I'll promise you a good and pleasant time."

Ruth agreed gladly to all this, and then she went home, so happy that the memory of her pleasant hours made her almost forget Hester's rudeness.

"Now, kiddies," said Mr. Bryant, after she had gone, "I want you, too, to forget all about Hester's performance. Don't talk it over, and don't say hard things of Hester. Just forget it, and think about something nice."

"All right, Cousin Jack," said Midget, "we'll do as you say. Come on, boys, let's race down to the beach!"

The children ran away, and after a consultation with Mrs. Maynard, Mr. Bryant set out to make a call on Mrs. Corey.

His was not a pleasant task, but he felt it his duty to tell her frankly of Hester's behavior, and to say that Mr. and Mrs. Maynard couldn't allow her further to impose on their children. Mrs. Corey didn't resent this decree, but she was greatly pained at the necessity therefor.

"I don't know what to do with Hester," she said, sadly. "The child has always been subject to those ungovernable rages. I hope she will outgrow them. I feel sorry for her, for it is not really her fault. She tries to be more patient, and sometimes succeeds; then suddenly her temper breaks out at most unexpected moments."

Mr. Bryant did not say what he thought; that Hester was a spoiled child, and that had her mother taught her how sinful such a temper was, she could have learned to control it, at least, to a degree.

But he said that the Maynards could not allow Hester to come to Sand Court any more, unless with the thorough understanding and agreement that Ruth was to be a member of the Sand Club, and that Marjorie was to be Queen again. He said that Hester had forfeited all right to be Queen, and that as Midget practically formed the club, the right to be Queen was hers.

Mrs. Corey agreed to all this, expressed great chagrin that Hester had acted so rudely, and promised to talk to the child and try to induce a better spirit of kindness and good comradeship.

And Cousin Jack went away, feeling that he had served the little Maynards a good turn, if it had been a difficult and unpleasant duty to perform.



Chapter XVIII

A Fine Game


One Saturday morning, the Maynards and the Bryants sat on the veranda of "Maynard Manor," and every one of them was gazing at the sky.

"It will, -- I know it will," said Mrs. Maynard, hopelessly.

"It won't, -- I know it won't!" exclaimed Marjorie, smiling at her mother.

"It's bound to," declared Cousin Jack, "and there's no use thinking it won't!"

Of course, they were talking about the rain, which hadn't yet begun to fall, but which, judging from the ominous gray sky and black clouds, would soon do so.

"Yep, there are the first drops now!" cried King, as some black spots suddenly appeared on the veranda steps.

"Yep! that settles it!" Marjorie agreed, "we'll have to give up the trip. What can we do, nice, instead?"

They had planned an all-day motor trip. Mr. Maynard was always at home on Saturdays, and he liked nothing better than to take his family and friends for a ride.

"The nicest thing just now would be to scoot indoors!" said Cousin Jack, as the drops came faster and thicker, and a gust of wind sent the rain dashing at them.

So they all scurried into the house, and gathered in the big living-room to discuss the situation.

"It does seem too bad to have it rain on a Saturday," said Cousin Ethel, looking regretfully out of the window.

"Rain, rain, go away, come again another day," chanted Midget, drumming on the pane with her finger tips.

"Oh, if I were a kiddy, I shouldn't mind it," said Cousin Jack, teasingly, to Marjorie. "There are lots of things you can play. But us poor grown-ups have no fun to look forward to but motoring, and now we can't do that."

"Oh, if I were a grown-up, I shouldn't mind it," said Midget, laughing back at him. "Grown-ups can do anything they like, but kiddies have to do as they're told."

"Ah, yes," and Cousin Jack sighed deeply, "but we have sorrows and cares that you know nothing of."

"Yes," returned Marjorie, "and we have sorrows and cares that you know nothing of! I'd like you to change places with us for a day, and see --  -- "

"All right, we will!" exclaimed Cousin Jack. "That's a fine game! For to-day, we grown-ups will be the children and you and King can play mother and father to us!"

"Oh, what larks!" cried King. "Let's begin right away! Will you, Mother?"

Mrs. Maynard laughed. "I'll try it," she said, "but not for all day. Say till afternoon."

"Well, till five o'clock this afternoon," suggested Marjorie; "will you, Father, will you?"

"I'll play any game the rest play," said good-natured Mr. Maynard. "What do you want me to do?"

"Well, you must obey us implicitly! King is Father, and I'm Mother, and you four are our children; Helen and Ed, and Ethel and Jack, your names are! Oh, what fun! King, what shall we do first?"

"Hear their lessons, I guess. Now, my dears, I know it's vacation, but you really ought to study a little each day, to keep your minds from rusting out."

This was a favorite speech of Mrs. Maynard's, and as King quoted it, with a twinkle in his eye, it was recognized at once, at least, by the four Maynards.

"All right," cried Marjorie, dancing about in excitement, "sit in a row, children. Why, Ed, your hands are a sight! Go at once, and wash them, my boy, and never appear before me again with such an untidy appearance!"

Mr. Maynard obediently left the room, and when he returned a few moments later, his hands were immaculately clean. Also, he was munching a cooky, apparently with great delight.

"Give me one!" demanded Cousin Jack.

"And me!" "And me!" begged both the ladies, trying to act like eager children. Mr. Maynard drew more cookies from his pockets and gave them to the others, not, however, including King and Marjorie.

"Now, children, finish your cookies, but don't drop crumbs on the floor," said Midget, choking with laughter at Cousin Jack, who was cramming large bits of his cake into his mouth.

"Please, Mother, may I go and get a drink of water?" he mumbled.

"Yes, Jack, go. And then don't ever take such big bites of cooky again! You children have the worst manners I ever saw!"

And then each one had to have a drink of water, and there was much laughter and scrambling before they were again in order for their lessons.

"Geography, first," said King, picking up a magazine to serve as a pretended text-book.

"Edward, bound Missouri."

"Missouri is bounded on the north, -- by, -- by, -- Kansas, I guess."

"Pshaw! he doesn't know his lesson! let me say it!" exclaimed Cousin Jack. "Missouri is bounded on the north by Kentucky, on the east by Alabama, on the south by New Jersey, and on the west by Philadelphia. It is a great cotton-growing state, and contains six million inhabitants, mostly Hoosiers."

"Fine!" cried Marjorie, "every word correct! Next, Ethel, what is the Capital of the United States?"

"Seacote," said Cousin Ethel, laughing.

"Sure it is!" agreed King; "now that's enough jography. Next, we'll have arithmetic. Helen, how much is eighteen times forty-seven?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Maynard, helplessly.

"Don't know your multiplication table! Fie, fie, my dear! You must stay in after school and study it. Edward, how much is eighteen times forty-seven?"

"Six hundred and fifty-nine, Father."

"Right, my boy! Go up head."

"Now, I'll give an example," said Midget. "If Edward has three eggs and Jack has two eggs, how many have they together?"

"Can't do it!" declared Cousin Jack, "'cause Ed and I are never together at breakfast, and that's the only time we have eggs!"

"Then here's another!" cried Midget; "how can you divide thirteen apples evenly among four people?"

"You can't!" said Cousin Jack, "that's the answer."

"No, it isn't! Who knows?"

"Invite in nine more people," suggested Mr. Maynard.

"No; that's not it! Oh, it's easy! Don't you know, Mother? I mean, Helen?"

But they all gave it up, so Marjorie announced the solution, which is, "Make apple sauce!"

"History lesson, now," said King. "Edward, who discovered America?"

"Pocahontas," replied Mr. Maynard.

"Right. Who was Pocahontas?"

"A noble Indian Princess, who was born July 29th, 1563."

"Very good. Ethel, describe the Battle of Bunker Hill."

"I can't; I wasn't there."

"You should have gone," reprimanded King, severely. "Didn't you read the newspaper accounts of it?"

"Yes, but I didn't believe them."

"Jack Bryant, can you describe this famous battle?"

"Yes, sir. It was fought under the shadow of the Bunker Hill Monument. At sundown the shadow ceased, so they all said, 'Disperse ye rebels, and lay down your arms!' So they laid down their arms and went to sleep."

"Very well done, Master Bryant. Now, we're going to speak pieces. Each pupil will speak a piece or write a composition. You may take your choice."

"I'll speak a piece! Let me speak first!" exclaimed Cousin Ethel, jumping up and down. "May I speak now, Teacher!"

"Yes, Ethel, dear," said Midget, kindly; "you may speak your piece first. Stand up here, by me. Make your bow."

So Cousin Ethel came up to Marjorie, and acted like a very shy and bashful child. She put her finger in her mouth, and dropped her eyes and wriggled about, and picked at her skirt, until everybody was in peals of laughter.

"Be quiet, children," said Midget, trying to control her own face. "Now, everybody sit still while Ethel Bryant recites."

Cousin Ethel made a very elaborate dancing-school bow, and then, swaying back and forth in school-child fashion, she recited in a monotonous singsong, these lines:

"Mud Pies

"The grown-ups are the queerest folks; they never seem to know That mud pies always have to be made just exactly so. You have to have a nice back yard, a sunny pleasant day, And then you ask some boys and girls to come around and play. You mix some mud up in a pail, and stir it with a stick; It mustn't be a bit too thin -- and not a bit too thick. And then you make it into pies, and pat it with your hand, And bake 'em on a nice flat board, and my! but they are grand!"

Mrs. Bryant declaimed, with suitable gestures, and finally sat down on the floor and made imaginary mud pies, in such a dear, childish way that her audience was delighted, and gave her really earnest encores.

"Do you know another piece, Ethel?" asked Marjorie.

"Yes, ma'am," and Mrs. Bryant resumed her shy voice and manner.

"Then you may recite it, as your little schoolmates seem anxious to have you do so."

So again, Mrs. Bryant diffidently made her bow, and recited, with real dramatic effect:

"An Unvisited Locality

"I wisht I was as big as men, To see the Town of After Ten; I've heard it is so bright and gay, It's almost like another day. But to my bed I'm packed off straight When that old clock strikes half-past eight! It's awful hard to be a boy And never know the sort of joy That grown-up people must have when They're in the Town of After Ten. I'm sure I don't know what they do, For shops are closed, and churches too. Perhaps with burglars they go 'round, And do not dare to make a sound! Well, soon I'll be a man, and then I'll see the Town of After Ten!"

"Oh, Cousin Ethel, you're lovely!" cried Marjorie, forgetting her rôle for the moment. But King took it up.

"Yes, little Ethel," he said, "you recite very nicely, for such a young child. Now, go to your seat, and Helen Maynard may recite next."

"Mine is a Natural History Poem," said Mrs. Maynard, coming up to the teacher's desk. "It is founded on fact, and it is highly instructive."

"That's nice," said King. "Go ahead with it."

So Mrs. Maynard made her bow and though not bashful, like Mrs. Bryant, she was very funny, for she pretended to forget her lines, and stammered and hesitated, and finally burst into pretended tears. But, urged on and encouraged by the teachers, she finally concluded this gem of poesy:

"The Whistling Whale

"A whistling whale once built his nest On the very tiptop of a mountain's crest. He wore a tunic and a blue cocked hat, And for fear of mice he kept a cat. The whistling whale had a good-sized mouth, It measured three feet from north to south; But when he whistled he puckered it up Till it was as small as a coffee-cup. The people came from far and near This wonderful whistling whale to hear; And in a most obliging way He stood on his tail and whistled all day."

"That's a truly noble poem," commented King, as she finished. "Take your seat, Helen; you have done splendidly, my little girl!"

"Now, Teddy Maynard, it's your turn," said Marjorie.

"After Jacky," declared Mr. Maynard, and nothing would induce him to precede his friend.

"Mine is about a visit I paid to the Zoo," said Mr. Bryant, looking modest. "I wrote it myself for a composition, but it turned out to be poetry. I never can tell how my compositions are going to turn out."

"Recite it," said Marjorie, "and we'll see if we like it."

"It's about wild animals," went on Cousin Jack, "and it tells of their habits."

"That's very nice," said King, condescendingly; "go ahead, my boy."

So Cousin Jack recited this poem:

"The Ways Of The Wild

"There's nothing quite so nice to do As pay a visit to the zoo, And see beasts that, at different times, Were brought from strange and distant climes. I love to watch the tapirs tape; I stand intent, with mouth agape. Then I observe the vipers vipe; They're a most interesting type. I love to see the beavers beave; Indeed, you scarcely would believe That they can beave so cleverly, Almost as well as you or me. And then I pass along, and lo! Panthers are panthing to and fro. And in the next cage I can see The badgers badging merrily. Oh, the dear beasties at the zoo, What entertaining things they do!"

"That's fine!" exclaimed Midget. "I didn't know we were going to have a real entertainment!"

"Very good, Jacky!" pronounced King. "I shall mark you ten in declamation. You're a good declaimer. Now, Teddy Maynard, it's your turn."

"Mine is real oratory," declared Mr. Maynard, as he rose from his seat. "But I find that so many fine oratorical pieces fizzle out after their first lines, that I just pick out the best lines and use them for declamation. Now, you can see how well my plan works."

He struck an attitude, bowed to each of his audience separately, cleared his throat impressively, and then began to declaim in a stilted, stagey voice, and with absurd dramatic gestures:

"The Art Of Elocution

"The noble songs of noble deeds of bravery or glory Are much enhanced if they're declaimed with stirring oratory. I love sonorous words that roll like billows o'er the seas; These I recite like Cicero or like Demosthenes.

"And so, from every poem what is worthy I select; I use the phrases I like best, the others I reject; And thus, I claim, that I have found the logical solution Of difficulties that attend the art of elocution.

"Whence come these shrieks so wild and shrill? Across the sands o' Dee? Lo, I will stand at thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee! For this was Tell a hero? For this did Gessler die? 'The curse is come upon me!' said the Spider to the Fly.

"When Britain first at Heaven's command said, 'Boatswain, do not tarry; The despot's heel is on thy shore, and while ye may, go marry.' Let dogs delight to bark and bite the British Grenadiers, Lars Porsena of Clusium lay dying in Algiers!

"Old Grimes is dead! Ring out, wild bells! And shall Trelawney die? Then twenty thousand Cornishmen are comin' thro' the rye! The Blessed Damozel leaned out, -- she was eight years old she said! Lord Lovel stood at his castle gate, whence all but him had fled.

"Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! Only three grains of corn! Stay, Lady, stay! for mercy's sake! and wind the bugle horn. The glittering knife descends -- descends -- Hark, hark, the foeman's cry! The world is all a fleeting show! Said Gilpin, 'So am I!'

"The sea! the sea! the open sea! Roll on, roll on, thou deep! Maxwelton braes are bonny, but Macbeth hath murdered sleep! Answer me, burning shades of night! what's Hecuba to me? Alone stood brave Horatius! The boy -- oh, where was he?"

"Oh, Father!" cried Marjorie, as Mr. Maynard finished, "did you really make that up? Or did you find it in a book?"

But Mr. Maynard wouldn't tell, and only accepted the praise heaped upon him, with a foolish smirk, like an embarrassed schoolboy.

"Now, children, school is out," said Midget, "and it's about luncheon time. So go and tidy yourselves up to come to the table. You're always sending us to tidy up, Mother, so now you can see what a nuisance it is! Run along, and come back as quickly as you can, for luncheon is nearly ready."

The four grown-ups went away to tidy up, and King and Midget made further plans for this new game. It was still raining, so there was no hope of going motoring, and they concluded they were having enough fun at home to make up for it.

But when the four "children" returned, they looked at them a moment in silent astonishment, and then burst into shrieks of laughter.

Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant had transformed themselves into boys, by brushing their hair down very wet and straight, and wearing large, round collars made of white paper, and tied with enormous bows. They looked funny enough, but the two ladies were funnier still. Mrs. Maynard had her hair in two long pigtails tied with huge ribbons, and Cousin Ethel had her hair in bunches of curls, also tied with big bows. They both wore white bib aprons, and carried foolish-looking dolls which they had made out of pillows, tied round with string.

"You dear children!" cried Midget; "I think you are lovely! Come along to luncheon."

The "children" politely let King and Midget go first, and they followed, giggling. Sarah, the waitress, was overcome with amusement, but she managed to keep a straight face, as the comical-looking procession filed in.

King and Marjorie appropriated their parents' seats, and the others sat at the sides of the table.

"No, Helen, dear," said Midget, "you can't have any tea. It isn't good for little girls. You may have a glass of milk, if you wish."

"I don't think these lobster croquettes are good for Jack," said King, looking wisely at Midget; "they're very rich, and he's subject to indigestion."

"I am not!" declared Cousin Jack, looking longingly at the tempting croquettes, for which Ellen was famous.

"There, there, my child," said Marjorie; "don't contradict your father. Perhaps he could have a half of one, King."

"Yes, that would scarcely make him ill," and King gave Cousin Jack a portion of one small croquette, which he ate up at once, and found to be merely an aggravation.

"Oh, no! no pie for Edward," said Marjorie, when a delicious lemon meringue made its appearance. "Pie is entirely unsuitable for children! He may have a nice baked apple."

And Mr. Maynard was plucky enough to eat his baked apple without a murmur, for he remembered that often he had advised Mrs. Maynard against giving the children pie.

To be sure, the pie would not harm the grown people, but Mr. Maynard had agreed to "play the game," and it was his nature to do thoroughly whatever he undertook.



Chapter XIX

More Fun


"Now, Helen," said Marjorie, as they left the dining-room, "you must practise for an hour."

"Oh, Mother, I don't feel a bit like it! Mayn't I skip it to-day?"

This was, in effect, a speech that Marjorie often made, and she had to laugh at her mother's mimicry.

But she straightened her face, and said, "No, my child; you must do your practising, or you won't be ready for your lesson when the teacher comes to-morrow."

"All right, Mother," said Mrs. Maynard, cheerfully, and sitting down at the piano, she began to rattle off a gay waltz.

"Oh, no, Helen," remonstrated Marjorie, "that won't do! You must play your scales and exercises. See, here's the book. Now, play that page over and over for an hour."

Marjorie did hate those tedious "exercises," and she was glad for her mother to see how poky it was to drum at them for an hour. As a rule, Marjorie did her practising patiently enough, but sometimes she revolted, and it made her chuckle to see Mrs. Maynard carefully picking out the "five-finger drills."

"Keep your hands straight, Helen," she admonished her mother. "Keep the backs of them so level that a lead pencil wouldn't roll off. I'll get a lead pencil."

"No, don't!" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, in dismay. She liked to play the piano, but she was far from careful to hold her hands in the position required by Midget's teacher.

"Yes, I think I'd better, Helen. If you contract bad habits, it's so difficult to break them."

Roguish Marjorie brought a lead pencil, and laid it carefully across the back of her mother's hand, from which it immediately rolled off.

"Now, Helen, you must hold your hand level. Try again, dearie, and if it rolls off, pick it up and put it back in place."

Mrs. Maynard made a wry face, and the other grown-ups laughed, to see the difficulty she experienced with the pencil.

"One -- two -- three -- four," she counted, aloud.

"Count to yourself, Helen," said Marjorie. "It's annoying to hear you do that!"

This, too, was quoted, for Mrs. Maynard had often objected to the monotonous drone of Marjorie's counting aloud.

But the mother began to see that a child's life has its own little troubles, and she smiled appreciatively at Midget, as she picked up the pencil from the floor for the twentieth time, and replaced it on the back of her hand, now stiff and lame from the unwonted restraint.

"You dear old darling!" cried Midget, flying over and kissing the patient musician; "you sha'n't do that any longer! I declare, King, it's clearing off, after all! Let's take the children out for a walk."

"Very well, we will. Oh, here comes Ruth! Come in, Ruth."

Ruth Rowland came in, and looked greatly mystified at the appearance of the elder members of the group before her.

But King and Midget explained what was going on, and said:

"And you can be Aunt Ruth, come to call on us and our children."

Ruth's eyes danced with fun, and she sat down, saying to Marjorie, "I'm glad to see the children looking so well; have any of them the whooping-cough? I hear it's around some."

"I have," declared Cousin Jack, and then he began to cough and whoop in a most exaggerated imitation of the whooping-cough. Indeed, in his paroxysms, he almost turned somersaults.

"I hab a bad cold id by head," declared Mr. Maynard, and he began a series of such prodigious sneezes that all the others screamed with laughter.

"Well, your children aren't so very well, after all, are they?" commented Ruth, as they watched the two men cutting up their capers.

"The girls are," said Marjorie, looking affectionately at her two "daughters."

"Oh, I'm not!" declared Mrs. Maynard; "I have a fearful toothache," and she held her cheek in her hand, and rocked back and forth, pretending dreadful pain.

"And I have the mumps!" announced Cousin Ethel, puffing out her pretty pink cheeks, to make believe they were swollen with that ailment.

"Well, you're a crowd of invalids!" said King; "I believe some fresh air would do you good. Out you all go, for a walk. Get your hats, kiddies, and be quick about it."

The grown-ups scampered away to get their hats, and the ladies put up their hair properly and took off their white aprons.

The two men discarded their big collars and ties, but the game was not yet over, and the group went gayly out and down toward the beach.

"May we go in bathing, Mother?" asked Mr. Maynard.

"Not in bathing, my son," returned Marjorie; "the waves are too strong. But, if you wish, you may all take off your shoes and stockings and go 'paddling.'"

However, none of the quartette of "children" accepted this permission, so they all sat on the sand and built forts.

"Now, I guess we'll all go to the pier, and get ice cream," said King. "How would you like that, kiddies?"

"Fine!" said Cousin Jack. "It's getting warmer, and I'm hungering for ice cream. Come on, all."

"Gently, my boy, gently," said King, as Cousin Jack scrambled to his feet, upsetting sand all over everybody. "Now, walk along nicely and properly, don't go too fast, and we'll reach the pier in good time."

"Turn out your toes," directed Marjorie; "hold up your head, Ethel. Don't swing your arms, Edward."

As a matter of fact the four grown people found it a little difficult to follow these bits of good advice they had so often given carelessly to the children, and they marched along rather stiffly.

"Try to be a little more graceful, Helen," said King, and they all laughed, for Mrs. Maynard was really a very graceful lady, and was spoiling her gait by over-attention to Midget's rules. At the pier, King selected a pleasant table, and ranged his party around it.

"Bring three plates of ice cream, and four half-portions," he directed the waiter. And when it was brought, he calmly gave the four small pieces to his parents and the Bryants.

Cousin Jack's face fell, for he was warm and tired, and he wanted more than a spoonful of the refreshing delicacy. But a surreptitious glance at his watch showed him it was almost five o'clock; so he accepted his plate without a murmur.

"It's very nice, Mother," he said demurely, eating it by tiny bits, scraped from the edges as he had sometimes seen Marjorie do, when her share had been limited to half a plate.

"I'm glad you like it, son," she returned; "don't eat too fast, -- hold your spoon properly, -- take small bites of cake."

Ruth was convulsed by this new sort of fun, and asked Marjorie if they had ever played the game before.

"No," Cousin Jack answered for her, "and I'm jolly well sure we never will again! I've had enough of being 'a child again, just for to-night!' And, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, it's now five o'clock! the jig is up! the game is played out! the ball is over! Here, waiter; bring some ice cream, please. Full-sized plates, all around!"

The amused waiter hurried away on his errand, and Mr. and Mrs. Maynard sat up suddenly, as if relieved of a great responsibility.

"Bring some cake, too," said Mrs. Maynard, "and a pot of tea. Don't you want some tea, Ethel?"

"Indeed, I do, Helen; I'm exhausted. Jack, if you ever propose such a game again!"

"I didn't propose it, my dear! Now, will you look at that! Everything always gets blamed on me!"

And now there was plenty of ice cream for everybody, and the children were allowed to have all they wanted, and they were all glad to get back to their rightful places again.

"But it was fun!" said Marjorie, and then she told Ruth all about the funny things they had done before she arrived on the scene.

Then they all walked around by Ruth's house to take her home, and then they walked around by Bryant Bower to take the Bryants home, and then the Maynards went home themselves.

"I'm going to write Kit all about it," said Marjorie; "she'd have loved that game, if she'd been here."

"She loves any make-believe game," said King. "You write to her, Midget; I've got to write up The Jolly Sandboy paper."

"I should think you had! You haven't done one for two weeks."

"I know it; but it's because nobody sends in any contributions. I can't make it all up alone."

"'Course you can't. When I write to Kitty, I'll ask her if she hasn't some things we could put in it. She and Uncle Steve are always making up poetry and stories."

"Good idea, Mops! Tell her to be sure to send me a lot of stuff, first thing she does!"

"Well, I will;" and Marjorie set to work at her letter.

It was finished by dinner time, for Marjorie's letters to her sister were not marked by any undue precision of style or penmanship, and as Marjorie laid it on the hall table to be mailed, she told King that she had given Kitty his message.

"Father," said Midget, at dinner, that night, "what day did Cousin Jack say was Pocahontas' birthday?"

"I don't remember, my dear; but I'm quite sure he doesn't really know, nor any one else. I fancy he made up that date."

"Well, do you know of anybody, anybody nice and celebrated, whose birthday comes about now?"

"The latter part of July? No, Midget, I don't. Why?"

"Oh, 'cause I think it would be nice to have a celebration, and you can't celebrate without a hero."

"Do you call Pocahontas a hero?" asked King, quizzically.

"Well, she's a heroine, -- it's all the same. When do you s'pose her birthday was, Father?"

"I've no idea, Midget; and Cousin Jack hasn't, either. But if you want to celebrate her, you can choose any day. You see, it isn't like a birthday that's celebrated every year, Washington's, Lincoln's, or yours. If you're just going to celebrate once, you can take one day as well as another."

"Oh, can I, Father? Then, we'll have it next week. I'll choose August first, -- that's a nice day."

"What's it all about, Midge?" asked King.

"Oh, nothing; only I took a notion for a celebration. We had such good times on Fourth of July and on my birthday, I want another birthday."

"I think it's a good idea to choose some uncelebrated person like Pocahontas," said Mrs. Maynard; "for if you don't celebrate her I doubt if anybody ever will."

"And you see we can have it all sort of Indian," went on Midget. "You know we've a good many Indian baskets and beads and things, -- and, Father, couldn't you build us a wigwam?"

"Oh, yes, a whole reservation, if you like."

"No, just one wigwam. And we'll only have the Sand Club. I don't mean to have a party."

"All right, I'm in for it," declared King, and right after dinner, the two set to work making plans for the celebration.

"Cousin Jack will help, I know," said Marjorie; "remember how he played Indians with us, up in Cambridge, last year?"

"Yep, 'course I do. He'll be fine! He always is."

"Let's telephone, and ask him right away."

"All right;" and in a few moments Cousin Jack's cheery "Hello!" came over the wire.

"Well!" he exclaimed, "if it isn't those Maynard scamps again! Now, see here, Mehitabel, it's time you and Hezekiah went to bed. It's nearly nine o'clock."

"But, Cousin Jack, I just want to ask you something."

"Not to-night, my Angel Child. Whatever you ask me to-night, I shall say no to! Besides, I'm reading my paper, and I can't be disturbed."

"But, Cousin Jack --  -- "

"The Interstate Commerce Commission has to-day handed down a decision in favor of --  -- "

"Oh, King, he's reading out of his newspaper, just to tease us! You try him."

King took the telephone. "Please, Cousin Jack, listen a minute," he said.

But all the reply he heard was:

"Ephraim Hardenburg has been elected chairman of the executive committee of the Great Coal Tar Company, to succeed James H. --  -- "

King hung up the receiver in disgust.

"No use," he said; "Cousin Jack just read more of that newspaper stuff! Never mind, Midget, we can wait till we see him. I guess I will scoot to bed, now; I'm awful sleepy."

But when Cousin Jack heard of their project, a day or two later, he was more than willing to help with the celebration.

"Well, I just guess!" he cried. "We'll have a jamboree that'll make all the good Indians wish they were alive now, instead of four hundred thousand years ago! We'll have a wigwam and a wampum and a tomahawk and all the ancient improvements! Hooray for Pocahontas!"

"Gracious, Jack! you're the biggest child of the lot!" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, who sat on the veranda, watching the enthusiasm going on.

"Of course, I am, ma'am! I'm having a merry playtime this summer with my little friends, and as I have to work hard all winter, I really need this vacation."

"Of course you do! But don't let those two energetic children wear you out."

"No, ma'am! More likely I'll wear them out. Now, for the wigwam, kiddies. Have you a couple of Navajo blankets?"

"Yes, we have! and a Bulgarian one, or whatever you call it, to piece out," cried Midget, as she ran to get them.

"Just the thing!" declared Cousin Jack. "Put them aside, we won't use them till the day of the show. 'Cause why? 'Cause it might rain, -- but, of course it won't. Now, for feathers, -- we want lots of feathers."

"Old hat feathers?" asked Midget.

"Ostrich plumes? Nay, nay, me child. Good stiff quill feathers, -- turkey feathers preferred. Well, never mind those, -- I'll fish some up from somewhere. Now, blankets for the braves and fringed gowns for the squaws. I'll show you how, Mehitabel, and you and your respected mother can do the sewing act."

Well, Cousin Jack planned just about everything, and he and the children turned the house upside down in their quest for materials. But Mrs. Maynard didn't mind. She was used to it, for the Maynard children would always rather "celebrate" than play any ordinary game.



Chapter XX

A Celebration


The first of August was a perfect day for their celebration.

They had concluded to hold a Sand Court session first, for the simple reason that so much matter for The Jolly Sandboy had arrived from Kitty that King said his paper was full, and he thought it would be nice to help along the celebration.

Cousin Jack declined an invitation to be present at the reading, saying that the Pocahontas part was all he could stand, so the Court convened without him. Ruth was Queen for the day. This was for no particular reason, except that Marjorie thought it would be a pleasure to the little new member, so she insisted on Ruth's wearing the crown.

Very dainty and sweet the little Queen looked, with her long flaxen curls hanging down from the extra gorgeous gilt-paper crown, that Marjorie had made specially for this occasion.

As the session began, a meek little figure appeared at the Court entrance, and there was Hester!

"Now, you Hester!" began Tom Craig, but Hester said:

"Oh, please let me come! I will be good. I won't say a single cross word, or boss, or anything."

"All right, Hester," said Midget, kindly, "come on in. If the Queen says you may we'll all say so. Do you, O Queen?"

Ruth looked doubtful for a minute, for she was a little afraid of Hester's uncertain temper; but, seeing Marjorie's pleading look, she consented.

"All right," she said; "if Hester won't throw water on me."

"No, I won't!" declared Hester, earnestly.

"Well," said King, "just as long as Hester behaves herself she may stay. If she carries on like fury, she's got to go home."

Hester sat down and folded her hands in her lap, looking so excessively meek that they all had to laugh at her.

"Now," said the Queen, "we're gathered here together, my loyal subjects, to listen to, -- to, what do you call it?"

"The Jolly Sandboy," prompted King.

"The Jolly Sandbag," said the Queen, misunderstanding.

But she was soon put right, and King proceeded to read his paper.

"It's 'most all done by Uncle Steve and Kitty," he said, "and it's so nice, I thought you'd all like to hear it."

"We would," they said, and so King began.

"Uncle Steve's part is all about animals," he said. "It's a sort of Natural History, I guess. First is a poem about the Camel.

"The camel is a curious beast; He roams about all through the East. He swiftly scours the desert plain, And then he scours it back again.

"The camel's legs are very slim, And he lets people ride on him. Across the sandy waste he flies, And kicks the waste in people's eyes.

"He kneels for people to get on, Then pulls his legs up, one by one; But here's what troubles them the worst --  To know which leg he'll pull up first.

"Sometimes, when he is feeling gay, The camel likes to run away; And, as he's just indulged that whim, I can't write any more of him."

"I think that's lovely," said the Queen, enthusiastically. "Your uncle is a real poet, isn't he?"

"Our family all can write poetry," said Marjorie, seriously. "Father and Mother both write beautiful verses."

"Now, here's the next one," went on King. "This is about all sorts of different animals, -- and it's funny, too:

"The whale is smooth, and black as jet His disposition sweet; He neatly combs his hair, and yet He will not wipe his feet.

"The wombat's clever and polite, And kind as he can be; And yet he doesn't bow quite right When he goes out to tea.

"The snake is bright and understands Whatever he is taught; And yet he never will shake hands As cordial people ought.

"'Most everybody loves the newt; But I've heard people tell, That though he's handy with a flute He can't sew very well.

"So animals, as you may see, Some grave defects display; They're not like human beings. We Are perfect every way."

"Oh, that's a fine one!" cried Hester. "Mayn't I copy that, and have it to keep?"

"Of course," said King. "I'll make you a copy on the typewriter. Now, here's a silly one. I mean nonsensical, you know. But I like it:

"The Funny Flapdoodle

"There was a Flapdoodle of France, Who loved to cut capers and dance; He had one red shoe And the other was blue, And how he could shuffle and prance!

"One day he was kicking so high That a breeze blew him up in the sky; The breeze was so strong It blew him along Till the Flapdoodle just seemed to fly.

"He flew 'way up into the stars, And, somehow, he landed on Mars. Said the Flapdoodle: 'I Do not like to fly; I think I'll go back on the cars.'

"So a railroad was rapidly built, And they wrapped him all up in a quilt; For the Flapdoodle said: 'If I stick out my head I fear that I'll somehow get kilt!'

"The railroad train whizzed very fast, But they landed him safely at last; And through future years He related, with tears, The dangers through which he had passed."

"Oh, that's the best of all!" said Midget; "I love that kind of funny verses. Isn't Uncle Steve clever to write like that! Any more, King?"

"Yes, one more. It isn't about animals, but it's a sort of a nonsense poem, too. It's called 'A Queer Hospital.'

"There's a hospital down on Absurdity Square, Where the queerest of patients are tended with care.

"When I made them a visit I saw in a crib A little Umbrella who had broken his rib.

"And then I observed in the very next bed A bright little Pin who had bumped his poor head.

"They said a new cure they'd decided to try On an old Needle, totally blind in one eye.

"I was much interested, and soon I espied A Shoe who complained of a stitch in her side.

"And a sad-looking patient who seemed in the dumps Was a Clock, with a swell face because of the mumps.

"Then I tried very hard, though I fear 'twas in vain To comfort a Window who had a bad pane.

"And I paused just a moment to cheerily speak With a pale Cup of Tea who was awfully weak.

"As I took my departure I met on the stair A new patient, whom they were handling with care, A victim perhaps of some terrible wreck --  'Twas a Squash who had fatally broken his neck."

"This is the nicest Jolly Sandboy paper we've had yet," said Tom, as King finished.

"Yes, it is," agreed Marjorie. "But I thought Kit wrote some of it, King."

"She did. I'll read hers now. It's an alphabet, all about us down here. Kitty wrote it, but she says Uncle Steve helped her a little bit with some of the lines. It's called 'The Seacote Alphabet.'

"A is the Automobile we all love. B is the Boat in the water we shove. C is the Coast that stretches along. D is for Dick, our Sandow so strong. E's cousin Ethel, so sweet and refined. F, Father Maynard, indulgent and kind. G, Grandma Sherwood, who dresses in drab. H is for Hester and Harry Sand Crab. I, for Ice Cream, the Maynards' mainstay. J, Cousin Jack, always ready to play. K is for King, and for Kitty, (that's me). L is for Lakewood, where I went to sea. M, Mother Maynard, and Marjorie, too. N for Nurse Nannie, who has lots to do. O for the Ocean, with big breakers bold. P for the Pier, where candy is sold. Q for Queen Sandy, in regal array. R, Rosy Posy, so dainty and gay. S is for Seacote, and Sand Court beside. T is for Tom, the trusty and tried. U, Uncle Steve, who's helping me write. V for these Verses we send you to-night. W, the Waves, that dash with such fuss. X the Excitement when one catches us. Y for You Youngsters, I've given your names. Z is the Zeal you show in your games."

"My! isn't that scrumptious!" exclaimed Hester. "You're a terribly smart family, Marjorie."

"Oh, I don't know," said Midget, modestly. "Kit's pretty clever at writing rhymes, but King and I can't do it much. We make up songs sometimes, but Kitty makes the best ones."

"I wish I could do it," said Ruth; "but I couldn't write a rhyming thing at all."

"Well, that's all there is in The Jolly Sandboy this week," said King. "I didn't write any myself, and the things you others gave me, I've saved for next week. Now, shall we go and celebrate Pocahontas' birthday?"

"Is it really her birthday?" asked Ruth.

"No, we're just pretending it is. But you see, poor Poky never had her birthday celebrated; I mean, -- not legally, like Washington, -- so we're going to give her a chance."

The Sand Club trooped up to the house, and found Cousin Jack waiting for them. He was a little surprised to see Hester, but he greeted her pleasantly, and Hester looked so meek and mild, one would hardly believe she had a high temper at all. A wigwam had been built on the lawn, and though it was only a few poles covered with blankets, it looked very Indian and effective.

The Maynards had contrived costumes for all, and in a few moments the girls had on gay-fringed skirts and little shawls, with gaudy headdresses, and the boys had a nondescript Indian garb, and wonderful feathered headpieces, that hung grandly down their backs like Big Chiefs.

Also they had pasteboard tomahawks, and Cousin Jack taught them a war-whoop that was truly ear-splitting.

"First," said Mr. Bryant, "we'll all sing the Blue Juniata, as that is a pretty Indian song, and so, sort of appropriate to Pocahontas."

So they all sang it, with a will, and the song of "The Indian Girl, Bright Alfarata," was, in a way, a tribute to Pocahontas.

"Now," Mr. Bryant went on, "some one must tell the story of Pocahontas. Harry, will you do it?"

But the Sand Crab was too shy to speak in public, so Cousin Jack asked Ruth to do it.

"I don't know it very well," said Ruth, "but I guess it was like this: Captain John Smith was about to be tommyhawked all to pieces by admiring Indians. As the fell blows were about to fell, up rushes a beautiful Indian maiden, with her black hair streaming in the breeze. 'Fear thou not!' she said, wildly; 'I will save thee!' Whereupon she flang herself upon him, and hugged him till he couldn't be reached by his tormentors. The wild Indians were forced to desist, or else pierce to the heart their own Pocahontas, beloved daughter of their tribe. So they released Captain John Smith, and so Pocahontas married Captain John Rolfe instead, and they lived happy ever after. Hence is why we celebrate her birthday."

Ruth clearly enjoyed the telling of this tale, and threw herself into it with dramatic fervor.

The others listened, enthralled by her graphic recital and thrilling diction.

"My!" exclaimed Midget, as she finished, "I didn't know you knew so many big words, Ruth."

"I didn't, either," said Ruth, calmly; "they sort of came to me as I went along."

"Well, that's just as smart as writing poetry," declared King, and Ruth was greatly pleased at the compliments.

"Now, my dear young friends," Cousin Jack said, by way of a speech, "the exercises will now begin. As you know, we are celebrating the birthday of a noble Indian Princess. Therefore, our sports or diversions will all be of an Indian character. First, we will have an Indian Club Drill."

He produced Indian clubs for all, the boys' being heavier ones than the girls.

These were new to the Maynards, but Cousin Jack soon taught them how to use them, and instructed them in a simple drill.

Hester learned more quickly than Marjorie, for she was more lithe and agile, and swung her clubs around with greater ease. Ruth seemed to know instinctively how to use them, which was partly due to her proficiency in fancy dancing. But they all learned, and greatly enjoyed the interesting exercise.

Cousin Jack presented the children with the clubs they used, and they promised to practise with them often.

"It'll be good for you growing young people," said Mr. Maynard, "and you can form a sort of a Pocahontas Club."

Then he had a gramophone brought out to the lawn, and they whisked their clubs about to inspiriting Indian music.

"Now, I dare say you're tired," said Cousin Jack, "for Indian club exercise is a strain on the muscles. So sit in a circle on the grass, and we'll all smoke pipes of peace and swap stories for a while."

The "pipes of peace" turned out to be pipes made of chocolate, so they were all willing to "smoke" them.

"Mine's a pipe of pieces!" said Midget, as she broke the stem in bits, and ate them one by one.

The others followed her example, and the pipes had disappeared before the story-telling fairly began.

But Cousin Jack told them some thrilling Indian tales, and so interested were his hearers that they gathered close about him, and listened in absorbed silence.

"Was that true, Cousin Jack?" asked King, after an exciting yarn.

"Well, it's in a story-book written by James Fenimore Cooper. You're old enough to read his books now, and if I were you children, I'd ask my parents to buy me some of Cooper's works."

"I'm going to do that," cried Hester, her eyes dancing at the thought of reading such stories for herself. "I never heard of them before."

"Well, you're young yet to read novels, but Cooper's are all right for you. You might read one aloud in your Sand Club."

"Yes, we will!" said King. "That'll be fine. Then one book would do for us all. Or we might each get one, and then lend them around to each other. My, we're getting lots of new ideas from our celebration. Indian club exercises and Cooper's stories are worth knowing about."

"And now," said Cousin Jack, "if you're rested, suppose we march along Indian File, and see if we can come across an Indian Meal."

"Ho, ho!" laughed King, "I don't want to eat Indian meal!"

"We'll see what it is before we decide," said Midget, judicially. "What is Indian File, Cousin Jack?"

"Oh, that only means single file, or one by one. Not like the Irishman who said to his men, 'March togither, men! be twos as far as ye go, an' thin be wans!' I want you to go 'be wans' all the way."

So, in single file, they followed Cousin Jack's lead to the wigwam, which they hadn't yet entered. He turned back the flap of the tent, and there was room for all inside. On a table there there were eight Indian baskets, of pretty design. On lifting the covers, each was found to contain an "Indian Meal."

The meal was a few dainty little sandwiches and cakes, and a peach and a pear, all wrapped in pretty paper napkins, with an Indian's head on the corner.

Exercise had given the children good appetites, and they were quite ready to do full justice to the "Indian Meal."

Sarah brought out lemonade, and later ice cream, so, as Midget said, it really was a party after all.

Of course, the children kept the baskets and the pretty napkins as souvenirs, and when the guests went home, they said they were glad they didn't know the real date of Pocahontas' birthday, for it might have been in the winter, and then they couldn't have had nearly as much fun.

"And it's lucky we decided on this day," said Cousin Jack, after the children had gone, "for to-morrow Ethel and I go back to Cambridge."

"Oh, Cousin Jack, not really!" cried Midget, in dismay.

"Yes, kiddy; we've changed our summer plans suddenly, and we're going to Europe next week. So we leave here to-morrow. And sorry, indeed, are we to leave our Maynard friends."

"I'm sorry, too," said Midget, "awfully sorry, but I'm glad we've had you down here as long as we have. You've been awful good to us, Cousin Jack."

"You've been good to me, Mehitabel. And when I wander through the interesting places abroad, I shall write letters to you, and when I come home again, I'll bring you a souvenir from every place I've been to."

"Well, you're just the dearest Cousin Jack in all the world!" said Midget, and she gave him a big hug and kiss to corroborate her words.

"And you're just the dearest Mopsy Midget Mehitabel!" he said, returning her caress.

<eob>

Boy Scouts In A Submarine

Or

Searching An Ocean Floor

By

G. Harvey Ralphson



Chapter I

Lost On An Ocean Floor



The handsome clubroom of the Black Bear Patrol, Boy Scouts of America, in the City of New York, was ablaze with light, and as noisy as healthy, happy boys could well make it.

"Over in the Chinese Sea!" shouted Jimmie McGraw from a table which stood by an open window overlooking the brilliantly illuminated city. "Do we go to the washee-washee land this time?"

"Only to the tub!" Jack Bosworth put in.

"What's the answer?" asked Frank Shaw, sitting down on the edge of the table and rumpling Jimmie's red hair with both hands.

Jimmie broke away and, after bouncing a football off his tormentor's back, perched himself on the back of a great easy chair.

"The answer?" Jack said, after peace had been in a measure restored, "I thought everybody knew that the Chinks wash their clothes in the Gulf of Tong King and hang them out to dry on the mountains of Kwang Tung! Are we going there, Ned?" he added, turning to Ned Nestor, who sat by a nearby window, looking out over the city. "Are we going to the gulf of Tong King?"

Ned left his chair by the window and walked over to the table.

"I hardly know," he said, taking a roll of maps and drawings from his breast pocket and spreading them out on the table. "When Captain Moore arrives we shall know more about it."

"Who's Captain Moore?"

This from Jimmie, still sitting on the back of the chair, elbows on knees, chin on palms.

"Is he going to be the big noise?"

This from Jack Bosworth, who was reaching out with his foot in a vain effort to tip Jimmie's chair and send him sprawling.

"Is Captain Moore going with us?"

This question was asked by Frank Shaw with a show of anxiety. When out on their trips the Boy Scouts did not relish having older men about to show authority.

"One question at a time!" laughed Ned. "To answer the first query first, Captain Moore is the Secret Service officer who is to post us with regard to our mission to Chinese waters. Second he will, to use the slang adopted by Jack, be the 'Big Noise' as long as he is with us. Third, I don't know whether he is going on the journey with us or not."

"Here's hopin' he don't!" cried Jimmie.

"He'll want us to sit in baby chairs at tables and object to our takin' moonlight walks on the bottom of the sea! Is he covered all over with brass buttons, an' does he strut like this?"

Jimmie bounded to the floor and walked up and down the room with a mock military stride which set his companions into roars of laughter.

"I have never seen him," Ned replied. "He is coming here tonight, and you must judge for yourself what kind of a man he is."

"Here?" asked Frank. "Here to this club-room? The boys won't do a thing to him if he puts on dog!"

"Is he a submarine expert?" asked Frank.

"Sure!" replied Jack. "He wouldn't be sent here to post us if he wasn't, would he?"

"I don't believe he knows any more about a submarine, right now, than Ned does," Jimmie exclaimed. "Ned's been taking walks on the bottom of the Bay every mornin' for a week!"

Jack and Frank turned to Ned with amazement showing on their faces.

"Have you, Ned?" they asked, in chorus.

"Have you been out training without letting us know about it?"

"You bet he has!" Jimmie grinned. "I've been with him most of the time too. This Captain Moore, whoever he is, hain't got nothin' on Ned when it comes to makin' the wheels go round under the water."

"Oh, you!" laughed Jack, pointing a finger at Jimmie. "You can't run a submarine, even if Ned can."

"You wait an' see!" retorted the boy, indignantly. "You wait until we get into the Chinese sea, then you'll see what I know about boats that travel on ocean beds!"

"Can he run a submarine, Ned?" asked Jack.

"Well," was the laughing reply, "he did pretty well on the last trip. If some one hadn't interfered with his steering I reckon he would have tipped the Statue of Liberty into the Atlantic!"

Jimmie winked when the others roared at him and then looked reproachfully at Ned.

"You promised not to tell about that!" he said, accusingly.

At that moment a knock came on the door of the clubroom, which was on the top of the palatial residence of Jack Bosworth's father, and a moment later a tall, military-looking man with a white, stern face, thin straight lips and cold blue eyes was shown in. He paused just outside the doorway, and the boy who did not catch the sneer on his chalky face as he looked superciliously over the group must have been very unobservant indeed.

"Gee! He don't seem to like the looks of us!" Jimmie whispered to Frank Shaw, as Ned stepped forward to greet the newcomer.

"Looks like a false alarm!" Frank replied, in an aside. "I hope we don't have to lug him along with us."

"We won't need any cold storage arrangement on the submarine if he does go!" Jimmie went on. "That face of his would freeze hot steel."

Captain Moore of the United States Secret Service remained standing near the door until Ned reached his side. Then he lifted a single glass, inserted it in his eye-orbit and stood gazing at the boy who had advanced to welcome him.

Ned stepped back, coldly, and Jimmie nudged Jack delightedly when he saw the lad's face harden into bare civility.

"Aw," began the visitor, "I'm looking for -- ah! -- Mr. Nestor!"

"I'm Ned Nestor," said the boy, shortly.

"Fawncy!"

Ned pointed toward the table where the other boys were sitting and moved away.

"Fawncy!" repeated the visitor.

Ned made no reply. Instead, he marched to the table, drew a chair forward, and motioned Captain Moore to be seated.

Before complying with this gracious invitation the Captain glanced around the apartment with the supercilious sneer he had shown on entering. The boys watched him with heavy frowns on their faces.

"If we've got to take this along in the submarine," Jimmie whispered to Jack, "I hope the boat will drop down into a deep hole and stay there. Look at it!"

"Hush!" whispered the other. "It has ears!"

Those who have read the first and second volumes of this series will understand without being told here that it was a very fine clubroom upon which the frosty blue eyes of the Secret Service man looked.

The walls were adorned with all manner of hunting and fishing paraphernalia, together with many trophies of the chase. Foils, gloves, ball bats, paddles and many other athletic aids were scattered about the large room.

This clubroom, that of the Black Bear Patrol, as has been said, was the handsomest in New York, the members of the Patrol being sons of very wealthy men. The father of Frank Shaw was editor and owner of one of the important daily newspapers of the metropolis. Jack Bosworth's father was a prominent corporation lawyer, while Harry Stevens, a lad with a historical hobby, was a prominent automobile manufacturer.

Ned Nestor, the boy just now trying to entertain the very formal Captain Moore, was a member of the Wolf Patrol, also of New York, as was also Jimmie McGraw, who had been a Bowery newsboy before joining fortunes with Ned.

As is well known to most of our readers, Ned had, at one time and another, undertaken and successfully accomplished delicate and hazardous enterprises for the United States Government. Accompanied by Frank, Jack, Jimmie, Harry, and other members of the Boy Scout Patrols of the United States, he had visited Mexico, the Canal Zone, the Philippines, the Great Northwest, had navigated the Columbia river in a motor boat, and had covered the continent of South America in an aeroplane.

He was now about to enter upon, perhaps, the most important mission ever assigned to him by the Secret Service department. The story of the quest upon which he was about to enter will best be told in the conversation which now took place in the clubroom of the Black Bear Patrol on this evening of the 11th of September.

Presently Captain Moore transferred his gaze from the apartment to the boys gathered about the table and grouped about the place. As a matter of course all conversation in the room had ceased on the arrival of the Captain. While the boys who were not fortunate enough to be planning on the trip in the submarine were too courteous to openly stare at their guest of the moment, it may well be believed that his every look and word was closely noted.

Concluding his rather rude observations, Captain Moore dropped his glass, shrugged his shoulders, which were heavily padded, and gave utterance to his feelings in the one word of comments which he had twice used before:

"Fawncy!"

Ned said not a word, but waited for the visitor to lead out in the talk. Captain Moore was in no haste to begin, but he finally broke the silence by asking:

"You are Ned Nestor?"

Ned bowed stiffly. He did not like the man he was supposed to do business with, and did not try to conceal the fact.

"The Ned Nestor who undertook the Secret Service work in the Canal Zone and South America?"

Ned nodded again.

"Fawncy!"

"You said that before?" broke in Jimmie, who was fuming under the idea that the Captain was not treating his chum with proper courtesy.

The Captain brought his glass into use again and looked the boy over, much as he would have inspected a curio in a museum. Jimmie glared back, and the eyes of the two fenced for a moment before a twinkle of humor appeared in those of the Captain.

"You are Jimmie, eh?" the latter demanded.

Jimmie would have made some discourteous reply only for the tug Ned gave at his sleeve. As it was he only nodded.

"Aw, I've heard of you!" the Captain said, then. "Quite remarkable -- quite extraordinary!"

"You came to deliver instructions regarding the submarine trip?" Ned asked, feeling revolt in the air of the room.

Unless something was done, the boys, all resenting the manner of the Captain, would be beyond control, and then the Secret Service man would be likely to leave the place in anger.

This, in turn, might endanger the adventure already planned and prepared for, for the chief of the department might see fit to adopt whatever recommendations Captain Moore made in the matter.

The visitor might have sensed the hostility, for he hastened to take from a pocket a sheaf of papers and place them on the table. The next moment the boys all saw that they had not gained a correct estimate of the Secret Service man.

The instant he began talking of the matter which had brought him to the clubroom his manner changed. He was no longer the drawling, supercilious naval officer in resplendent uniform. He was a keen-brained mechanical expert, questioning Ned regarding his knowledge of submarines.

"You are fairly well up in the matter," the Captain said, going back to his old drawl, in a few moments. "I shall not object to your going on the Diver with me."

The boys all gasped. So their worst fears were coming true! The Captain was indeed going with them! He would be the commander, and Ned would be obliged to work under his orders if he went at all!

Would Ned do this? Would he submit to the authority of another while practically responsible for the results of the trip? Frank, Jack, and Jimmie saw their cherished plans go glimmering.

Ned made no reply whatever. Instead he began asking questions concerning the Diver as the submarine the Captain had in view was named, and also about the object of the expedition.

"A short time ago," the Captain said, "the Cutaria, a fast mail boat, went down in the Gulf of Tong King, carrying with her many passengers, the United States mails, and $10,000,000 in gold consigned to the Chinese Government. We are to search the ocean floor for the gold, and also for information sought by the Department of State."

"Who got careless and dropped $10,000,000 on an ocean floor?" asked Jimmie.



Chapter II

A Conflict Of Authority



The Captain gazed at Jimmie for a moment without answering. Then he parted his thin lips and uttered the old, familiar word:

"Fawncy!"

"The Cutaria went down as the result of a collision?" Ned hastened to ask, observing that Jimmie was growing flushed and angry.

"Yes," was the reply, "and it is asserted in the diplomatic circles of foreign governments that she was rammed by the orders of a power alleged to be friendly to our Government, and that our department of state does not dare remonstrate and ask for reparation for the reason that an investigation would reveal the fact that the $10,000,000 in gold which was lost was not really, as alleged, on its way from the sub-treasury in New York to the treasurer of the Chinese Empire."

"But why should Uncle Sam be sending money over there?" asked Ned.

"It is asserted that the money was sent at the command of men high in influence in Washington who understood that it was to be seized while in transit, after reaching Chinese soil, and used to assist the radical fomentation now going on in China."

"An indirect way, a sly and underhand way, of assisting the revolutionary party in China to get control of the government, eh?" asked Ned.

"Aw, that is what is claimed," was the reply.

"And you are to have charge of the expedition?" asked Ned, quietly, his eyes fixed keenly on the face of the visitor.

"Orders," was the slow reply.

"And the Diver has been chosen as the boat?"

"At my request, yes."

"But," Ned then said, by way of protest, "I have made all my trial trips in the Sea Lion."

"You will soon learn to help handle the Diver," was the lofty reply.

"The Diver is no more like the Sea Lion than she is like the Ark," was Ned's reply. "It will take me another fortnight to learn to run her, I'm afraid."

"You can take lessons from my son on the way over," was the unsatisfactory reply.

"Why, the submarine is not going to sail across the Pacific," said the boy. "As I understand it, we are to take passage in a mail steamer at San Francisco and find the submarine in some harbor of the island of Hainan, after she arrives on the other side in a man-of-war which will be detailed to carry her over."

"I have changed all that," said the Captain.

Ned said no more on that phase of the matter at that time, but the boys knew that he had not given up his original intention of making the explorations in the Sea Lion, the submarine which the Secret Service chief at New York had placed at his disposal soon after his return from South America.

"You will be permitted to take one of your -- ah, Boy Scouts with you," the Captain went on. "Baby bunch, the Boy Scouts, what?" he added, lifting his glass and surveying the boys grouped about in a manner which brought the hot blood to their cheeks.

"I'm afraid you have never investigated the Boy -- "

Ned's conciliatory remark was cut short by Jimmie.

"Will the Boy Scout who goes with him be allowed to breathe?" the boy asked.

Captain Moore eyed the lad critically through his glass.

"You needn't concern yourself about that, bub," he said, after an exasperating silence, "for you won't be the one to go, don't you know -- not the Boy Scout to go."

Jimmie was about to make some angry reply, but Frank seized him by the arm and marched him to a distant part of the large room.

"You'll queer the whole thing!" Frank said.

Jimmie shook himself free of the detaining hand and faced the Captain with flashing eyes.

"I don't care if I do!" he said. "That thing is not going to make ugly remarks about the Boy Scouts without bein' called for it. He's an old false alarm, anyway. I'll bet he never heard a real gun go off!"

Captain Moore heard the insulting words and arose.

"If you'll, aw, come to my office tomorrow morning," he said, to Ned, "we'll discuss the, aw, mattah. I cawn't remain here and quarrel with boys who ought to be, aw, spanked and put, aw, to bed as soon as the sun goes down."

Ned did not rise from his chair to escort the Captain to the door. His face was pale and there was a dangerous light in his eyes.

"It won't be necessary for me to visit you in the morning," he said.

The Captain fixed his glass.

"Fawncy!" he exclaimed.

"Anything you like!" Ned said.

"Fawncy!" repeated the Captain.

"As you please," Ned smiled. "Fawncy anything you like -- anything agreeable, you know."

"And why won't you come to my office in the morning?" asked the Captain, with a tightening of his thin lips.

"I have decided to withdraw from the enterprise," was the quiet reply. "I'm out of it."

The boys gathered about Ned with cheers and words of encouragement.

"Go it, old boy!" cried one.

"Don't let him bluff you!" cried another.

"Dad will buy you a submarine!" Frank Shaw put in.

The Captain stood in the middle of the group, gazing in perplexity from face to face.

"My word!" he said, presently.

"What about it?" asked Jimmie, edging closer.

"Not going?" continued the Captain; "why?"

"I've changed my mind," was the unsatisfactory reply.

"But the submarine is waiting," urged the Captain.

"I shall never go to the bottom in the Diver," Ned replied.

"My word!"

The Captain loitered, as if anxious to reopen the whole matter, but Ned turned his back and seemed inclined to consider the case closed.

"And so we're not going?" asked Frank.

"Rotten shame!" declared Jack.

"So fades me happy, happy dream!" chanted Jimmie.

The Captain stuck his glass in his eye and moved toward the door, an expression of satisfaction on his stern face.

No one opened the door for him, and when he opened it for himself, he found a slender, middle-aged man with a pleasant face and brilliant eyes confronting him. His supercilious manner vanished instantly, and the military cap he had already donned came off with a jerk.

"Admiral!" he exclaimed.

The boys gathered about the doorway, all excitement. A real, live admiral in the Boy Scout clubroom! That was almost too much to expect.

The admiral saluted and stepped inside the room.

"Pardon me," he said, addressing Ned rather than the Captain, "but I must confess that I have been doing a discourteous thing. I have been listening at your door."

"I sincerely hope you heard all that was said," the Captain ventured. "I have been shamefully insulted here."

"Did you hear all that was said?" asked Nestor.

The Admiral bowed.

"I think so," he said.

"I'm glad of that," Frank said, "for this Captain does not tell the truth."

Captain Moore frowned in the direction of the speaker but said not a word.

"When I reached the door," the Admiral said, "I heard Captain Moore saying that the trip was to be made in the Diver, and that he was to have charge."

"That is the way I understand it," Captain Moore hastened to say. "And," continued the Admiral, "he said, further, that only one Boy Scout would be permitted to accompany Mr. Nestor."

"That will be quite enough, judging from the samples we see here," the Captain observed, with a vicious glance toward Jimmie, whose face was now set in a broad grin.

"Those are the statements made by Captain Moore," Ned said. "I refused to accept them."

"Quite right!" said the Admiral.

Captain Moore stuck his glass in his eye again and, saluting, turned toward the door.

"Wait!" commanded the Admiral.

The angry Captain turned back, a scowl on his face.

"Mr. Nestor," the Admiral continued, "goes in charge of the expedition, and in the Sea Lion, the submarine he has been experimenting with. He will be permitted to take three of his companions with him. Any officer who goes in the Sea Lion will necessarily remain under Mr. Nestor's orders."

"Then I ask for a transfer," scowled the Captain.

"Granted," answered the Admiral. "You may go now."

Captain Moore lost no time getting out of the door, and then the Admiral seated himself and motioned Ned to do likewise. The boys gathered about, but Ned asked them to proceed with their sports, and only the ex-newsboy remained at the table.

"I'm sorry to say," the Admiral began, "that there are hints of the most despicable disloyalty and treachery in this matter. I don't like to cast suspicions on Captain Moore, who really is an expert submarine officer, but it appears to me that he went beyond his authority in changing the plans for the cruise."

"He had no authority for changing from the Sea Lion to the Diver?" asked Ned.

"Not the slightest."

"Or for changing from a steamer ride to China to a long journey on the submarine?"

"Not at all."

"But he was sent here by the Secret Service department to instruct me," Ned said.

"Exactly, and that is all he was expected to do in the case. I don't understand his conduct."

Jimmie, who had been looking over an afternoon newspaper which lay on the table, now broke into the conversation.

"Just look here," he said. "This tells why Captain Moore butted into the game wrong. Just read that."

The Admiral took the newspaper into his hand and read, aloud:

"The Diver, the famous submarine boat invented by Arthur Moore, the talented son of Captain Henry Moore, of the United States navy, is soon to be put in commission for a most extraordinary voyage. Under the command of Captain Moore, who will be accompanied by the inventor, his son, the Diver will make the trip from San Francisco to China, almost entirely under water. It is understood that the submarine goes on secret service for the Government."

"There you are!" cried Jimmie.

"I rather think that does explain a lot," laughed Ned.

"The Diver," said the Admiral, thoughtfully, "has not yet been accepted by the Government, and I see trouble ahead for the Sea Lion."



Chapter III

"The Dandy Submarine"



The Sea Lion was a United States submarine, yet she was not constructed along the usual naval lines. It was said of her that she looked more like a pleasure yacht built for under-surface work than anything else.

It is not the purpose of the writer to enter into a minute description of the craft. She was provided with a gasoline engine and an electric motor. She was not very roomy, but her appointments were very handsome and costly.

There were machines for manufacturing pure air, as is common with all submarines of her class, and the apparatus for the production of electricity was modern and efficient. Every compartment could be closed against every other chamber in case of damage to the shell.

The pumps designed to expel the water taken into the hold for the purpose of bringing the craft to the bottom were powerful, so that she seemed to sink and rise as easily as does a bird on the wing. At top speed she would make about twenty miles an hour.

On a trial trip taken by Ned on the day before the visit of Captain Moore to the Black Bear clubroom, the double doors and closet which enabled one to leave or enter the boat while under water had been thoroughly tested and found to work perfectly.

The diving suits -- which had been manufactured to fit Ned and Frank, Jack and Jimmie -- were also found to be in perfect condition.

On the whole, the Sea Lion and her appurtenances were in as perfect condition as science and experience could make them on the day the four boys, accompanied by a naval officer, left the train at Oakland and proceeded to the navy yard up the bay.

By the middle of the afternoon the boys were on board, receiving their final instructions from Lieutenant Scott, who had arranged for the transportation of the Sea Lion from New York and attended to all other details connected with the trip.

After a long talk regarding the perils to be encountered, Lieutenant Scott drew forth a map of peculiar appearance and laid it on the table in the chamber which was to serve as a general living room.

"I have retained possession of this map until the last moment," the officer said, "because it is most important that no eyes but those of the occupants of the Sea Lion should rest upon it. It shows where the lost vessel went down, shows the drift there, the depths, and various other details of great moment.

"The Cutaria, as you doubtless know, went down off the Taya Islands, a small group to the east of the large island of Hainan, which, in turn, is off the coast of China, being separated, if that is a good word to use in this connection, from the eastern coast by the Gulf of Tong King.

"Immediately following the sinking of the ship divers were sent down. They found the lost ship resting easily in about sixty feet of water. A few days later, however, when other divers went down, the wreck was not at the place described by the first operators.

"There are drift currents there, but it is remarkable that so heavy a wreck should have been shifted so suddenly. There are no indications that the vessel has been buried in the sands of the bottom. Your duty is to search the ocean floor then and locate the wreck. Having done this you are to secure the treasure, if possible. In case you cannot do this, you are to steam to Hongkong and report what assistance you require.

"And remember this: You are not to destroy or mislay any documents you may find in the gold room. You are not to reveal the purpose of your mission at any port you may touch on the way out, or at any port you may visit for the purpose of reporting progress.

"If at any time you have reason to believe that another submarine is working or loitering about in the vicinity of the wreck, you are to report the fact without delay and a man-of-war will be sent to you."

"And that means -- "

Ned did not complete the sentence, for the officer hastened to explain the meaning of the warning.

"The Diver," he said, "is somewhere on this coast."

Ned gave a quick start of surprise.

"I knew it!" shouted Jimmie. "I just knew we were in for somethin' of the kind! There'll be doin's."

"I reckon we can take care of the Diver," said Frank, "and Mr. Arthur Moore, son of Captain Henry Moore, with it."

"Don't underestimate the Diver," warned Lieutenant Scott. "She is a peach of a submarine, and Mr. Arthur Moore knows how to operate her. She is almost the latest thing in submarines."

"Why didn't the Government buy her, then?" demanded Jack.

"Principally because she was withdrawn from the market," was the reply.

"I begin to understand," Ned said.

"Then that son of Captain Moore is after the gold?" asked Jack.

"That is what we suspect."

"Well," Frank said, then, "it wouldn't be any fun to go after the old wreck if all was clear sailing."

"Right you are!" cried Jimmie.

"But how did they get the Diver here so quickly?" asked Ned.

"The same way I got the Sea Lion here," was the Lieutenant's reply. "They engaged a special train, took the boat to pieces as far as practicable and sent her over."

"But she is something of a whale as compared with the little Sea Lion," urged Ned. "It was easy enough to get our boat across the continent."

"Not quite so easy as you think," laughed the officer. "Still," he added, "here she is, all ready for the trip. There are plenty of provisions, and everything is in fine working order. You, Mr. Nestor, took a hand in taking the submarine to pieces, and you ought to know all about her."

"I think I do," was the reply, "still, I should have liked the chance of putting her together again."

"It is all right as it is," was the reply. "You doubtless had a good time in New York while the work was being done here. When I left for the big city to ride over with you she was nearly ready, and now, on our arrival, she is, as you see, right and fit."

"But I thought we were to cross the Pacific in a steamer and pick up the Sea Lion over there," Ned observed.

"Right you are," the Lieutenant answered, "but the Sea Lion is to be taken over by the big steamer, too."

"Then they've got to take her to pieces again," wailed Jimmie, "and it will be weeks before we get started."

"You are wrong there," the officer replied. "The Sea Lion will be picked up by something like a floating dock and towed over. How does that strike you?"

"Out of water?" asked Frank.

"Of course. Novel way of carrying a submarine, eh?"

"I should say so."

"Over there," the Lieutenant went on, "there would be no facilities for assembling the parts. That is why the work was done here."

"Of course," laughed Frank.

"And this floating dry dock," continued the officer, "will be roofed over and its contents kept secret. A short distance from the Taya Islands, she will be shucked of her shell and take to the water. No one will know what her mission is."

"It seems to me that everything is pretty cleverly planned," Ned remarked. "I hope all my plans will come together as nicely as the plans of the Government have."

"That will be a big tow for a steamer," Jimmie suggested.

"Yes, it is awkward, but there seemed to be no other way. The Diver will be far in the rear and you take water off the Taya Islands."

"And on the way over," Ned said, "I can live in the Sea Lion and continue my studies of the machinery."

"That is the idea," said the Lieutenant.

"When are we to be picked up?" asked Jack.

The Lieutenant lifted a hand for silence.

From outside, seemingly from underneath the keel of the Sea Lion, came a grating sound, which was followed by a slight, though steady, lifting of the vessel.

"Gee!" cried Jimmie, springing to his feet. "I guess we're up against an earthquake!"

The boys were all moving about now, but Lieutenant Scott remained in his chair, a smile on his face.

The Sea Lion rose steadily, and there was a slight tip to port. Ned sat down with a shamed look on his face.

"I should have known," he said.

"Say," Jack exclaimed, "was the submarine put together on the float that is going to carry her across?"

"Of course she was," laughed the Lieutenant. "The pieces brought on from New York were assembled on the float. Some of the larger pieces, the ones most difficult to handle, were made here from patterns sent on from the east. Then, when all was ready, the float was dropped out of sight so the submarine would lie on the surface, as we found her."

"And now they're lifting the float?" asked Jimmie.

"Exactly," was the reply. "Suppose you go outside, on the conning tower, and look about."

"You bet," cried Jack, and then there was a rush for the stairway, or half-ladder, rather, leading to the tower.

The Sea Lion was still lifting, though where the power came from no one could determine. While Ned studied over the problem Lieutenant Scott laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You want to know what makes the wheels go round?" laughed the officer. "Well, I'll tell you. The bottom of the float forms a tank. Now do you see?"

"And there's a large hose laid from the tank to the shore, and the water is being pumped out! I see."

"That's it," replied the Lieutenant. "Now that we are getting up high and dry, you boys can step down on the floor of the float and look about. I don't think there was ever a contrivance exactly like this. Go and look it over."

Night was falling, and a chill October wind was blowing in from the Pacific. There were banks of clouds, too, and all signs portended rain. It would be a dismal night.

Leaving Lieutenant Scott in the conning tower, the boys all clambered down to the floor of the float to examine the blockings which kept the submarine on a level keel. They were gone only a short time, but when they climbed up the rope ladder to the conning tower again the light was dim, and a slow, cold rain was falling. The Lieutenant was not on the conning tower, and Ned at once descended to the general living room of the submarine. Before he reached the middle of the stairs the lights, which had been burning brightly a moment before, suddenly went out, and the interior of the submarine yawned under his feet like a deep, impenetrable pit.

Fearful that something was amiss, Ned dropped down and reached for his electric searchlight, which he had left on a shelf not far from the stairs. Something passed him in the darkness and he called out to the Lieutenant, but there was no answer. Then, out of the darkness above, came a mingled chorus of anger and alarm.



Chapter IV

A Wolf On The Trail



"That isn't Ned!" cried Jack's voice, in a moment.

"Don't let him get away! He's been up to some mischief!"

That was Frank Shaw's voice.

"Soak him!"

That could be no one but Jimmie!

Ned, groping about in the darkness, heard the voices faintly. He seemed to be submerged in a sweep of pounding waves, the steady beating of which shut out all individual sounds.

He knew that he staggered and stumbled as he walked. Moving across the floor his feet came in contact with some soft obstruction lying on the rug and he fell down.

There was a strange, choking odor in the place, and he groped on his hands and knees in the direction of the shelf where his searchlight had been left. His senses reeled, and for an instant he lay flat on the floor.

Then he heard the boys clambering down the stairs from the conning tower and called out, feebly, yet with sufficient strength to make himself heard above the sound of shuffling feet.

"Go back!" he cried. "Don't come in here! Leave the hatch open, and let in air. Go back!"

Jimmie recognized a note of alarm, of suffering, in the voice of his chum and dropped headlong into the black pit of the submarine. Ned heard him snap the catch of a searchlight, and then, dimly, heard his voice:

"Gee!" the voice said. "What's comin' off here?"

The round face of the electric searchlight showed at the end of a cylindrical shaft of light which rested on Ned's face, but the boy did not realize what was going on until he felt a gust of wind and a drizzle of rain on his forehead.

Then he opened his eyes to find himself on the conning tower of the submarine, with the boys gathered about him, anxiety showing in their speech and manner. It was too dark for him to see their faces.

"You're all right now," Jimmie said. "What got you down there?"

Then Ned remembered the sudden extinction of the lights as he moved down the stairs, the stifling, choking odor below, and the deadly grip of suffocation which had brought him to the floor.

"Go back into the boat," he said, gaining strength every moment. "I am anxious about Lieutenant Scott."

"We've just come from there," Frank said. "We've done all that can be done for him."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Ned, moving toward the hatch which sealed the submarine.

"The poison which keeled you over got him!" Jack said.

"Do you mean that he's dead?" asked Ned, a shiver running through his body as he spoke.

"I'm afraid so," was the reply. "We got you out just in time. You would have perished in a moment more."

"Dead!" said Ned. "Lieutenant Scott dead! And he was so gay and so full of life a few moments ago!"

Jack, who had left the little group a moment before, now returned.

"The poison seems to have evaporated from the interior," he said, "so we may as well go below. I'll go ahead and turn on the lights." The body of the naval officer lay in a huddle at the foot of the stairs leading to the conning tower, just far enough to the rear so that the free passage was not obstructed. With all the lights turned on and every aperture which might transmit a ray to the world outside closed, the boys, after placing the body on a couch, began a close examination of the boat.

There were no wounds on the body, so it seemed that he had died from suffocation. There was still a sickening odor in the boat, but the constant manufacture of fresh air was gradually doing away with this.

The door to the room where the dynamos and the gasoline engine were situated was found wide open, and Ned instructed the boys to leave it so and leave everything untouched.

"The first thing to do," he said, "is to discover any clues the assassin may have left here. It is an old theory that no person, however careful he or she may be, can enter and leave a room without leaving behind some evidence of his or her presence there. We'll soon know if this is true in this case."

"There was some one in here, all right," Jimmie said. "He passed us on the conning tower, skipping like to break the speed limit for the city. I tried to trip him as he passed me, an' got this."

The lad turned a bruised face toward his companions. In the confusion no one had observed the cut on his cheek.

"You did get something!" Jack exclaimed. "Why didn't you say something about it?"

"Nothin' doin'!" answered the boy. "Only a scratch!"

Notwithstanding the boy's claim that the wound was of small importance, Ned insisted on its being dressed at once.

"Now," Ned said, after the cut had been properly cared for, "what sort of a man was it that passed you boys on the conning tower? The circular platform is so small that he must have crowded you pretty closely when he stepped out."

"He did," Jimmie answered. "I thought it was you, and stepped aside to make room for him."

"And then?"

"I had a feeling that it wasn't you. Then, he was makin' for the wharf so fast that I thought it would do no harm to have a look at him, and so called out."

"Then's when you got the slash across the cheek?"

"Yes; he cut me then."

"What about the size of the fellow?" asked Ned.

"Oh, I should think he was slender and light, the way he bounded off the platform and made for the wharf."

"Do you think he went there to kill Lieutenant Scott?" asked Jack, a moment later.

"It is more probable that he came here to put the Sea Lion out of commission," Frank replied.

"I'll bet well find somethin' all busted up!" Jimmie predicted.

"Ned can soon determine that," Jack remarked.

"Yes," Ned went on, "but the first thing to do is to see if this murderer left any visiting cards here. After that, we must notify the Coroner and have the body removed."

Ned went into the dynamo room and looked about.

"Here is where any enemy would have to do his work," he said, "so we must look for clues here. Keep your hands off the machinery, for he may have left finger marks somewhere."

Ned searched long and carefully without reward. Finally he turned to the waiting boys.

"There's quite a lot of waste lying around," he said. "Secure every fiber of it and examine it under the microscope. You would better attend to that, Frank, as you are familiar with the instrument. If you discover anything foreign to a place like this, let me know."

While Ned continued his search about the interior of the submarine, Frank busied himself inspecting the bits of waste the other boys brought to him. At last an exclamation of astonishment brought Ned to his side.

"There's something funny about this," Frank said, as Ned bent over his shoulder. "That stuff is not oil, and I'd like to know how it got in here."

"What does it look like?" asked Ned.

"I can't say," was the hesitating reply.

Ned took the microscope and looked at the object to which his attention had been called.

"Rubber!" he said, in a moment.

"Rubber!" repeated Frank. "How could rubber be in the waste in that shape?"

"All the same," Ned replied, "this is some rubber composition, and it has been wiped into the waste. Now, what could any person want with rubber here?"

"It is used quite a lot around electric apparatus," suggested Frank Shaw.

"But not in this form," Ned replied.

Then, remembering certain smooth blurs on the polished machinery he had recently examined, he took the microscope and made another examination of the spots. Presently he called Frank to his side.

"Look through the glass," he said, handing the instrument to Frank, "and tell me what you see."

"Rubber!" cried the boy, after a short examination. "There are a few traces here of the same rubber composition I found on the waste. Can you tell me what it means?"

"Quite simple," Ned replied, as the boys gathered about him. "The use of rubber composition by men engaged in nefarious undertakings dates back to the time of the utilization of the whorls and lines of the human fingers as aids in the detection of crime."

"I guess I know what you are going to say," cried Frank.

"When the thumb - and finger-print experts got busy with their photographs and their enlarged reproductions, the criminals began studying on methods to offset this dangerous aid to detective work."

"I knew it," cried Frank.

"And so," Ned went on, "they conceived the idea of filling the lines on the fingers and hands and making them perfectly smooth. This is rubber paint," he went on. "The man who was hidden in here when we came in did not care to leave any finger marks behind him."

"But he did leave smooth blurs on the machines where his fingers touched them!" said Jack.

"Certainly, and so pointed out the location of his efforts. Still, I do not think he meditated disabling the Sea Lion. It is more probable that he believed Lieutenant Scott to be the expert in charge of the boat and sought to kill or disable him."

"See where the chump wiped his hands on waste," Jimmie cried.

Ned now made a still closer inspection of the room and was rewarded for his thoroughness by discovering a tiny pool of the rubber composition on the floor, close to the giant iron frame of the big dynamo. Looking at the pool through his glass he discovered bits of wool mixed with it. He put up his glass with a smile.

"We ought to be able to find this fellow now," he said, "if we get busy before he has time to change his clothes."

"Got him, have you?" asked Jack.

"I think I could pick him out of a thousand provided he is captured in the clothes he wore while here. His hand trembled while he was putting the rubber composition on his fingers and some of it dropped on his clothing and dripped off to the floor.

"There are shreds of blue wool in this composition on the floor -- so you see he wore a blue woolen garment -- probably a coat or pair of trousers. And, see here, the fellow lost all caution when he bounded out of the submarine, after extinguishing the lights, on my entrance.

"He had already wiped the rubber off his hands on the waste, and so his finger marks showed on the steel railing of the staircase. I'll just take a photo of them."

When this was accomplished, Ned and Jimmie drew the Sea Lion's boat to the edge of the float and launched it. Then, leaving Frank and Jack in charge of the submarine, with instructions to keep a close watch for suspicious characters, they turned the prow of the rowboat toward South Vallejo. The distance to the wharf was not great. In fact, the intruder seemed to have cleared it in a minute, either in a boat, which was improbable, or by swimming.

The Sea Lion lay off the United States Navy Yard, on the west of Mare Island, in the straits of the same name. The nearest landing place on the mainland, therefore, was South Vallejo.

It was after 8 o'clock when the boys reached the main street of the town and encountered a policeman in uniform. Ned at once asked for the office of the Coroner of Salano County.

"What's doing?" asked the policeman.

"I have business with him," Ned replied, not caring to create a sensation by reciting there in the street the details of what had taken place.

"Well," replied the policeman, "if you're so mighty close-mouthed regarding your business with the Coroner, you may find him yourself."

"All right," Ned replied. "I'll go to police headquarters. Perhaps the night desk man won't be so fresh."

"Say," growled the policeman, "you needn't get gay. I know my duty. So, if you don't mind, I'll take you to headquarters, saving you the trouble of asking for the place."

"I refuse to go with you," Ned replied.

"Oh, well," announced the other, "I'll take you along, just the same. I'm used to kids of your stamp. You're both under arrest, so you'd better come along without making any trouble."

As he spoke the policeman seized both boys roughly.



Chapter V

Two Wolves In A Pen



"Take it quietly," Ned advised Jimmie, as the little fellow began struggling with the arm of the law. "We'll come out on top in the end, I take it."

"I'd like to knock the head off this fool cop!" Jimmie cried. "What right has he to go an' arrest us?"

"If it will take any load off your mind," the policeman replied, as the three waited on a corner for a patrol wagon, "I'll tell you what right I had to arrest you. There's a report at the office that a man who went into that submarine of yours never came out again."

"When was this report sent in?" asked Ned.

"Just a few moments ago," was the reply. "All the officers in the city are either watching for you or heading toward the boat. What have you done with Lieutenant Scott?"

"Who sent in the report?" asked Ned.

"I don't know his name, but the chief does. He says he went to the water front, on the island side, with the Lieutenant, that the Lieutenant went on board the Sea Lion with you and the others, and that he has not been seen since. What about it? Better confess and get an easy sentence."

"The officers who are on their way to the submarine will find out why the Lieutenant never came out," Ned said. "But about this man who made the report. Why was he waiting for Scott to leave the boat?"

"Said he had an understanding with him that he was to watch outside, as Scott did not exactly trust you New York kids. A little while ago he heard a commotion and calls for help on board, so he came up to report."

"Thank you for the information," Ned said. "Now, you can't get us to headquarters any too quickly."

"Where is Scott?" asked the officer.

"Dead," was the reply.

"Holy smoke!" cried the policeman. "Then I've arrested a couple of murderers!"

"If you'll hurry us to headquarters," Ned replied, "and the man who made this report is still there, I'll help you to arrest a real murderer. Here comes the wagon."

"Drive fast," ordered the policeman as the three entered the patrol wagon and the driver turned to inspect the boys. "I've got the fellows we're after," he added.

"Great luck!" the driver replied. "There'll be a big reward."

"Oh, I guess I know my business!" said the policeman, with a boastful chuckle.

The station was soon reached, and, without the least ceremony, the boys were pushed along to the cell block and locked up. Ned's demand that they be taken before the chief was not heeded.

"This is fine!" Jimmie said, from the next cell to the one occupied by Ned. "I like this."

Before Ned could reply, the chief of police made his appearance in the corridor outside, a great ring of keys in one hand. He unlocked the cell doors without speaking a word and motioned the boys out into the corridor.

Then, still without speaking, he pointed the way to his private office, ushered the lads in, closed and locked the door.

"Well?" he said, then.

"Will you send for the Coroner?" asked Ned.

"So Scott is dead?"

"Yes."

"Why did you kill him?"

Before opening his mouth to reply, Ned caught sight of a dark stain on the arm of the chair in which he was seated.

"Have you a microscope handy?" he asked.

The chief opened his eyes in amazement.

The question, coming at that time, seemed almost the raving of a mad man. This is the view the chief took of it, and he decided to conciliate the maniac.

"What do you want of a microscope?" he asked.

"I want to see if this spot is caused by the application of a certain rubber composition, and if there are shreds of blue wool mixed with it."

"I guess," the chief said, "that your proper place is the foolish house."

"While your men are bringing the microscope," Ned went on, coolly, "I want to ask you a few questions."

"Go ahead," laughed the chief, wondering what sort of insanity this was.

"Who sat in this chair last?" asked Ned.

"Why, the last visitor, of course."

"Can you now recall his name?"

"Curtis."

"How was he dressed?"

"In a blue suit."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. He said he would return as soon as the officers came back from the submarine."

"Yes he will!" Jimmie broke in.

"Does he belong here?" asked Ned.

The chief pointed to the west.

"Over in the navy yard," he said.

"So the blue suit he wore was a naval uniform?"

"Exactly."

The chief touched a bell on his desk and a policeman opened the door at the back of the room, connecting with the sergeant's room, and looked in.

"Get a microscope," the chief ordered, "and keep quiet about what is going on in here."

The sergeant nodded and went out.

"What did you say about that smear on the arm of the chair?" asked the chief, then.

He was beginning to understand that there was something besides mental trouble at the bottom of Ned's inquiries.

"I think," was the reply, "that an inspection of the spot will reveal a rubber composition used principally by the thieves of Paris as a paint to prevent palm and finger lines and whorls showing on things they take hold of."

The chief looked at the spot critically.

"Also, shreds from a blue uniform," Ned continued.

"We shall see," replied the chief.

The microscope was soon brought in, and then a close examination of the spot on the arm of the chair was made by the chief.

"What do you find?" asked Ned.

"I really can't say what it is," was the reply.

Ned took from a pocket a bit of the waste he had brought from the dynamo room of the submarine.

"Look at this," he said, "and see if the material in it appears to be the same as that on the chair. I mean, of course, the smudge on it."

The chief turned his instrument on the waste.

"It is the same," he declared, in a moment, "and I'd like to know where you got it."

"Do you find blue threads -- well, not threads, exactly, but bits of fuzz -- in the waste, too?"

"Yes, but the trace is faint."

"Well," Ned said, "the man who killed Lieutenant Scott is the man who gave you the information you speak of. He sat in this chair not long ago. I would advise a search for him."

"But he agreed to come back." "Of course he never will," Ned said. "Now, here is another point. You are going to have the Sea Lion searched?"

"Yes."

"Well, your men will find the body of Lieutenant Scott lying on a couch there. In that case, they will doubtless arrest the two boys I left on watch there?"

"Certainly."

"And that will give the man who left this blur on the arm of this chair not long ago a chance to make off with the boat. I reckon you'll do well to look after that part of the case, for the submarine belongs to the Secret Service department of the Government, and Uncle Sam has use for it just at this time."

"The Secret Service department?" repeated the chief. "He said she was a scout boat Lieutenant Scott was going to coast south with."

"Did he say why he suspected that Lieutenant Scott was in danger?" asked Ned.

"He said you boys were suspicious characters who claimed to be able to operate a submarine, and that Scott was inclined to try you out."

Ned took a long envelope from a pocket of his coat and passed it, unopened, to the chief.

"Read the letter inside," he said, "and then get me to the Sea Lion as quickly as possible."

The chief opened the envelope and read the single sheet of typewritten paper it held.

"From the Secretary of the Navy!" he exclaimed.

"Exactly."

"I don't need to ask if you are the Ned Nestor mentioned in the letter, then. I saw a picture of you in a San Francisco newspaper, not long ago, and now recognize you as the boy referred to."

"Then take us to the submarine," urged Ned.

"It won't do no good to take us there after that cheap skate has geezled the boat," Jimmie cut in.

"And you are Jimmie," the chief went on. "I saw your picture, too. Well, this is quite a surprise for me," the chief added.

"You'll get a greater surprise if you let that murderer get off with the Sea Lion," Jimmie remarked.

The chief called the sergeant again and in a moment all was confusion in the police station. A wagon was called, and the chief and his ex-prisoners were soon on their way to the wharf, followed by the eyes of the policemen left behind.

"That's Ned Nestor, of New York," the boys heard one of the men on the iron steps in front saying as they passed, "and the little fellow is Jimmie McGraw. Great hit Preston made arresting them!"

But the minds of the boys were too full of anxiety regarding the fate of Scott and the Sea Lion to pay much attention to the words of flattery they overheard. If the unknown murderer succeeded in securing the arrest of Jack and Frank and getting away in the submarine, the whole trip would have to be abandoned, at least for the present.

Besides, Ned had no idea of going back to New York and reporting that he had been robbed of his boat under the very guns of the Mare Island Navy Yard. He urged the driver to make greater speed, and in a short time the wharf was in sight.

Half a dozen policemen were gathered about the end nearest the float which upheld the Sea Lion, and the figure of another showed at the top of the conning tower. As the police wagon dashed up to the wharf another rig came up on a run and halted close at the side of it.

"Hello," called the chief, recognizing a man on the seat, "how did you manage to get here so soon?"

"Some one 'phoned for me," was the hurried reply. "Where is the dead man?"

"In the submarine," answered an officer who had drawn closer to the official's buggy.

Without another word the newcomer leaped out and was conveyed to the Sea Lion in the rowboat Ned had left tied to the wharf.

"That's the Coroner," the chief said, in explanation. "He'll soon get at the bottom of this."

"Suppose we get aboard the Sea Lion," suggested Ned.

"Of course," said the chief, "you'll remain here a few days and assist in the capture of this fellow?"

"I shall have to ask for instructions from Washington," was the reply. "I really ought to get away on the steamer which sails in the morning."

When the three, using a boat an officer found nearby, reached the main cabin of the Sea Lion they found Jack and Frank sitting by the table, handcuffed, repeating over and over again their individual and collective opinion of the police of Vallejo. Jimmie seemed to take great delight in taunting them.

"Black Bears in chains!" he roared.

"Huh, where have you Wolves been?" demanded Jack. "These cops said they had you in a pen!"

While the Coroner was making his examination the chief ordered the irons removed from the wrists of the boys. For a time the Coroner appeared to be puzzled. He lifted the hands of the apparently dead man and dropped them again. Then he held a pocket mirror before his lips.

"Look here," he said, presently, "I don't believe this man is dead."

"I hope you are right," Ned said, hopefully. "Still, the poison I got near killed me, while he must have gotten much more."

There was a short silence, during which the Coroner held his watch.



Chapter VI

Night On An Ocean Floor



"Over there, straight to the west," Ned said, pointing from the conning tower of the submarine, "is the coast of China, not far from seventy-five miles away."

"And there, to the north," Frank said, "lie the Taya Islands. The big fellow beyond is Hainan."

The sun was going down into the Gulf of Tong King like a ball of red fire, and the night was far from cool.

Jimmie declared he could hear the water hiss as the sun dipped its red rim under the waves. The boy now stood by Ned's side, looking over the wonderful scene.

"We've been somewhere near here before," he said. "You remember the time we came over to this side of the world and found a key to a treaty box? Well, we wasn't far from this spot at one time."

"Right you are," Frank replied. "Only we hope to find something more important than a key now. I hope they've had use for a cell key in connection with that mix-up at Mare Island Navy Yard."

"It was rotten to let that fellow get away!" Jimmie declared. "I just knew they would."

"We were all so astonished at the recovery of Lieutenant Scott," Ned observed, "that we overlooked a few things we ought to have kept in mind. Wasn't it glorious! Think of Scott coming out of it all right at last!"

"Well, he said he was a fixture on the coast until he found the man who came so near killing him," Frank said, in a moment, "and I hope he'll make good."

"Huh," Jimmie interrupted, "if you think that fellow is on the Pacific coast yet, you've got another think comin'. You remember the Diver left San Francisco just about the time we did."

"What has that to do with it?"

"Most nothin' at all, only he sailed in her."

"You're a wise little man!"

"And, what's more, we'll see the Diver come pluggin' along here before we get this job done," Jimmie went on. "That Captain Moore and his son are out for blood."

"But the Diver will require at least a couple of months to get here," urged Frank. "We can get away before that time."

"You don't know what the Moores will do," Ned said. "I rather agree with Jimmie, that we shall see something of the Diver before we leave this part of the world."

"I hope so," Frank said.

"Well, who's for the bottom of the sea?" demanded Jimmie. "I want to see what's down there before the Bogy Man gets me."

"I don't mind going down," Ned said. "Come on, we'll close the top hatch and drop to the bottom, then, if conditions are right, we'll enter the water closet, put on the diving suits, and take a walk on the floor of the big water."

"Suppose we all go," suggested Frank.

"Perhaps it may be well for two to remain aboard in order to help the others out, if necessary," Ned observed.

"All right," Frank said. "Catch a fish by the tail and bring him in for supper."

"To-morrow," Jimmie said, "you can take a run on the riparian rights an' chase whales."

"I'll wait and see whether you boys come out alive," laughed Frank. "I'm a little leary about mixing with the funny little fishes. Some of 'em may bite!"

After a thoroughly interesting voyage, the boys had at last reached the scene of their labors. It was now the 20th of October. The Sea Lion had rode securely on the float, and Ned and his companions had spent most of the time during the journey under the great hood which covered the submarine, studying the mechanism and making themselves thoroughly familiar with the big machine.

Arriving off the Taya Islands, the float had been submerged by opening the sluiceways and filling the tanks with water. The Sea Lion behaved admirably when she came to the surface after cutting away from the companion of her voyage.

As there were no appliances for lifting the big float, she was now at the bottom of the sea for all time, unless broken away from the water-filled tanks by divers, in which case the upper works would come to the surface. It was with feelings of keen regret that the boys saw the great barge, as it might well be called, lying, deserted, on the ocean floor.

As has been shown by the conversation between the boys in the conning tower, Lieutenant Scott had fully recovered from the effects of the poisonous fumes he had inhaled in the submarine on the night of Ned's arrest at South Vallejo. Physicians stated at the time that his recovery was due to the fact that the conning tower hatch was open when the deadly gas was released. Ned, it was also stated, would have been dead in a few moments if the hatch had been closed.

Search had been made, both by the police and the naval detectives, for the author of the mischief, but he had not been found. It was believed that his purpose in reporting the result of his own deviltry to the chief of police was to secure the arrest of the boys on the Sea Lion and make off with her.

Ned did not say so, when discussing the matter with the officers, but he was satisfied that the Moores were at the bottom of the trouble. The Captain had resigned, and had been observed lounging about the wharf in New York where the Sea Lion lay, and had, it was afterwards learned, been seen in San Francisco on the day before the arrival of Lieutenant Scott and the Boy Scouts.

In reaching this conclusion Ned assigned envy as the prime motive on the part of the Captain and his son. They had expected to be assigned the duty of searching the ocean floor for the wreck of the mail steamer. In their great disappointment nothing was more probable than that they had resolved to hamper the efforts of their successful rivals in every way.

But there was still another view of the case which might be considered. The gold in the hull of the wrecked steamer would become the spoil of the first submarine to reach her.

With the double incentive, greed joined to a thirst for revenge, it would not be at all strange if the Moores had risked everything in their efforts to prevent the Sea Lion leaving the Navy Yard on her long trip. It was Ned's private opinion, too, that the son had been the one to sneak into the submarine and attack the Lieutenant with the poisonous gas.

Leaving Frank and Jack in the machine room, Ned and Jimmie entered the water chamber and closed the door, which, however, was provided with a plate glass panel of great thickness, so that light from the other room supplied plenty of illumination.

It was not designed to submerge the Sea Lion until the boys were all ready to step out. Four deep-sea suits hung on hooks in the water chamber, one for each of the boys.

These suits were not much different from those usually worn by deep-sea divers. They were of seamless rubber composition, braced across the breast with bars of steel in order to offset the great pressure of the lower levels and give the lungs plenty of room for expansion.

The helmets, which fitted on the neck of the suits, were lighter than those in ordinary use, but fully as strong. The cords attached to the helmets were very long, and the air-hose admitted of a range of at least three hundred feet.

By the side of each suit lay an electric searchlight of special construction and a long steel pole, shaped something like a crowbar, but very slender and strong. This latter for defense in case attack should be made by some monster of the deep.

"Say," Jimmie grinned, slipping on his suit, "these spring suits look to me like someone to button us up in the back."

"I don't see where you find buttons," replied Ned.

"Look here, then!"

The boy pointed to the screws designed to secure the helmets.

"You button me up, and I'll button you up," Ned laughed. "We've got to learn to do such things."

"I'll catch a shark an' get him to learn how," cried Jimmie. "I wonder how I would look in this suit walkin' down the Bowery. Gee! I bet the boys would jump out of their skins if they saw me comin'. They'd think their master had come to claim 'em!"

The boys worked industriously for a time, settling themselves in the rather clumsy suits, and then all was ready save putting on the heavy helmets. Jimmie pointed to a belt about the waist of his suit.

"What's that for?" he asked, pulling at a hook which was suspended from the steel circlet.

"That's to hang your searchlight on," was the reply. "There may come a time when you'll want both hands to operate that spike thing you've got to carry."

At last the helmets were adjusted, the cords and air-hose attached, and then Ned motioned to the boys, watching with grinning eyes through the plate glass panel, to turn on the air. The first sensation on receiving the air was one of exhilaration, but this soon passed off.

Ned saw, by looking through the immense goggles which Jimmie wore, that the lad was almost bursting with laughter, but he knew that this effect would soon pass away. He pushed a button, and signaled to Frank to fill the water tanks.

As the water chamber filled the boys felt a cold circle rise from their toes to their heads. They felt a sinking motion, and soon the mysterious life of the ocean became visible through the outer glass door of the water chamber.

The Sea Lion dropped evenly to the bottom. The supply of air was as perfect as it could well be. When the faint jar told Ned that the submarine was at last resting on the bed of the tropical sea he released a heavy bar which held the door, pushed it back against considerable pressure, and stepped out.

Jimmie followed, and Ned stopped long enough to point to the lines as a warning that they should not be allowed to become tangled, and struck off. It was early in the evening, and there was a moon, almost at the full.

The depth at that point was not great, scarcely more than sixty feet. The pressure of the water overhead made walking rather difficult, and the boys were strange to the lines they were drawing after them, but they made good progress until they came to the end of the air-hose.

It was not as dark under the waves as might have been expected. The light of the sun penetrates, ordinarily, to a depth of not far from forty feet, and the moon's rays on this night were very strong. It was not light enough for the boys to see objects around them, but there was a soft illumination above their heads not dissimilar to the faint haze of light which lies over a country landscape situated at no great distance from a city bright with electricity.

By using the searchlights, however, the boys were able to distinguish objects directly about them. They were on a level plain of pure white sand. Ages and ages ago this pavement laid so smoothly on the ocean floor had existed in the form of rocks.

Through countless years it had faced the assaults of the waves, until at last, in utter defeat, it had succumbed to the mighty force and dropped in fine grains to the lower levels of the world. It seemed to Ned that it had lain there for centuries, with never a storm to pile it into ridges or break its level surface into pits.

The scene about the boys was indescribably beautiful. The inhabitants of the sea rivaled the rainbow in brilliancy of coloring. There were more forms of life in sight than either of the boys had ever imagined in existence.

Queer-shaped sea creatures with long tails darted about the rubber-clad figures, and now and then an inquisitive fish with curious eyes poked its nose against the eye plates, as if intent on discovering what sort of creature it was that carried a sunrise in its head.

There were monster creatures in sight, too, and Jimmie jabbed at one of them and brought blood. This brought others, and in a short time the boys found themselves surrounded by a school of sharks.

Ned threw himself down on the sandy bottom and motioned to Jimmie to do likewise. This seemed to surprise the sharks, for they nosed around for only a moment longer. Seeing no opportunity of getting under their prospective dinners, they switched their tails angrily, like a cat in a temper, and swam off about their business, if they had any.

But Ned had little interest in the sea life about him. At another time, and under other conditions, he would have enjoyed the novelty of the scene to the fullest, but now he was anxiously watching for some indication of the presence of the wreck of the Cutaria.

He was as certain as it was possible to be that the Sea Lion had descended almost at the exact spot where the ill-fated vessel went down. The hull should be out there in the sand somewhere, and he lost no time in making his investigations.

But there was nothing on the smooth surface to show that any vessel had ever rested there. Away to the north, however, the boy finally saw what looked like an elevation.

His flashlight, however, would not throw its beams to the point of interest, and he decided to return to the Sea Lion, rest for the remainder of the night, and shift the submarine in the morning.

Motioning to his companion, therefore, he turned toward the door to the water chamber. They had proceeded only a few steps when something seemed to pass over their heads.

It was as if a heavy cloud had drifted over a summer sky, outlining its shape on the fields below for an instant and then passing on. Jimmie caught Ned's arm and pointed upward.

It was plain that the little fellow had caught sight of something his companion had missed, but of course he could not explain then and there what it was. Ned hastened his steps, and soon stood at the door of the water chamber, which had been left open.

As Jimmie pushed into the water-filled apartment by his side and Ned was about to close the door and expel the water from the chamber, as well as from the tanks of the submarine, something which flashed like polished steel hurtled through the water and struck the bottom just outside the doorway.

Ned stepped out and picked it up. It was a keen-edge knife, such as sailors carry. On the handle was a single initial -- "D."

Ned knew what that meant. Through some strange agency, by means of some unaccountable assistance, the Diver had reached the scene of the proposed operations of the Sea Lion.

From this time on, it would be a battle of wits -- perhaps worse!



Chapter VII

The Secret Of The Hold



In response to Ned's hand on the lever, the water door closed and the pumps in the next compartment soon cleared not only the sea vestibule but the tanks of the submarine of seawater.

In a moment the Sea Lion lifted to the surface, and Ned lost no time in relieving himself of his helmet. Then, still attired in the rubber suit, he hastened to the conning tower, where he found Jack, glass in hand, sweeping the moonlit sea eagerly. There was a faint haze off to the west, but nothing more. Whatever had passed above the submerged boat, on the surface, had wholly disappeared, though the time had been very short.

"What did you see?"

Ned asked the question because Jack's manner indicated excitement, if not anxiety.

"Just a shadow," was the reply.

"It might have been a shadow, passing over the moon, the shadow of a cloud, or a cloud itself," suggested Frank, sticking his head out of the hatchway.

Ned pointed to the sky. There was not a cloud in sight.

"It must have been something of the kind," Jack mused, "for no boat could get out of sight so soon."

"Not even a submarine?" asked Ned.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Did you see a submarine?"

Both questions were asked in a breath.

"No," replied Ned, "I did not see a submarine, but I don't believe any cloud passing over the sky would drop anything like this."

He passed the knife to Jack and took the glass. Jack opened his eyes wide as he examined the weapon and noted the initial on the handle. He turned impulsively to Ned.

"Where did you get it?" he asked.

"At the bottom."

"Did you find it lying there?"

"It fell just as I reached the water chamber."

"Then how the dickens did the Diver get away so soon?" demanded the boy.

"It sure did fall from the Diver," agreed Frank, taking the knife and examining it.

"It would seem so," Ned replied, "but, of course, the initial may be merely a coincidence."

"I guess we're in for it."

"But how did the Diver get here so soon after our arrival?" asked one of the boys.

Ned looked grave for a moment, and then replied, his manner showing how fully he appreciated the importance of his words:

"What I fear is that she got here first."

"And found the wreck?"

"She might have done so."

"Did you see anything of the Cutaria down there?" asked Frank.

"Not a bloomin' thing," answered Jimmie, making his appearance on the conning tower.

"The Diver might have towed it away," suggested Jack.

"Impossible!" cried the others, in chorus.

"Anyway," Jack continued, "we're up against the real goods now. If the Diver is here we'll have a scrap."

"But suppose it should be some other outfit?" asked Frank. "Some pirate outfit after the gold?"

"Still there would be a scrap."

"That's one advantage of goin' with Ned," Jimmie edged in. "You most always get into a scrap!"

"Well," Ned said, presently, "we may as well drop down and keep our lights low. If the Diver is here, the Moores are aware of our presence, and we must be prepared for anything."

In ten minutes the submarine lay at the bottom of the sea, with no lights showing, every plate glass window having been shuttered on the outside by a system of protection which was one of the best features of the craft. Then Ned explained that he had seen, at some distance, an apparent elevation rising from the sand.

"That may be the wreck," he said.

"I move we go and see," shouted Jimmie.

"In the darkness?" asked Frank.

"It is as light out there now," Jack declared, "as it will ever be, unless some subterranean volcano lights up and makes fireworks on the bottom, so we may as well be off."

"All right," Ned said, in a moment. "I was meditating a little rest to-night, but it may be advisable to get to work at once. For all we know the Moores may be stripping the wreck, even now."

"What I can't understand," Jack said, sticking to the first proposition, "is how the Diver got here in such good time."

"As has been said, it may be some other craft," Frank consoled.

"Don't believe it," insisted Jimmie. "The boat that dropped that knife is a submarine, else how could she disappear so suddenly? She may be watching us now."

"Or her divers may be prowling around the Sea Lion!" Jack created a little sensation by saying.

"What would be the use of prowling around outside the boat?" asked Jimmie. "They couldn't hear anything, or see anything."

"But a torpedo will act under water," suggested Frank. "Those chaps are equal to anything."

"Shall we go out and look around?" asked Jack.

Ned hesitated. He really was alarmed at the situation. He knew how desperate the Moores must be, and he had no doubt that in some strange way the Diver had been brought to the scene of the wreck.

"If you and Frank are partial to a moonlight stroll under sixty feet of water," he finally said, "you may as well put on your water suits and look around."

"Leave Jimmie here to watch the boat and come with us," urged Jack.

"Go on," Jimmie advised. "I can run this shebang, all right. Go on and see what you can see."

"If we are going out to-night," Ned said, after reflection, "we may as well shift the Sea Lion and inspect the bottom over where we saw the apparent elevation."

"Yes; that may be the wreck," Jack admitted.

So the submarine was moved a short distance to the north, about the space which had seemed to separate the boys from the elevation, and preparations were made for going out. Jimmie was rather pleased at the idea of being left in charge of the submarine.

"Of course you'll not touch the machinery," Ned warned. "All you can do is to see that the air pumps are kept going. Any motion of the boat, you understand, might break or disarrange the hose carrying the air to us, so be careful."

"Oh, I guess I don't want to murder any of you," laughed the little fellow. "Go ahead and I'll run things all right on board the boat. I could operate her anywhere."

The Sea Lion was lifted only a trifle in order to make the change to the new location. As she moved along she was not much more than a fathom from the level sand below.

This was done by regulating the water in the tanks to the pressure at the depth it was desired to navigate. The delicate mechanisms designed to show depth, pressure, air value, and all the important details of a submarine were absolutely perfect.

So the three boys entered the water chamber, leaving Jimmie grinning through the glass panel. When the boat was brought to the bottom they opened the outer door and stepped out.

The Sea Lion had traversed only a short distance, yet the surface upon which the lads walked seemed very different from the smooth sand level Ned had seen before. There were now little ridges of sand, and now and then a pit opened up almost under their feet.

A dozen yards from where they emerged from the submarine they came upon the elevation which Ned had observed on his first trip out. It was not, however, a submerged rock or a bit of harder soil in the desert of sand. It was the hull of a wrecked vessel.

Ned moved along one side of the wreck, as far as his air-hose would permit him to go, and was satisfied that he had found the lost mail ship. The sand was already drifting against her sides, but she was still far from buried.

On the port side, about a third of the way to the stern from the bow, the boy discovered the wound which had brought the stately vessel to her present position. She lay, tilted about a quarter, in eighty feet of water.

Ned wondered why passing vessels had not discovered her. The tall stacks had been beaten down, probably snapped off at the collision, but the superstructure was high, and not far below the surface, Ned thought.

After motioning Jack and Frank to remain at the break in the side of the ship, Ned clambered up and, being careful to protect his air-hose and line from the jagged edges of the wound, crept inside. His electric flashlight revealed the interior only a short distance ahead of him, but at the very outset he saw that some of the air-tight compartments remained intact.

There was a lifting, swaying motion occasionally which told him that there was still air imprisoned in the broken ship. At that distance from the surface there would be no wave motion to produce the oscillations he observed.

"It is very strange," he mused, as he clambered over bales, chests and boxes in the hold, "that the ship should have gone down so quickly. Telegraphic reports at the time of the accident -- if it was an accident -- stated that she sank slowly. It would require only a little assistance to bring her to the surface."

The boy made his way as far into the interior as he could with his comparatively short air-hose, and then turned back to where he had left Jack and Frank. He had found it impossible, on account of the shifting to the prow of the hold cargo, to reach the cabin and the captain's offices without entering from the top deck.

As he turned around he stopped an instant, his attention attracted by a sound which seemed to come from beyond the bulkhead back of him. It sounded almost like the hiss of escaping steam. The lad knew that it must be a strong vibration which could thus make itself felt at that distance below the surface and through the heavy helmet he wore.

The more he considered the matter the clearer became the fact that it was actually uniform sound he heard. That is, sound brought to his ears by the water.

Some force might be moving the water, and the motion might be conveying to his ears, through the thin sides of the air-hose, the story of the action of the waves, if waves could be created at that depth.

As he listened to the steady beating he became convinced that some unknown power was at work in the wreck. What it was he could not even guess.

Then he heard sharper sounds which seemed to be created by steel striking steel. The jar brought the sound waves to his ears quite distinctly.

"Either I'm going daffy," the boy mused, "or there is some one at work on the wreck."

He left the hold and, without giving the others to understand that he had discovered anything of importance, began an examination of the sand along the line of the bottom. His air-hose was not long enough to admit of passing entirely around the vessel, so he motioned to the boys to accompany him and turned back to the submarine.

"Did you hear anything down there?" asked he as soon as the helmets had been removed.

"What are you talking about?" asked Frank, with a laugh. "Water would not convey sound to the ear."

"But the jar of water would," observed Jack. "I heard a jar while I was down there."

"I don't believe it!" Jimmie cut in.

"When in swimming," said Frank, "did you ever sit on the bottom of the swimming hole and pound two stones together?"

"Of course," laughed the little fellow.

"And you heard a noise?"

"I believe I did, but it was not such a noise as one would hear from the same cause in the air."

"Well," Ned went on, "I heard noises down there, too, and I'll tell you right here that I'm alarmed."

"Scared!" roared Jimmie.

"Alarmed at what?" demanded Frank. "I didn't see anything to be alarmed at."

"I have no theory as to what it was I heard," Ned went on, "but I'm going to get a longer air-hose, shift the Sea Lion so she will hang over the wreck, and go down again right away."

"I'm ready!" laughed Jack. "I want to hear that noise again."

"Do you think there are men down there removing the gold?" asked Jack.



Chapter VIII

On Guard Under The Sea



"If there is anybody at work on the wreck," Ned replied, "they may be removing the gold or they may be searching the vessel for incriminating documents."

"I guess any documents found down there will be pretty wet," laughed Jack.

"They may be in sealed boxes," Ned replied. "Anyway, if there are important documents on board they might be rendered legible by proper and judicious handling." "Here we go, then," Jack exclaimed. "I'll expel the water in the tanks until the Sea Lion rests at the right altitude, over the wreck, and we can enter by way of the decks."

"But what will the other fellows be doing while we are getting into position?" asked Frank.

"Gettin' ready to cut our lines, probably," interposed Jimmie.

"That's a fact," Jack said. "If there are men working in the ship they must be supplied with air by a submarine. How could that be done, I'd like to know."

"They might anchor the submarine some distance away," replied Ned, "and lay an air-hose along the bottom. If attached to the hose leading into the helmets before being placed, two or three might work from such a supply, and such a system, too, would obviate a good deal of the danger to be feared from crossed lines."

"You've got it all figured out!" cried Jimmie.

"Well," Frank intervened, "I'll bet that he has it right. Those Moore persons were not born yesterday."

"That's right," Jack admitted. "We saw enough of the Captain in the Black Bear club-room in New York to know that he is an expert in the submarine business. He may be an imitation fop and a bounder, as he would say, but he certainly is next to his job."

"Why wouldn't it be a good idea to sneak around in our water suits until we find the lines an' cut them?" asked Jimmie.

"That would be plain murder," Ned replied.

"I guess they wouldn't hesitate long if the conditions were reversed," Frank suggested, "still, I wouldn't like to be in with anything as brutal as that."

"Come to think of it," Jimmie admitted, "I wouldn't, either."

"I don't get the idea of these incriminating documents," Jack said, in a moment. "That is one thing I did not pay attention to in the talk with Captain Moore at the clubroom."

"What he said was this," Ned explained. "The Government is accused, in certain hostile foreign circles, of conspiring with the leaders of the revolution now brewing in China. He declared that the Washington officials were even charged with sending the gold to the rebels by the roundabout way of the present Chinese Government."

"You'll have to come again!" laughed Frank. "I'm dense as to that part of it. It is too subtle for me."

"Me, too," Jimmie asserted.

"All I know about it," Ned answered, "is that Captain Moore declared that the rebel leaders were purposely posted as to the shipment of the gold, and that they were to seize it as soon as it left the protection of the American flag, if they could. At least they were to be given a chance to do so."

"Even in that case," Frank reasoned, "the Washington people wouldn't be foolish enough to place incriminating papers with the shipment. The whole scheme might fail, you know."

"It does look pretty fishy," Ned remarked, "but the ways of diplomacy are often crooked ways. Anyway, it is claimed by some that the mail boat was rammed, that it was no accident that sent her to keep company with McGinty at the bottom of the sea."

Jack expelled the water from the tanks of the Sea Lion until the instruments in the machine room showed her to be near the surface, and, as Ned estimated, directly above the wreck. Then an anchor was sent out, to prevent any possible drifting, and Ned, Frank and Jack put on their helmets again.

The lines used for signaling and the air-hose had both been spliced, and it was figured that any part of the wreck could now be visited. The drop lines were also longer, and the machinery for hauling the divers up on signal was made ready for use.

"We can't walk out and in the Sea Lion now," Ned said, "and a good deal depends on the vigilance of the boy left in the boat. Watch for the slightest signal, Jimmie," he warned.

The touching of a lever unwound the lifting and lowering lines when all was ready, and in a minute the three boys found themselves on the upper deck of the wreck. It was tilted at an angle of about twenty degrees, so great care was exercised in traversing it.

As Jimmie swung the lever which lowered the three boys he peered out of a darkened window. He saw only the dim surface light.

"They've got sense enough not to show any light," he mused, "so the thieves won't know what is going on unless they see the shadow overhead, or run into one of the fellows."

Leaving Frank, as the most cautious of the boys, to guard the lines and air-hose when they touched sharp angles, Ned, accompanied by Jack, advanced down the main companionway and was soon in the large and handsomely furnished cabin.

Then the electric searchlights were put to use, and the great apartment lay partly exposed to view. Their entrance into the room seemed to create something like a current in the water, and articles of light weight came driving at them.

Ned turned sick and faint as a dead body lifted from the floor and a ghastly face was turned toward his own. A few unfortunate ones had gone down with the ship, and most of the bodies lay in this cabin.

Those who had remained on deck until the final plunge had, of course, drifted away. However, the boy soon recovered his equilibrium, and went about his work courageously, notwithstanding the fact that many terrifying forms of marine life swam and squirmed around him.

Clinging to heavy tables and chairs to prevent slipping, the boys made their way to that part of the ship where, according to their drawings, the captain's cabin had been. Their first duty was to make search for any sealed papers which might be there.

The room was located at last, and then Ned motioned to Jack to extinguish his light. The boy obeyed orders with a feeling of dread.

It was dark as the bottomless pit in the cabin now, and fishes and squirming things brushed against his legs and rubbed against the line which was supplying him with air.

In all the experiences of the Boy Scouts nothing like this had ever been encountered before. In Mexico, in the Philippines, in the Great Northwest, in the Canal Zone, in the cold air far above the roof of the world, they had usually been in touch with all the great facts of Nature, but now they seemed separated from all mankind -- buried in a fathomless pit filled with unclean things.

The door of the captain's cabin was closed. Ned put his ear against it, then reached out and took Jack by the arm. The latter understood the order and crowded close.

From the other side came sharp blows, and through the keyhole came the glow of illuminated water. Ned's worst fears were realized. Some one had reached the wreck in advance of his party.

He knew that he could not justly be censured for the activity of his enemies, and yet the thought that he was in danger of failing in his mission brought the hot blood surging to his head. He did not stop at that time to deliberate as to how the hostile forces had gained this advantage in time.

He did not even try to solve the problem as to the personality of the hostile element. The men working on the other side of the door to the captain's cabin might have crossed the Pacific in the Diver, or they might have been recruited from foreign seaports.

The question did not particularly interest him. The point with him was that they were there.

And, now, what course ought he to pursue? For a time, as he stood against the door, he could reach no conclusion.

Directly, however, the important question presented by the unusual situation came to the boy's mind. It was this:

Where was the boat into which the workers on the other side of the door proposed to remove the plunder?

The Diver, or some other efficient submarine must be close at hand. The men who were searching the captain's room were being supplied with air from some source.

And here was another question:

Had the gold already been removed?

It seemed to Ned that the first thing for him to do was to locate the submarine. For all he knew, prowlers from her might be nosing around the Sea Lion.

He had left the door to the water chamber open, of course, and so it must remain until he returned. Jimmie, owing to a defect afterwards corrected, could not expel the water while the door was open, nor could he close the door from the interior.

Fearful that some mischief was on foot, he grasped Jack by the arm and hastened back to where Frank had been left. His first care should be to find the exact location of the hostile submarine and then see that no air-hose reached from her to the Sea Lion.

The three boys passed out of the wreck and came to the stern of the once fine ship. She had gone down prow first, and the stern was a little above the level sand floor of the sea.

Instead of passing around the stern and coming out on the other side, the boys halted and crouched down, so as to see under the keel. As the outer shell of the ship was here at least a yard above the bottom, it was plain that the cargo had swept forward when she went down, thus holding her by the nose.

There was no longer any doubt as to what was going on. There, only a few yards away, lay the dark bulk of a submarine. Only for a light glimmering through the closed door of the water chamber it could not have been seen at all.

The men who were working in the wreck had taken no chances in leaving the boat. Their lines and air-hose passed through the outer door in well-guarded openings, and the interior was as safe from intrusion as a walled-in fortress.

Ned regretted that he had not observed the same precaution in leaving the Sea Lion, still he did not believe that his boat had been attacked. After a few moments devoted to observation, Ned crept around the keel and looked down the side of the ship which lay toward the submarine. Men with electric lamps in their helmets were working there.

They appeared to be forcing an entrance into the lower hold of the ship through a small break in the shell. This led him to the conclusion that the way to the very bottom was blocked from the inside, and that the gold -- if it had been stored there -- had not yet been removed.

He returned to his chums and all three started back to the Sea Lion. The men about the wreck were all so busy that it did not seem to Ned that they knew of the presence there of his submarine.

Still, he searched the bottom, as he passed along, with both hands and feet for any line which, leaving the stranger, might be leading to her rival. Finally he discovered, much to his annoyance, a hauling line and an air-hose leading in the direction he was going.

"I'm afraid," he thought, "that Jimmie is in trouble."



Chapter IX

"Jimmie's Foolish -- Like A Fox"



Left alone in the Sea Lion, Jimmie spent most of his time watching from a darkened window. He could distinguish little in the faint sifting of moonlight which dropped down from the sparkling surface of the sea, but there was companionship even in that.

He had been instructed by Ned to keep the interior dark, and so he watched the ocean floor for the lights which his chums might be obliged to turn on. As the reader knows, however, the exploring party showed no lights at all until the interior of the wreck had been gained.

Listening and waiting, half inclined to admit that he was just a little bit lonesome, the boy stood at his post for about a quarter of an hour. Then he saw an opaque object moving toward the submarine.

It was not a shark or other monster of the sea, for it walked upright and seemed to move up and down as it came to the little undulations in the ocean floor. When it came nearer Jimmie moved toward the door of the water chamber.

"That must be Ned," he thought, "comin' back alone. Now, I wonder if anythin' has happened to Frank an' Jack?"

For a moment the heart of the lad throbbed wildly, then he calmed himself with the thought that in case of accident he would have been notified by the lifting lines. The air machine was working perfectly, too, and this indicated that all was well below.

Finally the moving object came to a position about ten yards distant from the submarine and stopped. He was now about fifty feet below the window out of which Jimmie looked, for the Sea Lion, as has been said, lay well up from the bottom, not exactly over the wreck but not far from it.

In a moment the boy saw the glimmer of a lamp down where the man was, and saw that it was moving about on the bottom. Lights, of course, do not show in water as they do in air, and so it was only a faint illumination that Jimmie observed.

Still, he could see that whoever was carrying the light was fumbling about on the bottom. He watched intently for a moment and then saw the man coming toward him, swimming straight up.

"I guess it's one of the boys," Jimmie mused. "He must have lost his line, and when I saw him fumbling he must have been removing the weights designed to hold him down in spite of the air in the helmet."

This appeared to be a good explanation, and the boy stood with his face pressed against the glass panel of the water chamber door, waiting for whoever it was to enter, close the apartment, and push the lever that controlled the exhaust which emptied the chamber.

At last the swimmer clambered into the chamber, and the waiting boy was about to switch on a light when a suspicious action on the part of the other caused him to hesitate. He could observe the actions of the man in the water on the other side of the glass panel quite clearly now, and was alarmed at what he saw him doing.

Instead of drawing his air-hose in with him and coiling it carefully so as to clear the doorway and still leave free passage for the air which was being pumped into it, he laid the hose carefully in a slide-covered groove in the edge of the door. The hose did not seem to be quite large enough to fill the groove, and the fellow took something soft and pliable from a pocket and wrapped around it.

Then he closed the door and pushed the lever which released the power that forced the water out of the chamber. Only one inference was to be drawn from the scene which Jimmie had witnessed.

The man in the water chamber was a stranger. This was merely an attempt to get possession of the Sea Lion.

The fellow was breathing air pumped into his hose by some other boat than the Sea Lion. He had cast off his weights in order to gain the chamber, which neither one of the boys would have found necessary, as they would have been carried up by the machinery which worked the lifting and descending lines.

Another thing the boy realized, as he waited with anxiety for the next move. The man, whoever he was, was thoroughly familiar with the plan of the Sea Lion.

The grooves in the edge of the door had been planned so as to give entrance to visitors who were not receiving their air from the Sea Lion. No one was believed to know anything about this arrangement -- no one save the builders and the Secret Service men.

While Jimmie watched, the intruder moved the lever and the water in the chamber began to lower. When the water was forced out fresh air was automatically forced in.

Before long the intruder disconnected his hose with his helmet and threw the end over a hook provided for that purpose. When the water was all out he knocked heavily on the door leading to the room where Jimmie stood.

"There'll be doings here directly," the boy thought.

Again and again the visitor beat upon the door, but Jimmie gave no sign. He could not well observe the man now, for, with the water out of the chamber, the light carried by the man inside shone brightly against the glass panel, and the boy would have been observed had he stood close to it.

Jimmie grew more anxious as the seconds passed. He was trying to put away the thought that the intruder had cut the air-hose attached to the helmets of his friends.

For all he knew all three boys might be lying drowned, on the floor of the ocean. The thought was unbearable, and he resolved to banish it in action.

His first impulse was to disconnect the exhaust and fill the chamber with water. The man in there had disconnected his air-hose and would soon drown.

But the brutality of such a course soon presented itself, and Jimmie cast about for some other method of meeting the dangerous situation. He could hear the visitor fumbling at the door, and wondered if he knew the secret of opening it.

After a time it seemed to the listening boy that the fellow was feeling in the right locality for the hidden spring which would open the door from the other side, and sprang for the bar which secured it against such entrance. Then he dropped the bar and stood wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"If I bar the door," he mused, "that robber will cut the air-hose protecting the boys outside, if he has not already done so. I've just got to let him in here an' take chances."

He hastened to the back of the room and brought a long coil of rope. Making a running noose in one end, he released several loops from the big coil and held them loosely in his hand.

"I wonder if I can assist him into our princely apartments?" thought the boy, whimsically. "If I can get this rope around his body and over his arms, I'll be the boss of the precinct! I expect he'll tumble around a good deal, but I guess I can quell him!"

The boy waited in the darkness until a faint click told him that the intruder had discovered the spring. This was followed by a slam as the sliding door fell back.

Then all was still. Jimmie, hidden in the shadows, prepared to throw his lasso as soon as the visitor left the doorway.

"Hello!"

The voice carried a hoarse challenge.

"Any one here?"

The man was still in the doorway, and was swinging his light about so as to give him a better view of the room.

"If he would only drop his arms!" Jimmie mused. "I'd like to hit him with a ballclub!"

Directly the fellow did drop his arms, and at the same moment stepped out of the shelter of the doorway. This was what Jimmie had been waiting for, and he lost no time in acting.

The rope cut the air and descended over the intruder's head and arms. The lad's hours of practice while playing cowboy now proved to be of great worth.

Jimmie gave a quick jerk as the rope landed and he ran to the back of the room. He heard the other fall, and knew by the weight that he was dragging him.

When he gained the wall he switched on the light and reached to a shelf for a weapon. When he faced his captive he held an automatic revolver in his hand.

By this time a torrent of expletives was coming through the helmet opening where the air-hose had entered. The prisoner rolled about on the floor, trying to get to his feet.

"Whoo-pee!" shouted the boy. "Look what one can catch out of the ocean!"

A roar of rage was the only answer.

"Take off that helmet!" commanded the boy.

A muffled challenge came from the interior.

"All right," said the boy, "then I'll take it off for you. But I'll have this gun handy, and if you try any foolishness you won't hold water when I get done shootin'."

Before long the helmet was off, and Jimmie was looking into as evil a face as he had ever seen. It was the face of a stranger, and yet there seemed something familiar about it.

"What sort of a game is this?" demanded the captive. "If you know what's good for you, you'll quit this cowboy business."

"Who are you?" asked Jimmie.

A snarl was the only reply. The enraged man was tugging fiercely at the rope.

"Quit it!" warned Jimmie. "I'll have to put you to sleep if you try that."

"You don't dare!"

"Don't four-flush!" the boy advised.

"Release me!"

Jimmie sat down and leveled the weapon at the struggling man.

"I guess I'd better shoot," he said, calmly. "I suppose you've cut the boys' air-hose, and I'll have to get back to New York the best way I can -- alone. So, you see, I can't be bothered with you."

The captive ceased his struggles and managed to rise to a sitting position. His eyes were not so threatening as before.

"No," he declared, "I didn't cut the hose."

"Why? You're equal to such a trick."

"I was told not to."

Jimmie hesitated a moment. He wished devoutly that he could believe what the fellow said.

"Who told you not to?" he then asked.

The captive shook his head.

"I don't know his name," he said.

"And you are sailing with him?"

"All I know is that he is called the Captain."

"I see," said the boy. "Now, how comes it that you know so much of the plans of the Sea Lion?"

"What makes you think I do?"

"You found the groove in the door, and also the spring that opens the door to the water chamber."

"Oh, that!"

"Well?" the boy flourished his weapon, though nothing could have induced him to fire on the unarmed man.

"I was told what to do when I got here," was the reply.

"Did you see my chums on the way here?" The captive nodded.

"Where?"

"At the wreck."

"Where is your boat?" was the next question.

"On the other side of the wreck."

"And you are after the gold?"

"Of course."

"And important papers?"

"I know nothing about that."

"What is the name of your boat?"

"The Shark."

"Appropriate name that!" laughed Jimmie. "Used to be the Diver, didn't she?"

"I don't know."

"What did you come here for?"

"To get the boat."

"And remove it?"

"Of course."

"That would have meant death to the boys who are out in the water at this time?"

"I suppose so. Say, there's something wrong with your air machine. I know something about such contrivances, and this one acts as if a hose out in the sea had been cut!"



Chapter X

A Chase On The Ocean Floor



Jimmie listened for an instant. There certainly was something the matter with the air machine.

"Get a move on!" shouted the captive, "or we'll all be food for the sharks directly."

"Remain quietly where you are, then," Jimmie said, with a significant flourish at the gun which he had no intention of using, except in a case of the direst necessity.

"Go!" shouted the other.

Jimmie did not know what to do. While he had learned a good deal about the submarine, he was by no means an expert in the handling of her. His experience with the air machines had been very slight, as the boys had made little use of them.

"It's getting close in here already!" cried the captive in alarm. "Why don't you do something?"

"What is there for me to do?" asked the boy.

"Release me and I'll fix it," suggested the other.

Before Jimmie could explain the foolishness of this proposition, he heard a pounding at the outer door of the water chamber. He bounded through the open doorway and looked out.

There was a helmeted face against the pane. The boy was motioning for the door to be opened.

"Now," mused Jimmie, "I wonder how he got up there? The lifting lines haven't moved. Why didn't he let me know he was coming up?"

"Hurry!" called the captive.

Jimmie knew, from the flounderings on the floor, that the fellow was again trying to get rid of the rope. He stepped to the door and lifted a hand in warning, then slid the bolts and guards so the water chamber door would open from the outside, then stepped back into the larger apartment and closed the door.

He heard a rush of water and knew that some one was entering. Then, satisfied that all was well, he turned to his prisoner.

The fellow was half out of the rope, and one hand was sneaking toward a heavy ax which lay not far off.

"Cut that!" cried the boy.

He stood guarding the man while the water chamber filled and emptied. Then the door opened and Ned came in, helmet in hand. First, he turned a screw and the trouble at the air machine ceased.

"What the dickens!"

Ned stopped short in the middle of the room as he turned and gazed in amazement at the prisoner.

"I've been fishin'," Jimmie explained, with a chuckle.

"What is it you caught?" asked Ned.

"This," said Jimmie, "is the original sea serpent!"

"Looks to me like Moore, Jr.," Ned said.

"No?" exclaimed the boy.

"Are you the son of Captain Moore?" asked Ned.

The other nodded.

"I thought you'd recognize me," he grunted. "I was a fool to come here."

"That's about the only true word you've said since you came on board, I take it," Ned went on.

Young Moore scowled and bent his eyes to the floor.

Ned now turned to Jimmie and asked:

"Why didn't you draw us up?"

"Why," replied the little fellow, "I never got the signal."

"Guess you were too busy getting your sea serpent," smiled Ned.

"Did you pull?" asked Jimmie.

"Sure. Jack and Frank are out there now, ready to beat you up for keeping them out so long."

The prisoner turned his face away from the two and sulked.

"There's the boys now," Jimmie said. "Let them in."

In ten minutes Jack and Frank were in the large room, busily engaged in taking off their deep-sea clothes.

As Frank threw his helmet into a corner he held up the end of a line.

"You see," he said, glancing angrily at the prisoner, who had moved as far away as possible. "The line was cut."

"Aw, it would have come away in your hand when you pulled, then," said Jimmie. "You'd have found that out quick enough."

"I tell you it was cut," Frank insisted. "It was cut and tied to a rock that lies at the bottom. When we pulled we pulled at the big old boulder we saw lying there on the sand. Now, what do you think of that?"

"Why did you do it?" asked Ned, turning to Moore.

"I didn't," was the reply.

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

"There were others besides me," insisted Moore.

Ned made an examination of the end of the three cords. All had been cut. All had been tied to something, for the ends were frayed as if by being twisted about in the hands.

"I presume you thought you were cutting the air-hose?" asked Ned, tentatively.

"I reckon I know a line from a hose," was the reply.

"So you did cut them?"

Frank sprang toward the prisoner with flashing eyes. "I'll show you what such sneaks get here."

Ned drew the enraged boy away.

"He'll get what's coming to him at some other time," he said. "Let him alone for the present."

"But he did attempt to cut the hose!" Jack exclaimed. "We ought to throw him out to the sharks."

"Not now," said Ned, coolly.

"Anyway," Frank said, a smile showing on his face, "he made us swim to the boat."

"He did that himself," laughed Jimmie, "and lost his weights."

"That's the worst of it," Jack remarked, "we've lost our weights, and there's no knowing how we are to get more."

Jimmie now pointed to the air machine.

"Was there something wrong with it?" he asked.

Ned shook his head.

"Working perfectly," he said. "There wasn't a screw loose."

"Well, he," pointing to the prisoner, "said there was something wrong, and I began to think he was right."

"Imagination!" laughed Jack.

Ned now faced Moore and asked:

"Have you taken the gold out of the wreck?"

A shake of the head was the answer.

"Have you discovered any important papers? You know what I mean by 'important.'"

"We have not."

"You came in the Diver?"

"Yes."

"Run her across?"

"No; came on a tow-line."

"I thought so. What steamer towed you over?"

"I can't answer that."

"Why?"

"I'm not permitted to."

"It was a Japanese boat?"

"Well, yes, it was."

"And she kept you out of sight all the way over and dropped you here to do this dirty work?"

"She didn't put a brass band on board of us," replied the captive, sullenly. "What is the meaning of this third degree business? Who do you think you are?"

"Your people know that we are here, of course?"

"Oh, yes, we're not fools. We saw you from the first."

"And they know where you started for?"

"Sure."

"Is your father in the Diver?"

"I refuse to answer any more questions," Moore stormed. "You've got the upper hand now, but the time will come when things will be reversed. Release me!"

"Of course," replied Ned, "we'll release you and give you the run of the boat! You came here to murder us, and so are entitled to the most courteous treatment!"

"Well, quit asking impertinent questions, then," snarled the other. "You can at least do that."

Ned hunted up two pairs of handcuffs, ironed the prisoner, and then conveyed him to a little room used for storage purposes. Moore did not appear to like this program.

"If anything should happen," he declared, "I'd be left here to die like a dog."

"And serve you good an' right!" Jimmie consoled.

"What do you expect is going to happen?" asked Jack.

"Oh, I don't know," was the hesitating reply. "Something might, you know."

The boys went out and shut the door, leaving young Moore protesting against the treatment he was receiving.

"Now," Ned said, when the boys were assembled in the large room, "it is plain that the rascals on board the Diver are preparing to attack us, or do something to imperil our lives. You saw how frightened Moore was when he was locked in that room."

"Yes, he seems to fear that he will be brought to death by his own friends," Frank said.

"What do you suggest?" asked Ned.

"Stay an' fight!" urged Jimmie.

"Hide away from them!" Frank proposed.

"Wait here until we see what they propose doing," Jack ventured.

"I think," laughed Ned, "that we'll bunch your advice and utilize it all. We'll hide in some deep spot until we see what they're up to, and then we'll fight."

"I reckon they are about five to one."

This from Frank, who preferred meeting the enemy on dry land.

"Oh, we can't come to a hand-to-hand battle," Ned replied. "We've got to fight submarine fashion."

Without attempting any explanation of this observation Ned proceeded to make a careful inspection of the boat. There was a torpedo tube at the prow, and this he studied over for a long time.

"Goin' to blow 'em up?" asked Jimmie.

"I was thinking," was the reply, "that we might use this as a bluff if we come to a tight place."

"Aw, what's the use?" demanded Jimmie. "You don't make bluffs! You get the winning hand before you call! If I had my way, I'd blow 'em out of the water!"

"Yes, you would!" Frank said. "You'd be the first one to kick if we should attempt to put that thief in there out of the boat. You're the tender-hearted little child of the bunch!"

All the boys laughed, including Jimmie, for they knew that what Frank said was the truth. Jimmie liked to talk of merciless measures, but he was not inclined to put them into practice.

"Well," Ned said, presently, "the Diver people will soon understand that something has happened to Moore, and will be after us. We may as well take a moonlight stroll."

The water tanks were filled, the power turned on, and the Sea Lion, with no lights in sight, save the one at the prow from which Frank watched the level ahead, began feeling her way to the south.

"The charts show a deep pit not far off," Ned said, "and we'll hide there for a time and see if they give up the job of looting the wreck. The loss of young Moore may scare them out."

"Why not go to the surface and air out the boat?" asked Jack. "Our air apparatus is all right, of course, but I like the real thing better. We can drop down again in a few minutes."

"That's a good idea," Ned replied, and in a moment the Sea Lion was lifting to the surface.

In half an hour she was down again, dark and silent, in the pit of which Ned had spoken. Occasionally the submarine was lifted a few fathoms in order that anything unusual in the vicinity of the wreck might be observed.

Sometime near morning the Diver was seen making her way to the north as if setting out for a long voyage. The lights of the craft showed plainly -- that is, as plainly as lights ever show at that depth -- and the Sea Lion had no difficulty in following her.

"She's steamin' up!" Jimmie cried, presently. "I believe she knows we're after her."

But the Sea Lion was equal to the task set for her, and all the remainder of the night the chase went on.



Chapter XI

Jimmie Goes Out Hunting



"I hope she'll make for some port where there is an American man-of-war," Ned said, as the sea grew shallower.

"You bet she won't," Jack replied. "She'll make for some out-of-the-way place where she can get rid of her plunder."

"Why don't we go back an' see if she took all the plunder out of the wreck?" asked Jimmie.

"If we lose sight of her now," Ned answered, "we may have hard work picking her up again. If there is anything left in the wreck it will keep. The thing to do now is to catch her and recover what she took away, then have her held to await the action of the Washington authorities."

"But we ain't catchin' her!" urged the little fellow.

"Well, we are not losing her," Jack replied, "and that is the principal thing."

"She may give us a long chase," Ned went on, "for she undoubtedly knows that we are in pursuit, so we must get ready to travel over a good deal of ocean floor before we get our hands on the thieves."

The chase went on all day and all the ensuing night. At dawn of the second day the Diver ran up into what seemed to be a little bay protected by two long points of land. The Sea Lion halted outside and waited. Once she came to the surface in order to purify the boat, and Ned took observations.

"Where are we?" Jimmie asked.

"We're here!" laughed Jack.

"This is all new land to me," Ned replied.

Frank clattered down the staircase into the bowels of the submarine and brought out a map, which he spread out on the floor of the conning tower. It was pretty crowded there, with the three boys grouped about it, for the hatch was still open.

"We've been going north all the time?" he asked.

"Just a trifle east of north," Ned answered.

"And we've been running at the rate of about twenty miles an hour for 24 hours," continued Frank. "Figure that out."

"Not far from 480 miles," cried Jimmie.

"Then measure," Frank continued. "This map shows about 400 miles to the inch. Now, where would a run of 480 miles bring us?"

"To the coast of Kwang Tung," suggested the little fellow.

"But this is an island," Ned explained, looking through his glass. "I can see water where the main land ought to be."

"Figure it out, then," persisted Frank. "We've come to an island in the China Sea by running 480 miles a little east of north. Where would that bring us?"

"Hailing island," suggested Jimmie.

"Wise little chap!" laughed Frank. "You've hit it!"

Ned was silent for a moment. He was wondering why the Diver, or the Shark as she was now appropriately called, had put in there. Could it be that she was expecting to be met there by some vessel commissioned to remove the plunder she had taken from the wreck?

Or was it true that the plot had included a hiding of the plunder on the shore and the delivery of the documents -- if any had been found -- to some official of the accusing power?

These thoughts were disquieting. The boy had already missed the opportunity of searching the wreck in advance of all others, though the fault was not his own. The best he could do now was to secure the plunder from the pirates who had removed it.

In case assistance came to the people of the rival boat at that distant point, he would not be able to do this. The conspirators might hide the gold in the country near the port and deliver the papers and he would be powerless to prevent.

"I wonder," he mused, "if anything can be gotten out of young Moore? It is possible that he has been in solitary confinement long enough to comb down that sneering attitude."

Leaving the boys on the conning tower, therefore, he hastened to the room where Moore was incarcerated, although the irons had been removed from his hands and feet.

"Well," snarled the young man, "you've come to the jumping off place, have you?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"You've chased the Shark to her lair, eh?" Moore added, with a leer.

"How do you know that we've been chasing the Shark?" demanded Ned.

"Oh, you wouldn't be running full speed unless you were after her."

"How do you know that we're not in Hong-kong harbor, ready to communicate with Washington and an American man-of-war?"

Ned thought the fellow's face turned a shade whiter as the suggestive words were spoken. However, he said nothing.

"Do you know where we are, if, as you seem to think, we have followed the Shark?" asked Ned.

"How should I know?"

Moore had evidently reached the conclusion that he had said too much at the opening of the conversation.

"You know where the Shark was headed for?" asked Ned.

"She's headed for a place where you can't butt in on her," answered the young man with a snarl. "When are you going to turn me loose? Aw, what's the matter with you?" he continued, assuming an air of good-fellowship. "I never did anything to you. Why can't you let me go, and say nothing about it?'

"Because," Ned answered, "you are a dangerous person to be at large. The next time you attempt to murder the crew of a submarine you may have better luck."

"Well, you keep right on," Moore scowled, "and you'll come to a place where there'll be no such word as luck in your dictionary. You might save yourself now by letting me go."

"You're a snake," cried Ned. "I wouldn't trust you with the life of a rat I cared for. Such people as you ought to be smothered at birth."

"Pile it on, now that you have the inning," said Moore. "Pretty soon you'll be playing second fiddle."

Ned went out of the temporary prison and locked the door without further talk. He had gained the point he sought.

Nothing could be clearer, now, than that the Shark was to meet fellow conspirators there. The boy was up against a tough proposition.

He believed that the Shark had secured the important papers. She would hardly have left the wreck without them.

The gold did not matter so much, yet he did not like the idea of his rival taking it out from under his very nose. He did not believe that all the gold had been secured, and figured that the Shark would go back after the remainder -- but not until the important papers had been delivered to the conspirators.

In order to clear her skirts of the false accusations being whispered through foreign court circles, the Government must get possession of those documents. Ned had no idea where they were, where they had been stored, but he believed that, somewhere in the shipment of gold, full instructions for its use had been given.

The papers might have been tucked away in a keg or package of gold coins. At least they would have been placed where the revolutionary leaders could find them, and where the Chinese federal officers could not -- or would not be apt to -- find them in case the plans of the conspirators failed in any way.

It struck Ned as a crude arrangement from start to finish. The idea of shipping gold to the Chinese government in such a way that the revolutionary leaders were sure to seize it looked too childish for diplomats to entertain. The fact that it had miscarried was proof that it was not well conceived.

A certain foreign nation, put wise to the conspiracy, had sent a ship out to ram the gold bearing craft, and there she lay at the bottom of the China Sea, with all sorts of rumors concerning her cargo and mission circulating through Europe -- greatly to the loss of Uncle Sam's reputation as a square-dealing old chap.

Ned had no doubt that the foreign government which was kicking up the most noise over the affair had sent the Shark to the China Sea to search for the papers in the hope that they would bear out the accusations that had been made. In case they did not the papers would doubtless be destroyed -- and the charges would continue to be made -- the charges that the subtreasury in New York had shipped the gold to aid the revolutionary junta in making a republic of China.

So it will be seen that Ned was in no position to give further attention to the wreck, or the gold it might or might not contain until he had done everything in his power to secure the papers, if any had been found, before they could be destroyed or delivered.

And now the question was this:

"How can I get to the Shark and have a look through the plunder taken from the wreck?"

The decision was that he could not accomplish such a mission. It would be impossible for him to board the Shark, or make a search even if he should succeed in getting into the rival submarine.

What next? The men on board the Shark would undoubtedly go ashore if the boat remained long in the bay. Why not land and watch about the island for the arrival of the foreign conspirators?

The island was not a large one, and there were few inhabitants, so a meeting such as Ned believed was set for the place could not fail to attract some attention. Well, the first thing to do, he reasoned, was to discover if the Shark was sending her men on shore.

"Jimmie," he said, as he returned to the conning tower, "how would you like to go hunting in the bottom of the sea?"

"Fine!" shouted the lad.

"Bring in a catfish with a bunch of kittens," Frank laughed. "I'm afraid we have mice in the provision room."

"I'll find a dogfish with a couple of puppies," replied Jimmie, "so we can have plenty of bark to build fires with."

"A bad joke," Frank replied. "If you'd quit studying up slang and read the best authors you wouldn't inflict such pain-giving jolts."

"Who's going with the kid?" asked Jack, sticking his nose up through the open hatchway.

"I am," replied Frank, calmly. "It is not safe to trust him on the island alone."

"What do you want me to hunt?" asked Jimmie, turning his back on the two boys.

"Information."

"I can get that in a book," said Jimmie, with a wink at Frank.

"Get into your promenade suit," Ned continued, "and I'll let you out on the bottom. Then I'll warp the Sea Lion around that point of land, so you can see where the Shark lies and what is going on, if anything."

"Carry me around the point of land before you drop me," suggested the little fellow.

"No," Ned answered. "I want you to search the ocean floor on the way around the point. The rascals may have laid mines there, or the people on board may be making trips to the point, just to see what we are up to. Understand?"

"Oh, yes, I see the point, all right," was the reply. "And you want me to go out in the wet and inspect another point?"

"Cut it out!" cried Jack.

Jimmie ran off, laughing, to put on his deep-sea suit, and in a moment was back asking Ned to set his helmet in place.

"When you get down to the bottom," Ned said, before attaching the heavy headpiece, "keep hold of your lifting line and signal stop or forward, just as you find it easy or difficult to make your way along the level. One jerk for stop and two to go ahead. You won't forget that. Think of the signals on the surface cars in little Old New York."

"And keep your eyes out for signs of air-hose and lines on the bottom," Frank put in.

"All right," the boy cried, cheerfully.

"You have a long air-hose and a very long line," Ned went on, "so you can go up the bay where the Shark lies quite a distance after we stop the Sea Lion at the point."

The helmet was now put on, the lad passed through the water chamber, and directly there came a signal on the line -- two quick jerks.

The submarine moved slowly ahead, and Jimmie almost crawled on the bed of the ocean. The water was not very deep, not more than ten fathoms, and the bright sunlight enabled the boy to see quite well.

Fishes, large and small, sea reptiles, hideous in aspect and attractive as to coloring, swam around him, and terrifying forms rose from the bottom and rubbed against his helmet windows. He felt safer on the bottom, for then the creatures could come at him in only one way.

Presently the sand in front of him showed commotion. It stirred and clouded the water. Jimmie stopped and looked, drawing his weapon -- the razor-pointed steel bar -- to the front as he did so. Then he felt something close about an ankle and draw him down. A serpent's head showed on a level with his shoulder.



Chapter XII

Jack Makes A Discovery



"Now," Ned said, when the Sea Lion stopped in response to a quick pull from below, "who is going to shore with me?"

"Me for the shore!"

Both boys spoke at once.

"But one must remain on board," declared Ned.

"Then let Frank stay," laughed Jack. "Somehow, I always get into trouble when I am left on guard."

Frank looked disappointed, but said nothing, and Ned and Jack prepared to go ashore. When they were ready the submarine was carefully raised so that the conning tower was out of water.

The boys did not know, while they were doing this, that the signal to stop was an involuntary one on the part of the boy who was exploring the ocean floor. They did know, however, that Jimmie had a very long air-and signal-system, and that under ordinary circumstances it could do no harm to lift the Sea Lion to the surface. The exact effect of this action on the little fellow will be seen in a short time.

When the conning tower was out of water, the point showed still ahead of the submarine, and Ned wondered why Jimmie had ordered a halt there. In one way this was an advantage, as the people at the head of the bay, if any were there, would not be able to see what was going on at the spot where the Sea Lion lay.

As soon as the hatch was opened Ned and Jack brought up a small boat and launched it. It was a narrow boat and seemed almost too small to carry two husky boys, but she was capable of harder service than that.

"Keep a sharp watch for the line," Ned warned, as they left Frank looking sadly over the rim of the tower. "Jimmie would be in a bad box down there if you should forget him."

"All right!" Frank answered, cheerfully. "I'll take care of the little scamp, but I don't believe there is water enough in the ocean to drown him!"

The boys, paddling the boat softly, proceeded to the west of the point of land near which the Sea lion had stationed herself. Ahead of them they saw a sloping shore, running white and smooth as to surface for some distance from the water. Then, at the back, rose a line of wooded hills. There were no natives in sight.

"I'd like to know what kind of people live on this island," Jack said as they landed and drew the boat up on the beach. "Whoever they are, they don't appear to have houses."

They crossed the white rim of beach, keeping their eyes on the boat as they advanced, and came to an elevation in the wild country beyond. From this elevation a small clearing showed to the east, and in the clearing were a number of buildings, some residences of a poor type and some evidently erected for business purposes.

"There," Ned said, pointing, "if we could get down into the cluster of buildings, with an interpreter, we might find out whether the Shark fellows have landed yet, and whether there are strangers loitering about the island."

"Yes," Jack answered, "the place is so small that any strange faces would be instantly noted. Suppose I skip down there and see what I can learn?"

"I think that a good idea," replied Ned, "only you're such a reckless chap that you're likely to get into trouble."

"I'll be the good little lad," laughed Jack. "You remain here and see that no one steals the boat while I size up that burg."

Jack was off, creeping through the undergrowth, before Ned could utter a warning, and the latter sat down to wait for his return. The cluster of buildings was not very far away, and Jack could not be gone very long.

Ned was pretty well satisfied with the arrangements made to corner the men who had plundered the wreck. With Jimmie watching operations from the bottom and Jack investigating from the land, it seemed to him that the robbers could not well make any important move without being observed.

In the meantime Jack was making his way toward the little town, if such it may be called, at the head of the bay. He could see people moving about in the one lane-like street, but there was no one nearer him than that -- as he at first believed.

Presently, however, he heard a low whistle, coming, apparently, from a thicket just ahead. It seemed to be an amazed whistle, at that, and Jack paused in wonder.

Who could it be? If any of the people on the Shark had come onto the island they certainly wouldn't be whistling to attract his attention.

More likely, he thought, they would be lying in wait for him with a gun. What he hoped was that some American, familiar with the island and friendly with the natives, had strayed into the thicket.

Jack whistled in reply and then stepped back out of sight. He had an idea that he wanted to see the other fellow first.

Before long a voice came out of the thicket, a voice which might have come from a tenement on Thompkins Square, in the city of New York.

"Vot iss?" were the words Jack heard.

"Show yourself!" commanded Jack.

"Py schimminy," came the answer, "you gif me in the pack one, two, dree pain. What?"

"You're Dutch!" said Jack.

"Chermany!" corrected the other. "Come a liddle oudt."

Jack stepped out of the shelter and soon saw a boy of about seventeen do likewise. The boy was short, round, fat, muscular, and big and red of face. He was dressed in a checkered suit of ready-mades which did not fit him, and his blond head was covered with a cap such as German comedians use on the stage.

"Hello, Dutch!" Jack called out.

"Irish!" exclaimed the other.

Jack threw out his right hand in full salute, wondering if the German boy was a member of the Boy Scout army, and was pleased to see him make an awkward attempt to respond.

"I got it my headt in," the German said, "but I can't get it oudt. It shticks. Vot is? I'm the Owl Padrol, Philadelphia."

"No one from Philadelphia ever does remember," laughed Jack. "What are you doing here?"

The boy took himself by the back of the trousers with his right hand and by the back of his neck with the other, then bounced himself forward, as if being thrown out of a vessel or a building.

"You mean that you got fired off a ship here?" asked Jack, almost choking with laughter.

"You bet me I didt!" exclaimed the other. "I hidt in a lifeboad to get me pack to Gott's goundry, an' they foundt me. Shoo! Kick! Den I schwim! Gott un himmel! Vot a goundry!"

"Where did you get aboard the ship?" asked Jack.

"Hongkong."

"What's your name?"

"Hans Christensohnstopf -- "

"Never mind the rest of it," laughed Jack. "I'll call you Hans. How long have you been here?"

Hans ran his hands around his waist as if counting time by the number of meals he had missed.

"Month," he finally said.

"Where are you stopping?"

Hans explained that there was one English trader in the place, and that he was giving him about half what he needed to eat and a place to sleep in return for about ten hours work each day.

"Do you want to get away?" asked Jack.

"Aindt it?" cried Hans. "I think I'm foolish to stay here. You schwim here?"

Jack knew that it would take a long time to make Hans understand the means of transportation he had used in reaching that part of the world, so he merely shook his head and went on:

"If you'll do something for me, Hans, I'll take you off the island."

"Me -- sure!" was the quick reply.

Jack then explained that he wished to know if there were any strangers in the town, and if anything had been seen of the submarine people. Hans listened attentively.

"I'll remain here until you come back," Jack said, after concluding his instructions. "Get the information and I'll take you off the island and land you in Philadelphia."

"Sure!" cried Hans, and disappeared from view in the thicket.

Jack lay a long time watching the sky and listening to the singing leaves about him. He wished that he had instructed Hans to return to the place where he had left Ned and gone there himself to await the information he sought. The time passed heavily on his hands.

Once he moved out to the place where he had entered the thicket and looked down toward the spot where Ned was. There was a certain amount of companionship in that. He did not dare leave the thicket entirely, for fear Hans would miss him on his return from the village.

When he returned to his waiting place, after this visit, and looked down on the village, shimmering in the hot sun, he saw that something unusual was going on there. Natives, clad in the long skirts worn by many Chinamen, were flying up and down the street, and Jack recognized three Europeans mixing into the excitement.

Then he saw people running toward the little wharf at the head of the bay. Hans did not appear to be within the range of Jack's vision.

"There are doings of some kind down there," Jack mused, "and it seems to me that the foreigners created the row, whatever it is. I wonder if Hans will get out of it alive?"

The next moment Hans was there to answer for himself.

Jack saw the German lad chasing through the undergrowth as if the very Old Nick was after him, swinging his cap as he ran, and shouting out some words which he could not understand.

Finally Hans turned square about, pointed in the direction from which he had come, and resumed his flight toward Jack.

"I guess some one is chasing the boy," Jack concluded, stationing himself close to a slender path which Hans was certain to follow.

In a moment the wisdom of this remark and this arrangement became apparent. Hans came nearer, puffing and grunting, and a second after a runner who was gaining on the German shot around an angle of undergrowth and reached out for Hans.

Hans had passed the spot where Jack crouched by this time, and the pursuer was proceeding to foot it after him when Jack stuck out a leg and brought him to the ground. Hans saw the action and fell flat on the ground, blowing like a fat man on a thousand-step climb.

The man who had fallen, apparently an Englishman, middle aged, well dressed for that country, and with a red, passionate face, sat up and scowled at Jack.

"Wot the bloomin' mischief did ye do thot f'r?" he asked.

"To stop you," replied Jack.

"You're bloody roight ye stopped me!" cried the other, trying to get on his feet. "An' now I'll be stoppin' of ye!"

Jack placed his hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him back to the ground.

"Rest yourself," he said.

"You just wait, you bounder!" threatened the Englishman.

"What's it all about?" asked Jack, as Hans arose and cautiously approached.

"Don't let that bloody robber get away!" shouted the Englishman, trying once more to get up.

Jack presented his automatic, which he would not have used under any circumstances, unless his life was actually in danger.

"Keep quiet," he said.

"I'll have your head for this!" bawled the other.

"What is it, Hans?" asked Jack, paying no attention to the threat of the angry Englishman.

"I'll tell you what it is!" cried the Englishman. "That Dutch bounder stole from my safe. I chased him up here an' you took occasion to hinterfere, worse luck. Who are you, anyhow?"

"Did you steal anything from him, Hans?" asked Jack.

Hans shook his head.

Then explanations settled the trouble. A man from the submarine had met another at the trader's store. Hans, in his anxiety to hear what was being said, had crawled in behind a counter, near the safe, and had been discovered there.

The event had created no little excitement in the town, for the chase through the street had been witnessed by and participated in by about half the population. To satisfy the Englishman, Hans was searched, and nothing found. Then Ned asked him a question:

"Where did the submarine people go?"

"Back to their boat," was the prompt reply.

"And the man who met them there?"

"He went with them."

"Where did the latter come from?"

"From Hongkong, he said."

"How long ago?"

"Something over a week."

"He was waiting for the submarine?"

"I think so."

"What, if anything, did the submarine land?"

"Nothing at all."

"You are certain of that?"

"Oh, yes, of course. The submarine man brought some sealed papers with him, and the discussion was all about them. The submarine man wanted money, I guess, and the other wouldn't give it."

"So the submarine people still have the papers?"

"Yes."

"But the other man went on board?"

"Yes, that is the way of it."

"Do you know who that Hongkong man is?"

"He is an Englishman."

"Now," said Jack, "I wish you would come down to the beach with me. I have a friend there I want you to talk with."

The Englishman, seeing that something interesting was in the air, went without objection, but when they reached the beach they saw Ned making for the Sea Lion in the boat. And just before he reached her, they saw the conning tower disappear beneath the surface of the water.



Chapter XIII

Jimmie Demands A Medal



Jimmie's first thought, as he saw the flattened head of the sea monster sliding upward toward his helmet, was that he had encountered the original sea serpent. There seemed to be a coil about the boy's leg, and he dropped down lower to see what the chances were for cutting it away with his weapon.

The prospects did not seem favorable, for his steel bar, while very sharp at the point, was not intended for chopping work. He could pierce the body of the reptile, but could not weaken its strength so that the coil would drop away.

It was when he dropped down that the spasmodic jerks on the line were given. The sea monster had included the line in his coil, and it drew as the boy bent lower.

The air-hose seemed to be clear, but Jimmie was afraid that the flounderings of the serpent might break it. The horror was certain to do some thrashing about when he felt the keen edge of the steel.

The only way was to strike some vital spot. That would end the combat at once. The serpent's head lowered with the boy, as if he had great curiosity to find out exactly what sort of a being it was that had invaded his kingdom.

The boy was cheered by the thought that the submarine had stopped, although he did not realize at the time that the signal had been given by the action of his enemy. If the boat had continued on her course, the air-hose and the lifting line must both have been broken in a short time, as the boy's progress was stopped by the great weight of his terrifying foe. Then the end would have come instantly.

The coil about the leg was drawing tighter now, and the boy was in considerable pain. Also the coils were ascending as the head of the sea monster swung around.

It was not only the pain and the deadly danger that brought a momentary shiver to the boy. It was the fact that the repulsive body of the serpent was winding closer and closer about him.

He seemed to feel the slimy skin of the deep sea terror slipping through his waterproof suit, although his common sense told him that such could not be the case. He even thought he scented the sickening odor which he had now and then experienced in the Central Park Zoo. He knew, too, that this was purely imaginary, but the horror of a nightmare was on him, and for only an instant he lost his nerve.

Once more the head swung around and the boy presented his weapon and struck with all his might. The needle-like point entered the throat of the serpent and passed through just at the back of the long, spotted head.

There was a great switching in the water for an instant, and then the coils loosened. The blow, as Jimmie afterwards discovered, had broken the spinal cord.

While not yet dead, the serpent was incapable of moving the lower part of his body. With a sense of loathing he pulled at the coils until he was clear of them.

The water where he stood was now taking on a faint reddish hue, and Jimmie hastened away. At first, weakened and shaken as he was by the disgusting encounter, he determined to return to the submarine, then the thought of what his chums would say to him if he gave up caused him to proceed in the direction of the Shark.

He moved over the level bottom, looking for lines which would indicate that the Shark people were out watching the movements of their rival, but found none. When he came to the end of his line he signaled for the submarine to go ahead.

In this manner, by slow degrees, and always keeping his eyes out for creatures similar to the one he had vanquished, he advanced until he saw the bulk of the Shark only a short distance away. Then he called for a stop.

He remained there some moments, watching the Shark lift to the surface. Then a dark object passed shoreward, and the boy was certain that a boat had been sent to the little wharf.

"I guess that will be about all," he thought. "I've secured the information Ned wants, and may as well go back."

To tell the truth, he was delighted at the thought of getting out of the water again. His encounter with the serpent had considerably lessened his enthusiasm for deep-sea work.

The Sea Lion dropped down when Jimmie gave the signal, and he was soon in the water chamber, where he found Frank in sea dress. The two were out of the water in a short time, with the chamber empty again.

"What did you do that for?" asked Jimmie, as soon as the helmets were removed.

"Do what?" asked Frank, with a smile.

"Drop down and wait for me in the water chamber."

"Did you notice the color of the water?" asked Frank.

"Yes, down there, but up here -- say," he added, "the blood of that champion sea serpent never got to the surface, did it?"

"Just enough of it to cause me to think a shark was making a meal down there," replied Frank.

Jimmie told the story of the encounter, laughing at the peril which was past, but Frank looked grave.

"We'll have to be more careful how we wander about on the bottom of the sea," he said. "It was just luck that brought you out alive. You might wound a serpent a hundred times with that steel bar and never again strike a vital spot."

"Then," Jimmie laughed, "when we get back to New York you put in a claim for a Carnegie medal for me! It would look fine on the front of me hat." "I'll have Ned make you a medal out of a fish's fin," laughed Frank.

"All right!" cried Jimmie. "It will be all right, just so it is a medal."

Then Jimmie told of what he had seen in the vicinity of the Shark, and Frank complimented him on his courage and good judgment in keeping down until he had secured the desired information.

"We know now," he said, "that the Shark people are communicating with the shore. Perhaps Ned and Jack will learn just what they are doing there. If they do, we shall know just what course to pursue."

"What's the answer?" asked the little fellow.

"Why, if the Shark people dispose of the documents -- if there were any documents in the plunder -- we'll have to chase after the men who take them. The gold doesn't count."

"Yes," laughed Jimmie, "and I suppose we'll leave the Sea Lion and go over the mountains in an open boat! I'm goin' to stick to the little old Sea Lion."

"Well," Frank remarked, after a short wait, "we must get back to the spot where Ned left us."

"Never thought of that!" Jimmie cried. "He may be yelling his head off because he can't come on board."

The boys lost no time in getting back to the first position, and then lifted to the surface. The conning tower, as before, was out of sight of anyone on the bay, the point of land intervening.

As the time passed the boys became anxious about Ned and Jack. They might have returned while the Sea Lion was away, they thought, and gone into the interior thinking that some accident had happened to the submarine.

"Anyway," Jimmie declared, "Ned told us to move along as my line gave out, and he must know that we'd come back to pick him up."

While the lads speculated on the possible outcome of the visit to the shore there came a sharp collision which keeled the Sea Lion over to port. Both were active in an instant.

"That's the Shark!" exclaimed Jimmie.

"It must be," Frank agreed.

Jimmie hastened to the stern and looked out of the plate glass panel there.

"What do you see?" asked Frank, nervously.

"It is the Shark, all right," was the reply, "and she is backing off. She may be going to ram us."

"Then it's us for the bottom," cried Frank.

"Why the bottom?" asked Jimmie.

Frank did not answer for a moment. He was still standing back of the little fellow and looking over his shoulder, out of the glass panel.

"Because," he said, "the Shark takes chances in bumping us at a considerable depth. She is higher than we are, and her prow sits a great deal above our vulnerable parts. If she strikes us when we are nestling on the bottom, her blow will glance off."

"If she knows it, then," Jimmie said, "she won't follow us down. What will she do?"

"Chase herself off."

"I hope so!" cried Jimmie.

"It beats the Old Scratch why Ned and Jack don't come," Frank said, presently. "I'm afraid something has happened to them."

"There is no use of their staying ashore," Jimmie said, "for I found out what Ned wanted to know. He asked me to find out if the Shark communicated with the shore, and I did it. He ought to know I wouldn't fall down on a little thing like that," the boy added, with a grin. "I'm the only original snake charmer!"

While this sharp exchange of ideas had been going on, Frank had been working the various levers which controlled the altitude of the submarine, and the gauge showed that she was close to the bottom as the last word was spoken.

Jimmie turned away from the panel and caught hold of a railing which ran along in front.

"Look out for the bumps!" he cried!

Then there came a shock which threw both boys off their feet. The staunch craft shivered for an instant, then righted, swaying just a little under the heavy pressure of the depth she was in.

Frank sprang to the delicate machinery which controlled the air supply and the lights. No harm seemed to have been done to them.

"The Shark can't do that again!" Jimmie said, with a sigh of relief. "We're on the bottom now, and her prow would slip over our back. The only mischief she would do would be to knock off our conning tower, and that would not disable us."

"Can you see her now?" asked Frank.

"Sure," replied the boy. "Her lights are on."

"What is she doing?"

"Rolling on the bottom. Say, 'bo, I believe she hurt herself when she tried to soak us."

The ex-newsboy moved away from the panel and Frank took his place as lookout.

"She's crippled, all right," the latter said, after a moment's inspection of their rival, "but I can't see what's the matter."

"Course you can't. The hurt's on the inside."

"Anyway, she doesn't seem to be able to move. I know she is trying to get off by the way the water changes around her stern."

"Bump her!" advised Jimmie.

"I reckon that would settle her," Frank replied, "but I'm not in the pirate business just now."

The boys watched the Shark for half an hour or more, and then saw her move slowly away.

"She's going toward Hongkong," Frank said, "and we may as well bid her good-by."

"Not!" exclaimed Jimmie. "We've got to follow her."

"And leave Ned and Jack?"

Jimmie's jaw fell. This was something he had not thought of. The boys were still on the island -- might be in great peril.

"Well, jump up to the surface," the lad said, then, "and I'll go to the island and see what's up."

"Fine chance you'd stand!" laughed Frank.

"Bet I can go ashore an' find a Boy Scout!" returned Jimmie. "We've found 'em in every part of the world."

The Shark was still in view, her lights creating faint mists under the water, but the boys did not consider her a formidable opponent now, so they lifted to the top of the ocean.

Jimmie was first out on the conning tower. The sun was still shining brightly and the water lay as quiet as the surface of a pond on a still day.

When the boy turned to the white line of sand at the rim of the sea he saw Ned and Jack standing there with two others. He waved his hat and Jack swung back from where he stood.

"Guess they've found some one worth talking with," Frank remarked, stepping up on the conning tower.

"Guess they have," responded Jimmie, "but there's some one creeping up to 'em from the thicket," he added, lifting his glasses. "Look out, boys!" he shouted, waving one hand frantically. "Look out! There's some one makin' a sneak on you!"

"They don't catch what you say!" Frank exclaimed. "Look there!"



Chapter XIV

A Boy Scout With A "Punch"



When Ned saw the conning tower of the submarine drop out of sight he rowed over to the spot where she had gone down and tried to look into the depths of the sea.

The water was fairly clear, and he could see two great bulks below instead of one. He knew then what was taking place.

"The Shark is bent on murder," he mused. "Perhaps they wouldn't be so ready to sink the Sea Lion if they knew that the manager of the whole rotten business was a prisoner on her."

He could not see clearly, of course, but he waited and watched for some moments. Then the Shark crashed with the Sea Lion and fell off, apparently crippled.

"So that's the reason Frank dropped to the bottom!" thought Ned. "He knew the Shark couldn't get a good crack at the Sea Lion when she lay on the bottom. Wonder if the Shark is injured seriously?"

He watched until the Shark turned to the east, curving around the point of land which she had passed to the attack, then turned toward the shore. Jack was still there, and he must find him before nightfall.

Much to his surprise, he saw Jack, Hans and the Englishman, Hamblin by name, watching him from the beach. He waved his hat and shouted to them, wondering all the time where Jack had picked up his acquaintances. In five minutes he was on the beach.

"Is this the boy you wanted me to talk with?" asked Hamblin, as Ned drew up his boat and approached the group.

"The same," laughed Jack, "only you mustn't call him a boy! He's a big man in his own country."

Hamblin eyed Ned critically for a minute and extended his hand. Ned laughed as he took it.

"I've met you before!" he said.

"In a cheap lodging house on the Bowery," said Hamblin. "You were looking for a man who had robbed a bank an' made a run for it."

"Exactly," Ned said.

"An' the bloomin' moocher was in the next room to mine, an' you got him. I was bloody well glad to get the five p'un' note you tipped me then. Stone broke I was."

"You earned it," Ned replied.

"It put me on me legs again," Hamblin went on. "An' I took ship an' come out to this blasted country. I wish I was on the Bowery again, blast me eyes if I don't."

"What are you doing here?" asked Ned.

"Runnin' a bloomin' store an' scrappin' with the Chinks," was the reply. "It's a bally bad game, out here."

"Rotten!" echoed Hans.

Hamblin made a break for the German.

"You thief!" he shouted.

"Hold on," cried Jack, "let me tell you about it," and he proceeded to inform the Englishman of the exact situation of affairs.

"I thought he was a bloomin' moocher," said Hamblin, in a moment. "He acted like one."

"Who is he?" asked Ned of Jack, pointing toward Hans, who now sat on the sand with his knees hunched up in his hands.

"That's Hans," laughed Jack.

Hans threw out his hand in Boy Scout salute.

"Owl Padrol, Philadelphia!" he said.

"Looks like an Owl, eh?" asked Jack.

"He is an Owl!" roared the Englishman. "He works for me, an' he wants to sleep all day an' sit up all the bloomin' night. He's an Owl all but the wise look."

"You loaver!" cried Hans, well knowing that Hamblin would not be permitted to attack him again. "You starf mine pelly! You put bugs to sleep in mine ped! How should the nights get me sleep when the ped is one processions of pugs?"

Jack now called Ned aside and told him of the meeting of the conspirators at the Hamblin store, of the sealed packet, and of the seeming quarrel, as described by Hans. Ned turned to the Englishman.

"They met there by appointment," he asked, "the man from the Shark and the man who waited for him?"

"Yes, by appointment."

"It was about papers?"

"Yes, and gold."

"Where did the man who waited here come from?"

"Some point in China."

Jack gave a low whistle.

"China!" he cried. "I wouldn't have believed it."

"Did you know either of the men who met there -- ever see either of them before?" asked Ned, then.

"One of them -- a Captain Moore, formerly of the United States Navy," was the astonishing reply.

"Where had you seen him?" asked Ned, motioning to Jack to remain silent.

"He first came here on a man-of-war about six months ago."

"Well, the documents were taken back on board the Shark, then?" asked Ned.

"Yes, I think so."

"You don't know what the packet contained?"

"Papers, they said."

"Then it's all right!" Jack cried. "We can now bunch our hits! The papers and the men we want are on board the Shark. All we've got to do is to catch the Shark!"

Just then the Sea Lion rose out of the ocean and they saw Frank and Jimmie waving to them.

"So they're all right," Ned said. "A moment ago the Shark was ramming them!"

"Why don't we go on board, then?" demanded Jack. "If there's going to be a fight on the bottom I want to be in on it. Bet your sweet life I do! Hurry on board!"

"Look a liddle oudt!" cried Hans at this moment. "They say with their hats unt hands somedings. Look a liddle oudt!"

Ned did "look a liddle oudt" just then, and saw Captain Moore and a dozen or more natives crowding through the thicket, the Captain carrying a revolver in a threatening manner.

"Stand quiet," the ex-naval officer said. "I don't intend to harm any of you. Especially you, Mr. Hamblin. I only want to know where my son Arthur is."

"I haven't got your son!" blustered Hamblin.

"Make me a search!" cried Hans.

"I'm not talking to you two," snarled the Captain. "I'm directing my talk to this sneak," pointing a shaking finger at Ned, whose muscles drew under the insult.

Hans flushed and started forward, but the natives closed about the ex-naval officer.

"Where is my son?" demanded Moore, flourishing his gun nervously.

"Where did you see him last?" asked Ned.

"That is neither here nor there," the Captain replied. "I want to know what you have done with him."

"You sent him on a dangerous mission -- a mission of murder," Ned said, presently.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"You sent him to wreck the Sea Lion."

"That is not true. I have not been on board the Shark."

"Well, some one sent him. Anyway, he came on board the Sea Lion and got caught. Now, what would you have done under the circumstances? You would have given him a banquet, I presume, if he had tried to murder you and got caught at it."

"I don't care what he has done," stormed the Captain. "I want to know where he is now."

"He's at the bottom of the sea!" Jack cut in.

The Captain staggered and turned a white face to the speaker. Ned was about to explain by saying that young Moore was at the bottom of the sea in the Sea Lion when Moore sprang toward him.

"You murdered him!" shouted the enraged Captain. "You murdered him, and I'll have your life."

He lifted his pistol and fired, but the bullet went whistling through the air instead of finding the mark intended for it. Hans, seeing the peril Ned was in, had stepped forward and landed a knock-out blow on the Captain's jaw.

"You loaver!" he shouted, standing over him.

The natives rushed forward as the Captain fell, uttering a jargon which no one understood save the trader. Hamblin saw the danger in the threatening looks of the fellows and sprang for the gun, which had dropped from Moore's hand.

He reached it not a second too soon, for a brawny native was already snatching at it. The fellow seized the trader's wrist as he lifted the weapon and uttered a few words in a menacing tone.

This was enough for Hans, who stood close by, rubbing the bruised knuckles of his right hand. He struck out again, throwing the whole weight of his body into the blow. The native went down and the others drew away from the group about him.

"Great clip!" shouted Jack, as the trader threatened the natives with the gun. "You seem to be the White Man's Hope!"

Hans rubbed the knuckles again and grinned, such a bland grin that both Ned and Jack burst into laughter.

"You sure have a punch!" Jack went on. "Where did you get it?"

"Py the verein just," was the reply.

"You're all right, anyhow," Ned said.

The trader was now addressing the natives in a language -- if it was a language -- which the boys could not at all understand. They noted the result of the talk with joy, however, for the black-skinned group turned toward the village and soon disappeared in the thicket, taking the knocked out fellow with them.

Captain Moore now opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. His face was deadly pale and his eyes flashed like those of an enraged wolf.

"You shall pay for this!" he shouted.

"Jack did not finish his sentence when he told you that your son was at the bottom of the sea," Ned said, thinking that the deception had gone far enough. "He should have added that he was safe in the Sea Lion."

"Then I demand his release!" shouted the other.

"I can't bring him to you," Ned said, "but I'll take you where he is."

"And if I refuse to go?"

"You'll go just the same."

"A prisoner?"

"Certainly -- a prisoner charged with piracy on the high seas."

"You're a meddling fool!" roared the Captain.

Ned paid no attention to the personal abuse of the angry man, but turned to Hamblin.

"I want to talk with you," he said, "but I must get this man on board the Sea Lion first. You'll wait here?"

Before the trader could reply, a shout came over the water from the submarine, and a column of smoke came out of the open hatch.

"I guess you've got all the trouble on the Sea Lion you need there," snarled Moore, "without taking me on board. Your ship's on fire!"



Chapter XV

A Desperate Prisoner



Just as the attention of Frank and Jimmie was called to the Captain and the natives advancing upon Ned and Jack from the thicket, they heard a great beating on a door or wall below. There was only one person in the submarine save themselves, and so they knew that it was the captive who was kicking up the row.

"He knows something unusual has been going on," Jimmie observed, "and wants to turn whatever takes place to his own advantage. Suppose we go below and see what he's doing."

"He's frightened half to death, I take it," Frank surmised. "The two bumps the Sea Lion got from the Shark must have given him the impression that we had collided with a rock or reef."

"Serves him right," Jimmie replied. "He ought to be willing to take a little of his own medicine occasionally. He tried to kill us when he came on board."

The pounding below continued, and the boys went down to the door of the room where young Moore was held captive. The noise came from within, sure enough.

"What do you want?" demanded Frank, calling loudly so that his voice might penetrate the thick door.

"Let me out!"

"You've got your nerve!" answered Jimmie.

"Let me out, please!" continued the prisoner.

"Why?" asked Frank.

"Open the door and you'll see," was the reply.

Jimmie sniffed at the air in the larger apartment and pulled Frank by the arm.

"Smell anything?" he asked.

"Something does seem queer," the latter replied.

In a second there was an unmistakable odor of burning cloth in the room, and the boys began hunting about for the source of it. The pounding on the door continued.

"Open up!" young Moore shouted. "Open up if you don't want to lose your ship."

"I'll bet the fire's in there," Jimmie ventured. "I'm goin' to open the door and find out."

He turned the key, which was in the lock on the outside, and in a second the door was open. A burst of smoke shot out into the larger apartment.

Through the thick veil of the smoke, in a corner of the room, the boys saw a spurt of flame. It was running along the floor, nipping at the fringe on an expensive rug.

When the door was opened young Moore dashed out, as if desiring to pass the two boys before they got the smoke out of their eyes. Frank caught him by the arm and held him fast.

By this time the large room where the boys stood was well filled with smoke, and Jimmie opened every avenue by which it might travel to the main hatch in the conning tower. In a few moments the interior of the submarine was comparatively free from smoke.

Jimmie took a pail of water from the tap and tossed it on the creeping flame in the little room. It served its purpose and the danger was over. Frank, still holding Moore by the arm, pointed to a chair. The young fellow seemed to have no notion of taking the seat, however, for he made a dash for the hatch, which was wide open.

In order to gain the staircase it was necessary for him to pass the place where Jimmie stood. As he came up to the boy he struck out with all his force and continued his flight -- for a second.

When the boy saw him getting by, he dropped to the floor and seized him by the ankles, with the result that both were rolling about in the rich rug in no time.

"Go to it!" shouted Jimmie, as Moore tried to break away from him. "Catch him, Frank!" he continued, as the stronger man pulled away.

It was quite a neat little battle, but in the end numbers won, and Moore was ornamented with the irons once more.

"Why didn't you say the boat was on fire?" asked Frank. "You might have smothered in there."

"Wish I had!" gritted Moore.

"Go back and do it over again," Jimmie suggested. "You can have all the time you want!"

"Why didn't you let us know at first?" insisted Frank.

"Well, if you must know," the captive replied, "I was afraid you would extinguish the fire by flooding the room, if I told what the trouble was. Besides, I thought I could get away if you opened the door."

"Did you set the fire?"

"I was lighting a cigarette, and -- "

"That's enough," Frank said. "Any one who will smoke cigarettes deserves to be burned alive. Wish we had flooded the room after you got well scorched and left you in it."

"You may wish so before you have done with me," threatened the other. "I'll get you yet -- both of you."

"Well, get back into the den," Frank commanded. "We have had about all the lip we can stand from you. You tried to murder Lieutenant Scott at Mare Island Navy Yard, you attempted our lives when you came to this boat, and now you set us on fire and attempt to run away. You've got a long account to settle, young man."

"You can bluff now," Moore retorted, "but that is all you can do. My father is on the lookout for you and that wise guy you call Ned Nestor. When you go back, without the gold, he'll get you good and plenty. You know it! Now lock me up and go away, for I'm sick of the sight of your impudent faces."

Jimmie forced the prisoner into his room and closed the door.

"You'll have to make a supper off that smoke!" he called out through the keyhole. "You're too fly a guy to take food to."

"I'll charge it up to you!" came back from the den.

"Nervy chap!" Frank said, as the two boys hastened back to the conning tower to see what had become of Ned and Jack.

"Cheekiest fellow I ever saw!" Jimmie added. "He really thinks he's goin' to give us the slip. He really believes we daren't do a thing to him. I'll show him!"

When the boys came in sight of the beach again they saw Captain Moore threatening Ned with a revolver. Then they saw the Captain tumble over on the sand, with the German standing over him.

"Gee!" Jimmie shouted. "Prize fight!"

"Looks like it."

There was silence in the conning tower for a second, then both boys shouted out their joy as they saw Ned and Jack getting the upper hand of Moore and the natives.

"Now they'll soon be on board," Frank observed, "and we'll find out what they've been up to."

"Bet they didn't find out any more than I did," Jimmie cried. "I'll bet they had a scrap too, and that's the only thing I wanted that I didn't get."

"Wonder who that Dutch-looking fellow is?" Frank mused. "I believe Ned is putting him into the boat!"

"I'll go a dollar to a doughnut that it's a Boy Scout!" laughed Jimmie. "Don't look the part, though, does he?"

"Why do you think it is a Boy Scout?"

"Because we've always found one. If we should go to the North Pole, we'd find one there -- always busy an' ready to do a fellow a good turn, too. You know it!"

"And that big fellow, with the paunch and the important look seems familiar to me," mused Frank. "Don't you recognize him?"

"Sure," was the reply. "That is Captain Moore. Don't you remember the bluff he put up in the Black Bear clubroom before we left little old New York?"

"I believe you are right."

"Well, we'll soon know all about it," said the boy. "Ned is bringin' the Captain an' the Dutch guy off to us. Funny you'll see so many rare specimens when you hain't got no gun!"

Hans grinned delightedly when he set foot on the conning tower of the submarine and glanced inquisitively into the interior. His round, baby blue eyes protruded in wonder as they fell on the comfortably furnished apartment below.

"Jump down, Dutch!" Jimmie laughed. "There is where they make men out of Dutchmen. Don't be afraid."

"Iss dot so?" grunted Hans. "Vell, if mens iss madt dere, vy dondt you go pelow?"

"Good for you, Dutch!" cried Frank. "Hit him again. He's too fresh, anyway."

"Where did you get it, Ned?" asked Jimmie. "You'll have to bake it when we get back to New York."

"Better look out, lad," Ned replied, "this boy has the kick of a mule in his left. Let him alone."

During this short by-play Captain Moore stood scowling on the conning tower, crowded close against the boys, for the platform was a small one. He now faced Ned angrily.

"What is the proposition?" he demanded.

"I have brought you here to see your son," Ned replied. "If you'll step down the stairs I'll show you where he is."

"He ought to be at the bottom of the sea," Frank said, "for he tried to fire the boat."

"I have no doubt that he resents his treatment," said Moore. "I, myself, would sink your craft this moment if it lay in my power."

"No doubt of it," Ned said. "You've come to the end of your rope, though. All the mischief you can do now is to yourself."

Moore snarled out some reply intended to be exasperating, but which made no impression on the boys, and set his feet to the stairs. The boys followed him, but the ex-naval officer reached the floor first, and, with a bound, reached the mechanism which gave forward motion to the submarine, the prow of which was turned toward the beach.

Ned sprang forward, but the boat was already under motion. It was unquestionably the intention of the prisoner to wreck her on the beach, hoping to rescue his son and make his own escape in the confusion.

Moore struck savagely at Ned as he attempted to draw him away from the lever, but missed. In a second Jimmie had his arms about those of the Captain and they went down together.

Ned leaped to the lever and shut off the power. In three minutes more the Sea Lion must have been wrecked on the shelving shore. As it was she stopped within a few yards of the danger line.

"You're a pair of murderers!" said Ned, coolly, as he seized Moore by the throat and flung him into the room where his son was incarcerated.

Young Moore's face appeared at the door as his father was forced in, and angry words between the two followed as the door was closed.

"There'll be a social session in there now," laughed Ned. "Each one will blame the other for the predicament they are in!"

"Let 'em fight it out," Jimmie advised, rubbing a bruise on his arm, which had been somewhat injured in the fall.

Hans was now gazing about the boat with something more than curiosity in his eyes. He had observed how quickly the submarine had responded to a touch of the lever, and was actually wondering if he wasn't on board one of the magic ships he had read of in the nursery.

"Sit down outside this door and see that nothing more happens in the kick line," Ned directed, thinking to give the uneasy youth something to occupy his mind. "If they get the door open, give them one of those left-hand jolts."

With another glance about the German sat down contentedly. Then Ned went to the stern and looked out of the glass panel.

"Is the Shark still in sight?" asked Frank. "Look out to the east and you'll see her if she's anywhere about."

"I'm afraid she's too far away by this time," Ned replied.

"Then we'd better be moving!" Frank said. "I'll take the boat and go after Jack, then we'll be off."

"Don't lose any time," advised Ned.

Frank, accompanied by Jimmie, was off in the rowboat in short order, and before long Jack was on board.

"Hamblin, the trader, wants to talk with you, Ned," he said as he came down into the cabin.

"He'll have to wait until we catch the Shark," Ned said. "I'm afraid we have lost too much time now."

Jack's report had shown him that the sealed packet was still on the Shark, and it was his purpose to keep after the submarine until he caught up with her. Just what would take place then he did not know, but he was willing to take great risks in order to get hold of the packet.

He did not know what it contained, but he did know that it was claimed by the enemies of his government, that it held papers which, if brought out, might smash several international treaties. His own belief was that the packet would establish the fair dealing of the Washington officials, but this was only a matter of opinion.

While the Sea Lion was dropping down and getting under way he talked the matter over with Frank. That young man was inclined to be rather pessimistic over the matter.

"If the papers in the packet are of the sort you think they are," he declared, "they will destroy them before they will permit you to get hold of them."

"They might do so only for the fact that this is a money-loving world we are living in," Ned declared, with a smile. "Those papers, whatever they are, are worth a lot of cash to some one, and they will not be destroyed."

The submarine was soon moving swiftly through the water, only a few yards from the sandy bottom. The general direction was east, toward the harbor of Hongkong.

Just before the night fell Jack, who was on the lookout in front, peering through the glass panel, declared that the Shark, or some other submarine, was in sight.

"She's crippled, too," he cried. "She advances a few paces and then stops. They are having all kinds of trouble with her. Just lie still a short time, and you'll see her mounting to the surface."

The Sea Lion was brought to a halt, and the boys watched the dark bulk ahead with all their eyes. Their own boat was dark, but directly lights flared out ahead.

"There she goes to the top!" Jimmie cried.

"And there," exclaimed Frank, "is a signal from Hans which shows that there's something doing with the prisoners!"



Chapter XVI

A Bluff That Didn't Work



Leaving the prow, Ned hastened down a little passage and came out in the room where Hans sat, grinning, before a door behind which there was a great commotion. The pounding was incessant, and the voices of the prisoners came clearly through the solid panels.

"Open!" cried the voice of Captain Moore. "There's danger ahead for you. Open the door."

"Little he cares for our hides!" Jimmie commented. "If there was any danger he'd be the last one to warn us."

"Just a crack," pleaded Moore. "Just a crack, and I'll tell you what you are facing."

Ned opened the door a trifle and saw Moore's face there, looking almost frantic in the strong light.

"Well?" Ned asked.

"There's death for us all if you go ahead," the Captain declared. "Stop where you are."

"Soh!" grunted the German.

"Oh, I'm not pretending that I care for your rascally lives," Moore went on, vindictively. "I'd kill you all this moment if it lay in my power to do so. I'm thinking of my own safety."

"Well?" repeated Ned. "What is it?"

"The boat you are chasing has dynamite on board, and a tube gun. If you go nearer, she'll blow you out of the water."

"That's cheerful," Jimmie grinned. "Why didn't she do it before?"

"Probably because she thought to get away. I've been watching her through the little port and I know that she is now waiting for you to come up and receive a dynamite ball."

"It strikes me," Ned replied, "that she is halting because her running gear is out of whack. She rammed us not long ago and got the worst of it."

Captain Moore thrust his head close to the little opening between the casing and the door and almost screamed:

"Do you mean that she is crippled so that she can't get away from you?"

"I said that I thought she had injured herself in trying to destroy the Sea Lion," was the reply.

"Well, even if she can't get away," the Captain went on, with a change of expression, "she can blow you out of the water."

"We'll have to take our chances on that," Ned replied.

After some further talk, the boy entered the room where the prisoners were and closed the door, leaving Hans on guard outside. Captain Moore frowned as he seated himself by the port.

"It is bad enough to be confined here without being obliged to endure your company," he said.

"What a snake you would have made!" commented Ned. "I never saw a fellow loaded to the guards with venom as you are. Will you answer a few questions?"

"Depends on what they are," was the reply.

"If they will aid you, you will answer them, eh?"

"Of course."

"And if they will assist me, you won't?"

The Captain nodded.

"All right," laughed Ned. "Suppose the correct answers would help us both? What then?"

"Oh, what's the use of all this nagging?" demanded the son. "If you have anything to say, say it, and get out."

"And you're a pretty good imitation of this other snake," Ned said, glancing at the young fellow. "If you interfere in the talk again I'll put you in the dungeon and forget to feed you."

Captain Moore motioned to his son to remain quiet.

"This cheap Bowery boy has the upper hand now," he said. "Wait until conditions are reversed."

"Captain," began Ned, paying no attention to the venom of the other, "will you tell me what the packet that was rescued from the wreck by the pirates under your command contained?"

"What packet?" demanded the Captain, surprise showing on his drawn features. "What packet do you refer to?"

"The mysterious packet you came to this part of the world to obtain. You know very well what I mean."

"We came, under contract, for the gold," was the reply.

"Yet your boat went away and left most of it on the bottom after the packet was discovered."

"She came to this harbor after supplies."

"And neglected to secure them!"

"Well, there was trouble with the trader."

"You met a Shark man, on the island?"

"Of course. I came here to meet him, to receive a report as to the success of the expedition."

"You received such a report?"

"Yes."

"You were told that the gold had been found intact?"

"That is not for discussion here."

"You were astonished when your son did not make his appearance?"

"Frankly, yes."

"You expected that he would bring you the report?"

"Yes; he was in charge of the Shark."

"If he had been in charge when the man landed, he would have given you the packet?"

"If he had had a packet, or anything else taken from the wreck, he would have turned it over to me."

"But the man you met refused to do so?"

"How do you know what took place?"

"That is immaterial, so long as I do know. Tell, me, what was the difficulty at the store -- money?"

The Captain did not answer.

"Now," Ned went on, "you stated a moment ago that you came here under contract to get the gold. Who are your principals?"

No reply was received.

"What will the man now in charge of the Shark do with the packet he refused to deliver to you?" was the next question.

"He will transfer it to me as soon as we meet again."

"You are sure of that?"

"Reasonably sure."

"Then what will you do with it?"

"Anything given to me will be turned over to my principals."

"But, suppose the contents of the packet are not favorable to your side of the case? Suppose they clear the United States Government of suspicion?"

Captain Moore gave a quick start of amazement.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he said.

"In that case," Ned went on, "I presume you will destroy the papers? If you can't entangle the Government that fed you so long in some trouble, you won't play."

"You've been reading some of the red-covered detective stories, and think you're a sleuth!" snarled the Captain.

"You may as well tell me all about it," Ned urged.

"I have told you all I know about the condition of the wreck."

"And the packet?"

"There was a long envelope, but I did not see what it contained."

"Yet you came here to make sure that it should not get out of your hands unless it would aid you in your treachery?"

The prisoner was silent.

"Why didn't you obtain a knowledge of its contents?"

"The man who held it refused to make delivery."

"In other words, he demanded more money than you were authorized to pay him?"

"I have nothing to say about that."

"He took the packet back to the Shark?"

"Of course."

"And made an appointment to meet you at Hongkong?"

"It does not matter to you what our arrangement is."

"Oh, yes it does, for I'm telling you now that the appointment will never be kept."

"You don't know what peril you are in this minute," snarled the other. "There are bombs under your keel now!"

Ned did not like the tone of satisfaction in which the words were spoken. The Shark had passed slowly over the spot where the Sea Lion now lay, and torpedoes and bombs might have been laid.

"Thank you for the hint," he finally said. "I'll go out and see about it."

"When you want further information," frowned the Captain, with a scornful laugh, "come in and I'll give it to you -- just as I have on this occasion."

"No trouble to show goods!" broke in the son.

Ned opened the door and motioned to Hans and Jack, who were just outside, watching and listening to such few words as came through the heavy panels of the door.

"Take this impertinent young murderer to the den," he said, as Hans and Jack stepped up, "and leave him there in darkness. Don't feed him until I give the word."

The young man's struggles only increased the violence which was used in his removal. The boys would have killed the man who had attempted the lives of all the crew if they had been directed to do so.

Then Ned turned back to the Captain, now foaming with rage and calling to his son to remain docile until his turn should come.

"You pride yourself on having put me off without any information whatever," the boy said. "You advise me to come again and meet with the same treatment. Now, let me tell you, for your information, that I came in here to get answers to only two questions."

"Did you get them?"

"Indeed I did," was the reply.

The Captain looked disgusted.

"What were they?" he asked.

"I wanted to know if the man who landed from the Shark had the packet, and if he took it back on board with him. You gave me the information I sought. You even told me that the packet had not been opened when you saw it."

The Captain stormed up and down the little room in a towering rage.

"If I could turn a lever now and blow us all into eternity," he shouted, "I would do it!"

"Your mind seems to run on blowing up somebody."

Moore gritted his teeth and made no reply.

Ned locked him in again and went out to Frank, who was in charge of the boat.

"Get her over to the west a few yards," he said. "Our friend the Captain says the Shark is sowing torpedoes along here, and we can't afford to be blown up just now."

"The Shark is at the surface now," Frank said. "Anybody on the bottom?"

"Not so far as I can see, but it is pretty thick down here."

"Why not go to the surface?" asked Jack.

"Yes; she knows we are here, all right," Frank added.

"Well, keep to the bottom until you change position, then come to the top and keep dark. Not a light in sight, understand, and the tower up just high enough to keep out the water."

"What are you going to do?" asked Frank.

"I want to get aboard the Shark," was the cool reply.

"Yes; I see you doing it," Frank said.

"I can only try," was the reply. "The boat is headed for Hongkong, where she is to deliver the packet we want. She is to deliver it to Captain Moore on the payment of a certain sum of money, but if the Captain is not there she will turn it over to whoever has the price. We can't allow that."

"Of course not; but how are you going to get on board the Shark? If you don't watch out you'll be served as you served young Moore."

"The minute the Shark strikes Hongkong," Ned replied, "we will have a thousand places to search for those papers. Before she lands, we have only one."

"You are always right!" cried Frank. "When are you going to make the attempt?"

"That depends. In the meantime, we must get to the surface and in a position where we cannot be seen. If she thinks we have gone away, so much the better."

"I guess our little picnic isn't over with yet!" laughed Frank. "Are you going to take me on board with you?"

"I'll be lucky if I can take myself on board," was the reply.

By this time the Sea Lion was some distance from the Shark, and the hatch in the conning tower was open. It was a clear, starlit night, and there would be a moon later on.

There seemed to be great confusion on board the Shark. The boat was brilliantly lighted, and the conning tower stood high above the water. The ports on the side toward the Sea Lion were open, as if to admit the pure, cool air of the night.

"I believe there's something the matter with her air supply," Ned said to Frank as the two stood together on the tower. "The ramming she gave us must have done her a lot of mischief. Looks like she was stuck there until help comes."

"The help she ought to have is right here," Frank replied. "I'd like to get that crew on board a man-of-war."

"We have the real criminals," Ned replied.

The boys watched the Shark for a long time. They could see people moving about on the inside, and occasionally a group assembled on the conning platform, which was much larger than that of the Sea Lion.

"I believe some one is going down in a water suit," Ned said, presently. "The water chamber is on the other side, but she lists as if a weight was pulling at her."

"Listen!" Frank cautioned. "There's the machinery working. That would be the lowering apparatus. Some one is going down, all right. Now, what for?"

Ten minutes passed, and then the waters surged about the Sea Lion, and a great roar and rumble came with the waves which swept into the open hatch. The Shark, too, rocked on the crest of a great wave.

"Dynamite below!" Ned said. "Will there be more than one?"



Chapter XVII

Bad For The Sea Creatures



As Ned spoke there came another upheaval of water, and a louder roar from the sea. The Shark and the Sea Lion both swayed perilously. Ned and Frank closed their hatch and clung to the railing around the conning tower platform.

"Those are torpedoes, all right," Frank said.

"But I don't understand -- "

Ned cut the sentence short as a third reverberation came from beneath the water.

"They think we are down there yet!" Frank said. "I wonder how the man who went down came to make such a mistake?"

"Cheerful sort of people to fight!" Ned said. "Every man on that boat is a murderer at heart."

A pounding on the under side of the hatch was now heard, and Jimmie's face showed when it was lifted.

"Say," the little fellow said, "Captain Moore wants to speak to you, Ned. These here earthquake shocks have got him goin'. He acts like a crazy man."

Ned paid no attention to the request.

"He wants to say that he told me so," Ned said to Jimmie. "Go back and tell him that he ought not to be afraid of his friends on board the Shark."

"Gee!" the little fellow replied. "If he don't behave himself, I'll turn the hose on him. He ought to have a salt water bath, anyway. For a long time he's been tryin' to give us one!"

"Let him alone," Ned ordered.

This second upheaval of the water had swung the Shark around so that the door to the water chamber was in view from the Sea Lion. The boys saw that it was open, probably left in that way for the return of the man who had gone down in the water suit.

The light, shining from the main cabin, filtered through the chamber, which was, of course, under water, only a few inches of the conning tower of the submarine now being above the surface.

"Can they shut that door from the cabin?" Frank asked.

"I presume so," Ned replied. "They ought to be able to shut the door and empty the room as well."

"That can't be done on the Sea Lion," Frank said.

"No, but that is a detail that was overlooked in the construction of the boat. I was just learning to run the craft, and did not observe the deficiency."

"Well," Frank went on, "they are closing the door, but they are not doing a good job at it. Say," he added, grasping Ned's arm, "I'll bet the machinery connecting with the door from the cabin is broken!"

"Then the man who is down below will have to come up and do the opening after he gets up, and after he shuts the outer door and exhausts the water."

"I don't believe the outer door can be closed."

"What I'm interested in just now," Ned said, "is whether the diver is still alive. If he was anywhere near where the torpedoes exploded he is dead."

"And the Shark can't close her water chamber! I see a chance, Ned," Frank exclaimed. "Suppose I drop out and enter that water chamber?"

"What for?" asked Ned.

"Why, they would think I was the other fellow and let me in."

"With your line and hose unconnected with the mechanism inside?" asked Ned.

"Never thought of that."

"The only way for us to get into that boat," Ned went on, "is to get in from the top."

"But how?"

"That's just what I'm trying to study out."

"I presume the man who went down is there for good," Frank suggested.

"He probably went down to see why the torpedoes didn't go off and got caught," Ned replied.

"Perhaps the Shark will go down to see about it directly," the other ventured.

"I hardly think she could lift again with that water chamber door open and the chamber full of water," Ned went on. "It is my opinion that they will remain on top."

"I should think she'd be afraid of the traps she set for us, anyway. I wish she would get caught in one of them."

"Not while she has that mysterious packet on board," smiled Ned. "We have traveled a long way to get that."

No more submarine explosions came, and the boys sat on the dark conning tower until nearly midnight, watching the people on the Shark flying about, evidently laboring under great excitement.

The diver had not returned. The machinery was evidently out of order and the Shark might as well have tied to the bottom for all the speed she could make.

"I'm afraid some ship friendly to these pirates will come along," Ned said, after a long silence. "I think I'd better go aboard the Shark and find out what she intends doing."

"I see you doing it!"

"I can only try."

"And try only once," Frank muttered.

"I think they are ready for a compromise by this time."

"Well, then, I'll go with you," Frank decided.

"Get up the boat, then."

Jack and Jimmie were not inclined to favor the scheme, but they assisted in launching the boat and stood with half-frightened faces while Ned and Frank stepped into her.

Just as they were pushing off, Hans made his appearance on the little platform, his china-blue eyes filled with excitement.

"Mine friendts," he said, "vot iss if I goes py the poat?"

"No more room," said Frank.

"Now, you hold on," Jimmie called out. "You know what sort of a left hand punch this baby has? Well, then, you may need him when you get over to the Shark. See?"

"That might be," Frank muttered, looking inquiringly at Ned.

"Then let him come along," the latter said, so Hans entered the boat and took up the oars. "Rows like a steam engine!" Jimmie observed as the boat sped away. "That Dutchman is stronger than a mule."

It was still and lonely on the Sea Lion after the departure of the boys. The lights of the Shark were in sight, but they did not bring cheerful thoughts. The boys sat on the railing of the conning tower and waited in no little anxiety.

Occasionally the pounding of the prisoners reached their ears, but they paid little attention to it.

"They are suffering the tortures of the lost," Jack said. "Every minute they think they're going to the bottom. Let them take their medicine!"

"I wish they were going to the bottom," Jimmie responded. "When we see snakes like they are we ought never to let them get away from us. If we don't get bitten, some one else will."

Jack rested his chin on his palms and regarded the boy quizzically for a moment.

"How do you like it, as far as you've got?" he asked, then.

Jimmie looked down into the interior of the submarine, out over the sea, sparkling in the moonlight, then up to the heavens, bright with stars. Presently he answered:

"I don't like it."

"Why not?" "We ain't havin' any fun. We've been down in that old hold for a long time, and haven't got anywhere. I'd rather take a trip through South America, or through China. I want the ground under my feet part of the time, anyway."

"It seems to me that it is getting stale and unprofitable," Jack admitted. "Suppose we get up power and drift up closer to the Shark. Then we can at least see what's going on."

"All right, 'bo!" cried Jimmie, starting down the stairs.

"Well," called Jack, "don't be in such a hurry! We want to make sure that Ned has attracted the attention of the Shark people before we move. If they see us moving up on them before Ned gets a chance to talk with them, they may do something rash to the boys."

"Guess you are right," Jimmie admitted.

"So far as I can see," Jack continued, "they are over there now. Do you hear that voice?"

"Ned's, all right."

The boys listened, but the voice came no more.

"They've pulled him into the boat!" cried Jimmie. "Hurry up and get started!"

When Jack went below to handle the motive power machinery he heard Captain Moore thumping on the door of his prison.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"Come to the door."

Jack did as requested, but did not open the door.

"Now, what is it?" he asked.

"Is that Nestor?"

"It's Jack," was the reply.

"Well, ask Nestor if he'll let both of us go if well give up the whole scheme. Will you?"

"And the papers?"

"I'll help him get the papers."

"I'll tell him," said Jack.

"Send for him at once," urged the Captain. "If we remain here much longer, we'll be blown out of water. You heard those explosions?"

"They harmed no one but the sea creatures," Jack replied. "They were bad for them."

"Where is Nestor?" was then asked.

"Visiting on the Shark," was the reply.

"If they've got him, he'll never come back," gritted the Captain.

"But they haven't," said the boy. "We're going to run the Sea Lion over to the Shark now and help them entertain him."

"You're a fool!" roared Moore. "Don't you tell them that we are on board -- my son and myself."

"Don't they know it?"

"How should they know it? Don't you tell them. If you do they will raid your ship and get us."

"So you've been playing some dirty trick on them, have you?" asked Jack. "Well, what about your meeting them at Hongkong?"

"That was a lie."

"You are out with them?"

"They are out with me. They claim I am keeping them out of a lot of money. Don't tell them I am here."

"In all your life" -- asked Jack -- "in all your life, did you ever do business with any man, woman, or child you didn't cheat and betray? You ought to be hanged."

"If Nestor comes back, you send him here and I'll tell him the whole story if he'll let us go. And I'll tell him how to get the papers he is after. Will you see that he comes -- if he gets back?"

"I think it would do you more good," laughed Jack, "to have a talk with the people on the Shark."

Ignoring the prisoner's further demands, Jack turned on the power and directed the Sea Lion toward the Shark. In a moment Jimmie called down through the hatchway:

"Slow up, now, unless you want to bunt the other boat."

Jack, accordingly, shut off the power and went up to the platform. The boat was still drifting ahead a trifle, and the boy went below again and dropped an anchor.

If the advance of the submarine had attracted the attention of those on the Shark's conning tower they gave no evidence of the fact. The boat Ned had taken lay swinging on the easy sea close to the tower, with Frank and Hans sitting near the stern.

Directly voices came from the other submarine. The first speaker was Ned, then a heavier voice exclaimed, angrily:

"You have no right to suppose anything of the kind. We are here on legitimate business, and must not be interfered with."

"What did you take from the wreck?" asked Ned.

"What is it to you?" came the stronger voice. "You can't make any bluff work with me."

"Then I may as well go back to my ship," Ned said.

"Go back to your ship!" snapped the other. "Not if I know myself. You have come aboard without leave or license, and you'll stay until we get good and ready to let you go."

The boys saw Hans and Frank spring for the platform, and then a shout of triumph came from half a dozen throats. Ned surely was in trouble.



Chapter XVIII

"Making A Good Job Of It."



"I guess they've got Ned!" Jimmie cried, as the heavy hatch of the Shark closed with a slam. "If they have, we'll ram 'em to the bottom."

"You just wait!" Jack advised. "There's a good deal of a racket going on over there. I guess Hans is putting his educated left into motion. Look at him!"

There was indeed a great commotion on the platform. Presently the hatch was lifted and one of the contestants disappeared.

"Do you mind that, now!" shouted Jimmie. "Ned has captured the boat for keeps! There! Now he's tellin' them where to head in at!"

Through the still night air they heard Ned's voice:

"You people down there know what I am here for. If the thing I want is destroyed you'll all be hanged for piracy. Understand?"

Then the hatch was jammed down again, and Ned and Frank stepped into the rowboat, leaving Hans on the platform. Jimmie threw up his cap when the two boys stepped on the Sea Lion's platform.

"You captured the bunch!" he yelled, "and you stole the boat. You sure made a good job of it."

"What's the proposition?" asked Jack.

"I thought I'd tow the old tub into a port where I can communicate with an American man-of-war," replied Ned.

"This is luck!" Frank exclaimed. "Luck for us, and trouble for the pirates. I wonder if they've got much gold on board."

"If they have," laughed Ned, "Hans will see that they don't get away with it. They're nailed down hard."

"Talk about the luck of the British army!" roared Jack. "It is blind adversity to the luck of the Boy Scouts! Here we've got the pirates bunched! As soon as we communicate with a man-of-war, we'll turn 'em over to Uncle Sam and go back and get the gold."

"The Shark," Frank observed, "was a derelict when we picked her up, wasn't she? She couldn't move a foot. Well, then, we're entitled to salvage. We'll put in a bill that will eat up the whole business!"

"If we get her into port," Ned replied. "The old tub is in bad shape owing to the bunting she gave the Sea Lion. I'm afraid she'll go down before morning."

"Cripes!" Jimmie broke out. "What will we do, then, with all them bold, bad men? We've got our penitentiary full now!"

"And the prisoners are making all kinds of trouble, too," Jack added. "If the door wasn't good and strong, it'd be in splinters by this time. That young Moore is the worst."

"We won't cross any bridges until we come to them," Ned remarked. "The Shark may last until we get to Hongkong. Anyway, I'm counting on quite a run before she goes down."

"How many are there on board?" asked Jack.

"Six, not counting Hans. I think we can accommodate them all on board the Sea Lion, if we have to."

The Sea Lion towed the Shark all through the night, keeping to an easterly direction with the idea of going to Hongkong, something over 150 miles away. All along the eastern coast of Kwang Tung, from the slender peninsula which separates the Gulf of Tongking from the China Sea to the bay which penetrates almost to Canton, there is a succession of little islands, so the submarine and her prize were always in sight of land.

Just at dawn there came a cry from the platform of the Shark, and Hans was discovered waving his cap excitedly in the air.

"Vater! Vater!" he cried. "Dis iss droubles! Make us off dis durdle -- gwick!"

"Sinking?" Ned called back.

Further talk with the German informed Ned that water was seeping into the different compartments of the Shark, and that the inmates were already perched on tables and on the stairs leading to the platform.

The boy attached the towing cable to a windlass on the platform of the Sea Lion, turned on the power, and the sinking craft soon lay alongside. She was indeed in a bad predicament. Another half hour would see the last of her.

"Now," Ned said, "we don't know what those fellows will try to do when the hatch is lifted. I've known snakes to sting the hand that fed and warmed them. Anyway, we'll take no chances."

Following his orders, the boys got out their automatic revolvers and ranged themselves on the platform. Then Ned lowered the rowboat, making a bridge between the two. The hulls of the boats met under water, but the platforms, owing to the bulge, were some little distance apart. The railings of the conning towers were not much above the surface.

His arrangements for securing the prisoners without trouble completed, Ned went over to the Shark and lifted the hatch. He was greeted with a chorus of threats, supplications, and questions.

"You'll get yours for sinking the Shark!" one shouted.

"For God's sake let us out; we are drowning!" whined another.

"What's the matter with the boat?" asked a third.

"Listen," Ned said. "The Shark may go down in ten minutes, or she may float, under tow, for a long time. Anyway, you are better out of her. I'll take you all out if you promise to behave yourselves. Come out of the hatch one at a time and be searched for weapons. The man that carries a weapon of any kind on his person will be thrown back, to feed the fish. Do you understand?"

They understood, and not even a penknife was found when search was made. Five of the rescued ones were plain seamen, with little knowledge of submarine work. The other was the captain of the Shark. Under the direction of young Moore he had attempted to make off with everything of value on the wreck, including the papers.

This man was a fair type of marine officer, had, in fact, resigned from the United States service with Captain Moore. He was by no means an ill-looking man, but his snaky eyes and treacherous mouth told Ned to look out for him.

He came out of the hatch last and was stepping onto the rowboat when Ned stopped him with a question:

"Where are the papers?"

"What papers?" snarled the other, Babcock by name.

"The papers you took from the wreck."

"They are below, soaked with water."

"Get them!"

"But -- "

"Get them! Quick!"

"But they are afloat, and -- "

"Get them!"

Babcock went down the staircase with murder in his eyes. He returned, in a moment, with a sealed packet, which was perfectly dry. Ned broke the seal and glanced at the sheets inside.

The one which met his eyes first was headed:

"General instructions, to be opened only when the demand for the coin is made."

"Now," Ned went on, "where are your sailing orders?"

"Lost!" was the reply.

"Get them!" Ned said, quietly.

"They are -- "

"Get them," came again from the boy's lips.

Again Babcock went into the submarine, now rapidly filling with water. He returned dripping with sea water, holding in his hand a water-tight tin box which was secured by a brass padlock.

"You now have everything I held concerning the mission of the boat and the disposition of the gold," he said. "I suppose I may get out of the water now?"

Ned stepped aside and Babcock passed over to the Sea Lion. Ned attached a buoy to the tower of the Shark and cut loose from her.

"We'll let some of Uncle Sam's boats pick her up," he said. "I'm for Hongkong with these papers."

The five sailors were not locked up, but were given the run of the cabin, the machine room only being closed against them.

"I'm not going to have them mixing things down here," Jack, who was in charge that day, said.

Babcock, however, was locked up with Captain Moore. When the door closed on the two men the boys heard them both talking at the same time, and their language was not at all complimentary to each other.

"You're a blackmailer!" Moore yelled.

"You're a liar!" was the reply.

"Fight it out!" Jimmie shouted from the door.

"Get to going and see who's to blame for this!"

Then the voices quieted down, and no more words were heard.

"Did you hear what they called each other?" asked Jack. "Well, I'm betting they are both right."

Ned went to his cabin and opened the tin box. He lingered over what he found there until noon and then called Frank into conference with him.

"There's a plot which involves officers at Canton," he said, "and we may as well bag the whole bunch."

"Of course. We ought to make a good job of it, as Jimmie says."

Ned examined his map and called Frank over to the table where it was spread out.

"If we go to Canton," he said, "we'll have to run into the lake-like mouth of the Si River. Guess that's its name. It looks dim on the map. Fifty miles to the north the little stream on which Canton is situated runs into the larger stream.

"We can run to that point and leave the Sea Lion while we go to Canton. I guess the prisoners won't object to a few days more of imprisonment. Anyway, we may meet a ship we can turn them over to."

"They are objecting, right now, it seems," cried Frank, opening the door and looking out into the main cabin. "Hans is sitting on one of the sailors and Jack and Jimmie are holding the others back with their automatics."

Both boys leaped out. The sailors, doubtless alarmed at the arrival of the leaders, sprang for the hatchway. The boys did not fire at them as they passed, and directly splashes in the sea told those on the stairs that the sailors had leaped into the water.

Hans arose, scratching his head, and looked down on the man he had been sitting on. The fellow looked up into the lad's face with a queer expression in his eyes.

"Vot iss?" demanded Hans. "Go py the odders if you schoose! Py schimminy, dose shark haf one feast!"

"Not on your life!" cried the prisoner. "I'm not anxious to get away. I was shanghaied on the Shark, and it's glad I am to be out of that bum crowd."

Jimmie, who had followed the sailors to the platform, now came back with the information that three of them had been picked up by a native canoe which had now disappeared from sight in a group of islands. The other, he said, had gone down.

"How much do those sailors know?" asked Ned of the man Hans had taken prisoner.

"They know a lot," was the reply. "They were all in together. What one knew, all knew, I guess. It is too bad they got away, for they had a definite plan to operate if there was trouble and any got away. They will lay in wait for you when you land."

"They'll have to travel fast if they do!" Frank laughed.



Chapter XIX

On The Edge Of Disaster



The Si River is not a river at all where its waters flow into the China Sea. It is a wide, salt-water inlet, a bay, a great delta, like that of the Amazon. This great bay is miles in width in places and extends at least fifty miles into the interior.

Almost at the end, it is joined by a narrow little stream upon which Canton, the capital city of Kwang Tung, is situated. The city is something less than fifteen miles from the mouth of the river upon which it stands.

It was for Canton that the boys were headed. Some of the papers Ned had found in the private box of Captain Babcock made reference to a place of meeting there which the boy desired to investigate. He was now convinced that the plot against the Government had been a vicious one, backed by people of influence and standing in the world of diplomacy. It would bring the case on which he was working to a very satisfactory finish if he could include in his report the story of a meeting of the conspirators.

While the boy sat alone on the platform of the conning tower that evening the sailor who had remained on board the Sea Lion at the time of the escape of the others came to him. The fellow was an American, and seemed to be honest in his desire to assist Ned.

"The men who escaped," he said, "will not lose track of the Sea Lion. There are men on shore who will send the news of what has taken place on faster than you can travel. Wherever you go they will be waiting for you, and they are a bad lot."

"They have plenty of money behind them, I presume?" asked Ned.

"They appear to have," was the reply.

"Especially with the prospect of the loot from the wreck in mind," Ned suggested.

"They didn't get much gold out of the wreck," explained the other. "They pulled the yellow boys out until they came to the sealed parcel, and then they made off."

"They knew that we were on the ground, watching them?"

"Oh, yes, but they had a plan for getting rid of you."

"The plan young Moore attempted to carry out?"

"Yes."

"That meant murder?"

"Yes."

Ned was silent for a moment, thinking gratefully of the resourcefulness of the ex-newsboy. To this they all doubtless owed their lives. He promised himself that the lad should be properly remembered when the time of settlement with the Government came.

"Do you know where the conspirators are to meet at Hongkong?" he then asked.

"At Canton, I said," answered the other, with a twinkle in his eyes. "You thought to trip me?" he asked.

Ned, in turn, smiled quietly. He had indeed been testing the man.

"Well," he added, "do you know where they are to meet at Canton?"

"Oh, I heard the name of the street, but it sounded more like the clatter of falling crockery than a name, so I don't remember it."

"Perhaps a landmark was mentioned?"

"Yes, come to think of it, there was. The place of meeting is in the rear of a curio shop next door to an English chop house. That ought to be easy to find."

The visit to Canton promised to be a dangerous one, especially as the men who had escaped would send on word of what had taken place on the Shark. The fellows had been picked up by natives in canoes, and were probably at that time on the main land, within reach of a telegraph wire, or some other means of communication with Canton.

While the boy studied over the matter Frank came on the platform and the seaman went below. Ned laid the proposition before the newcomer.

"Well," Frank said, "you have the papers, you have the private orders of Captain Babcock, of the Shark, and you have the two main rascals, Captain Moore and his precious son. What more do you want?"

"I want the foreigner who put up the job."

"That does seem worth while," Frank mused.

"It's this way," Ned went on. "The sealed packet doubtless contains instruction to one of the revolutionary leaders regarding the disposition of the money. You see, they were sure the rebels would be on hand to grab the shipment as soon as it left the ship. The loss was to fall on the Chinese government and the revolutionists were to profit by it.

"The instructions make it look mighty bad for our Government, for the gold was drawn directly from the subtreasury the day it was shipped. It looked as if we were plotting against a friendly government."

"I see."

"But some one leaked. The story of the shipment got out, and the vessel was rammed one night by a steamer which has never been identified. The idea, of course, was to prevent the revolutionists getting the money, without telling what was known, or bringing the nation which butted into the case into prominence at all."

"Then some nation friendly to the Emperor of China did that?"

"I don't know. Anyway, the nation that did it bribed Captain Moore and Captain Babcock to get the gold -- and to recover the sealed packet. With this in their hands, they might have made Uncle Sam a great deal of trouble."

"I understand, and now you want to get the men who conspired with the Moores and Captain Babcock?"

"That's the idea, not so much in the hope of bringing them to punishment as to locate the source of their inspiration."

"Then, I reckon well have to go to Canton," Frank remarked. "We'll see the town then, anyway."

The boy remained silent for a moment and then asked:

"What can you do to the chief conspirators if you catch them?"

"Nothing. I can only file my report with the government and drop out of the case."

"And the Moores and Babcock?"

"I'll turn them over to the first American man-of-war I meet."

"And then go back after the gold?"

"That depends on instructions."

"That's the difficulty of working on diplomacy cases," said Frank. "We have to take all manner of risks, and then, sometimes, see the real rascals get off free -- on account of international complications. I'd like to work on a real old detective case on the Bowery."

Ned laughed softly but made no reply.

The Sea Lion made slow time, for the crippled Shark -- which still floated -- rolled and tumbled heavily -- in her wake and the sea was rougher than it had been before for many days. At last, however, she entered the long inlet leading up to Canton and cast anchor.

"Ever been in these waters?" Ned asked of the American sailor.

"Sure," was the reply. "That is why they shanghaied me in San Francisco."

"How far can I go up?"

"Clear to the mouth of the river."

Proceeding leisurely, the Sea Lion passed up the inlet. It was early morning when she came to the mouth of the river. They had passed many vessels on the way, some native, some foreign, but had not been molested, though many curious eyes were turned toward the tow and the odd-shaped craft doing the pulling.

When anchor was cast in a little bay at the mouth -- a quiet little stretch of water sheltered by old warehouses which had been erected years before by native traders -- Jack came running up the stairs to meet Ned.

"Captain Moore," he said, "is weeping himself to death for lack of your sweet society. He's all running out under the door!"

"Jack," Ned laughed, "if your imagination wasn't too strong, you'd do well writing fiction. As it is it is so strong that anything you might put on paper would not be believable. Anyway, I'll go and see what the Captain has on his mind."

Captain Moore had fear on his mind. Ned saw that the second the door was open. His face was white as paper and his eyes roved about like those of a madman. "You are going on to Canton?" the Captain asked, in a trembling tone of voice.

"I was thinking of it," Ned answered.

"When?"

"To-night."

"And leave the submarine here?"

"If I could take her with me," smiled Ned, "I would do so, but I'm afraid I can't."

"This is no joking matter," snapped Moore.

"I knew you would begin to look at the matter in that light before you had done with it."

"You are going to the chop house in Canton?"

"I hope to be able to find it."

"Alone?"

"Of course not."

"Well," the Captain added, wiping his dry lips with the back of his hand, "do you know what will happen to the Sea Lion while you are gone?"

"Nothing serious, I hope."

"She will be blown up, and me with it!" almost screamed the Captain. "The power that is handling this matter would do more than that to get the papers you have secured out of the way, and to get rid of Babcock, my son, and myself."

"They seek to murder you?"

"I believe it."

"Why?"

"For two reasons. We know too much, and we failed."

"You haven't named the power," suggested Ned.

"I am unable to do so. I don't know. I have done all my work with a go-between."

"I see," Ned said.

"If you must go to Canton," the Captain went on, "first turn us over to the authorities here -- to the American consul, if you please."

"That would protect the boat?"

"It would protect us."

"For the present, yes."

"And take the papers with you!"

"Why?" laughed Ned, thoroughly amused.

"Because that will draw the search off the boat."

"Then you believe that I shall be watched and followed?"

"Yes, and killed."

"You're a cheerful sort of fellow!" laughed Ned.

Jimmie now came to the door and announced a warship flying an American flag.

"She's signaling you," he added.

Ned was pretty glad to see the ship come to a halt lower down the inlet. She was not a large vessel, but she looked as big to Ned as all Manhattan island.

In an hour he was on board the ship, in earnest conversation with the captain, who had been ordered by cable to look the Sea Lion up and report to Ned. In another hour the prisoners were on board the warship, and the Sea Lion was anchored under her guns.



Chapter XX

An Ending And A Beginning



Captain Harmon, of the warship Union, was a brave and capable officer. He understood at once the necessity for the trip to Canton. The conspirators must be identified. The United States Government must be informed as to the foreign power which had so nosed into her affairs.

"The power that is doing this," the Captain said, "will resort to other tricks when this one fails. We want to know who she is. On the whole, I think, I'll go to Canton with you -- with your permission, of course."

"That's kind of you," Ned replied, pleased at the offer. "I can leave three of the boys on the Sea Lion and take one with me. I should be lost without that little rascal from the Bowery."

"And I'll send a file of marines on board the Sea Lion," the captain continued. "That will make all safe there. Now, about the papers. You have the packet?"

"Yes, of course."

"What does it contain?"

"Instructions which show the hand of private parties only. They completely exonerate our Government."

"And the other parties?"

"I regret that I must not mention names, sir."

"Very well," laughed the Captain. "You have performed your mission well. The slanders must now cease. But one thing more remains to be done -- the meddling nation must be identified, as I have already said. We must go to Canton."

And so, leaving the Moores and Babcock safely locked in the den on board the Union and the important papers secure in the Captain's safe, Ned, accompanied by the Captain and Jimmie, set out for Canton by boat. The way was not long, and they arrived at noon, an early start having been secured.

Ned was entirely at sea in the city, but Captain Harmon had been there a number of times, and the English chop house was soon found. Next door to it was the curio shop mentioned to Ned.

The three lounged about the chop house nearly all the afternoon. The Captain was in plain clothes, and the trio seemed to be foreigners waiting for friends to come. After a long time Ned saw a man pass the chop house and turn into the curio shop who did not seem to be a Chinaman.

"Jimmie," he said to the little fellow, "suppose you go in there and buy a dragon, or a silk coat, or a tin elephant. Anything to give you a notion as to what is going on in the shop." The lad was off in a moment, and then the Captain turned to Ned.

"Why did you send the boy?" he asked.

"Because we may both be wanted outside," was the reply.

"You mean that others may come -- others who should be followed and observed?"

"That's the idea," Ned replied.

Directly two more men, evidently not Chinamen, passed into the shop, then Jimmie came running out.

"They're going into a back room," he said.

Ned strolled into the shop, and in a moment the Captain followed. Jimmie remained at the door.

The two worked gradually back to the door of the rear room, and Ned "accidentally" leaned against it. It was locked. With the impact of the boy's shoulder against the panels came a scraping of chairs on the floor of the room beyond.

"You've stirred them up," whispered the Captain.

Then some one called from the inside.

"What do you want?"

"A word with you," Ned replied.

The shopkeeper now drew near and motioned the two away. When they did not obey he motioned toward the street, as if threatening to call assistance.

"Who is it?" was now asked.

"A messenger from Captain Henry Moore and his son," Ned answered, with a smile at the Captain.

There was a long pause inside.

"Where is he?" was asked.

"A prisoner. He wished me to come here."

Then the door was opened a trifle and the two saw inside. The shopkeeper, thinking that all was well, went back to the front of the shop.

When the door swung open both Ned and the Captain threw themselves against it. It went back against the wall with a bang, and the two nearly fell to the floor.

When they straightened up again they saw a servant standing between them and the still open doorway. At a round table in the back end of the apartment were three men -- all Europeans.

Ned stepped forward to address them, but Captain Harmon drew him back and motioned toward the door.

"What do you want?" one of the three asked, in English. "Why this intrusion?"

Then Ned observed the face of the speaker, for the light was strong upon it. It was a face he had often seen pictured in reports of diplomatic cases. It was the face of one of the keenest diplomats in the world.

"I come from Captain Moore," Ned said, almost trembling at the thought of standing in the presence of the powerful man who had spoken.

"Can you send him here?" was asked.

"I'll try," was the reply.

"Who is your friend?" asked the other, pointing to Captain Harmon.

Ned turned toward the Captain and was amazed at the change which had taken place in his friend's appearance. The erect naval officer was no longer at his side. Instead, a shambling, bent figure stood there, with face bent to the floor.

"A seaman who is on sick leave," Ned replied.

"Well, step outside while we consider what to do in the matter," said the diplomat. "Chang!" he called.

The shopkeeper appeared at the door.

"Watch these fellows," came the orders. "Watch them, understand!"

The words were spoken in French, a language which Ned understood something of. The boy glanced keenly toward the man who had answered to the name of Chang. He decided that he was not a Chinaman.

The three stepped out into the shop together, Ned watching the seeming Chinaman closely. It was his idea that the fellow would give a signal which would call a score or more of mercenaries to his assistance. He believed that it was not the intention of the men in the rear room to let them leave the place.

When the three neared the center of the shop the alleged Chinaman lifted a whistle to his lips, as if about to signal. Ned snatched the whistle away and seized the fellow by the throat.

"Now, Captain," he whispered.

The Captain, now his old self, sprang forward and the shopkeeper was soon tied fast, gagged, and laid behind one of the counters. Then the two walked calmly out of the place.

Jimmie paused long enough to lean over the counter and make a face at the prisoner, then followed on.

"You know the truth now?" asked Ned, as the two stopped on a street corner not far away.

"Yes."

"The name of the meddlesome power is no longer a mystery?"

"Yes, I understand that, but what are we to do?"

"Make our report."

"Then you think the case is closed?" asked the Captain.

"Well," replied Ned, "we have all the documents, and we have the name of the diplomat who was waiting for Moore. What more do you want?"

"Rather a clean job of it," mused the Captain. "I wonder what the Washington people will say when the papers are laid before them; with the name of the man Moore was doing business with?"

"What will be done about it?"

"Nothing. All Uncle Sam can do is to block such games."

"And the Moores and Babcock?"

"They may be punished for attempting to wreck the Sea Lion."

"I don't like diplomatic cases," Ned said. "The rascals usually get free of punishment."

"Well," Captain Moore said, "suppose we go on board the Union while we can. As soon as the alleged shopkeeper is found behind the counter, there will be the dickens to pay. They will know that the identity of the big gun has been established, and every attempt to murder us will be made."

"You think the man knew you?" asked Ned.

"I don't know. You noticed how I changed my attitude all I could when he looked at me. I rather fancied he saw something military about me before that."

"Then we may as well go aboard," Ned said.

"You have made a wonderful success of the mission," the Captain said, that night. "You have done everything expected of you and more. Has it been easy?"

"Well," was the reply, "we have been kept busy!"

The Captain laughed and pointed to the shore of the inlet in which the Union lay.

"There are people who want to come aboard!" he said. "See the commotion on shore?"

"Shall you permit them to board?"

"Decidedly not. I have cabled to Washington for instructions. Until they arrive I shall keep everybody off the boat."

"That listens good to me," Ned said.

Boats which seemed to have no business there prowled around the warship all night, and once a sneak was caught hanging to the forward chains. However, no one succeeded in getting aboard.

In the morning the Captain came to Ned's cabin with a number of cablegrams, all from Washington.

"I have orders for you," he said.

Ned yawned and shook his head.

"Not for a submarine trip," he said.

"I am going north," the Captain said, "north through the China Sea, into the Yellow Sea, and so on to the Gulf of Pechili. Do you know where that is?"

"It is the highway to Peking," laughed Ned. "I hope you are not going there."

"Sure, and you are going with me."

"What for?" asked the boy.

"To find the two men who sat at the table with the diplomat at Canton," was the reply. "The Government wants them."

"We might have taken them, a few hours ago," mused Ned.

"Doubtful," said the Captain. "Besides, there is other work for you in the Imperial City. Your friends are going with us, and the Sea Lion is to be left here."

"And the prisoners?"

"They remain on board. In fact, the Government has a surprise for the conspirators. We may want Babcock and the Moores at Peking."

"And you'll send the papers to Washington?"

"Yes. Write your report, briefly, for they now know a lot about the wonderful success you have had."

"But how are we to get from the coast to Peking?" asked Ned. "It is quite a trip, and the diplomats will be after us."

"Motorcycles have been provided," was the reply, "and a flying squadron of my boys will go with you."

"Whoopee!" yelled Jimmie, who entered the cabin just in time to hear the latter part of the talk. "Me for the Chink land! I'll go and tell Frank and Jack."

The boy dashed off, and all preparations for the trip were made.

That night the Union sailed out of the China Sea. The case of the missing papers was closed. The gold was still at the bottom of the sea, but that was not Ned's fault. He had followed orders. However, the gold could be taken out at any time. The discovery of the men who had conspired with the famous diplomat could not wait.

What the boys did, the luck they had, and the adventures they met with, on the way from the coast to the Imperial City, will be told in the next volume of this series, "Boy Scouts on Motorcycles; or, With the Flying Squadron."

<eob>

The First Capture

By

Harry Castlemon



Chapter I.

The Battle Of Lexington.


It happened on the morning of the 9th day of May. The little village of Machias in the far away colony of Maine was lively enough as far as fishing towns go, but on this particular time it was in a regular turmoil. Men had jumped up leaving their breakfast half eaten and ran out bareheaded to gather round a courier, who, sitting on a horse that had his head down and his flanks heaving as if he were almost exhausted, was telling them of a fight which had occurred just twenty days before. There was nothing to indicate that the men were excited except their pale faces and clenched hands, but the looks they turned upon one another had a volume of meaning in them. What had the messenger to communicate that had incited such a feeling among those who listened to him? He was describing the battle of Lexington which had been fought and won by the patriots on the 19th day of April. We did not have any telegraph in those days, and the only way the people could hold communication with one another was by messengers, mounted on fleet horses, who rode from village to village with the news.

The courier was so impatient to tell what he knew that he could not talk fast enough, but the substance of his story was as follows:

General Gage, the commander of the British troops who were quartered in Boston about this time, had become a tyrant in the eyes of the people. When spring opened he had a force of three thousand five hundred men. Boston was the headquarters of the rebellion. He determined with this force to nip the insurrection in the bud, and his first move was to seize and destroy the stores of the patriots at Concord, a little village located about six miles from Lexington. To carry out this plan he sent forth eight hundred men under the command of Colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn with orders to "seize, burn and otherwise render useless" everything in the shape of munitions of war that they could find. He supposed he went about it secretly, but the ever-vigilant patriots were awake to all his movements. A watch was established at Concord, and everywhere the minute-men were ready with "burnished muskets, fixed bayonets, and well-filled cartouches."

They left Boston about midnight, but it so happened that the minute-men became aware of their expedition almost as soon as it was ready to start. Paul Revere was there and ready to undertake his famous midnight ride. No sooner was the trampling of soldiers heard than two lights were hung in the steeple of Christ Church in Charlestown. Paul Revere saw the lights, and he forthwith mounted his horse and started to carry the warning to every village in Middlesex.[1] The British did not see the beacon fire blazing above them, but marched away silent and still, arresting everybody that came in their way "to prevent the intelligence of their expedition being given."

[Footnote 1:

"He said to a friend, 'If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the Old North Tower as a signal light --  One if by land, two if by sea, And I on the opposite shore will be Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to be up and to arm.'"]

As the day began to dawn in the east the British reached Lexington, and there they found a company of minute-men gathered on the green. To say that they were amazed at the sight would be putting it very mildly; but Major Pitcairn, after a short consultation with his superior officer, rode up and flourished his sword as if he meant to annihilate the minute-men then and there. His officers followed him and his troops came close behind him in double quick time. But the patriots stood their ground, and the redcoats shouted angrily at them -- 

"Disperse, you villains! Lay down your arms! Why don't you disperse, you rebels?"

But our men had not come out there to be dispersed by shouting. Utterly ignorant of the ways of civilized warfare they continued to hold their ground, and for a time it looked as though there was going to be bloodshed sure enough. Major Pitcairn did not care to come too close to them but wheeled his horse, discharged his pistol and shouted "Fire!" and the British obeyed him. The front rank fired, and when the smoke cleared away, seven men, the first martyrs of the Revolution, were found weltering in their blood. That was too much for the patriots. They did not suppose that the British were going to shoot them down like dogs. They scattered in every direction, and the redcoats, having nothing further to oppose them, kept on and destroyed the stores.

"Colonel, I don't like the way those rebels retreated," said Major Pitcairn, as he kept a close watch upon the neighboring hills. "They fell back as though they would come again."

"If they were soldiers we would know how to take them," replied Colonel Smith. "But being rebels, we have nothing further to fear from them."

Major Pitcairn, however, kept a bright lookout, and very soon he became uneasy at the rapidity with which the militia increased in numbers. He called the attention of his superior to it, and very shortly the latter gave the order to retreat; and it was not a moment too soon. The whole region flew to arms, for remember that Paul Revere had aroused to vigilance the inmates of every house he came to, and from every one there came a man or boy who was strong enough to handle a rifle, and hurried to the help of his countrymen. It seems that Colonel Smith had more to contend with than mere rebels. It appeared, too, that one who afterwards wrote about that battle was there to have seen it for he tells us in his poem:

"And so through the night rode Paul Revere, And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm --  A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore. For, borne on the night-wings of the Past, Through all our history to the last, In the hours of our darkness, peril, and need, Will the people waken to listen, to hear The hurrying foot-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere."

The minute-men gathered as if by magic. They did not come out and form themselves in line for the purpose of being shot down by the redcoats, but remembering their skulking habits which they learned while fighting the Indians, they hid behind trees, fences, and rocks, in front, flank, and rear, and poured so galling a fire upon the Britishers that if it had not been for reinforcements not one of those eight hundred men would ever have reached the city alive. As one of their officers expressed it: "the militia seemed to have dropped from the clouds," and the flower of that British army must have surrendered to those patriots if relief had not arrived. Their retreat was regarded as a defeat and a flight, and at every corner were heard the jeers and mockings of the people regarding that "great British army at Boston who had been beaten by a flock of Yankees." At any rate the jubilee trumpet was sounded proclaiming "Liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof." The power of all the royal governors was broken, from Massachusetts to Georgia.

This was the substance of the news which was brought to Machias twenty days after the fight. The people were both astonished and angry -- astonished to know that the British soldiers, who had been regarded as invulnerable, could be outdone with American bullets, and angry to learn that so many of their friends[2] should have been killed during their conflict with them.

[Footnote 2: Lossing says: "The British lost 65 killed, 18 wounded, and 28 made prisoners; in all 273. The Americans lost 59 killed, 39 wounded, and 5 missing; in all 103.]

"This thing has got to be settled now," said Zeke Lewis, turning away and flourishing his fists in the air. "That is too many of our men to go up after fighting those redcoats. Boston has been standing all the brunt of tyranny so far, and we had better join in. Now there's that -- "

The man suddenly paused and looked about him. Almost every face he saw was that of a patriot, but there were a few who were known to be Tories, and it would not do to express his thoughts too freely before them.

"Go on, Zeke," said a friend at his elbow. "There's what?"

"When I get you fellows all by yourselves I will explain things to you," said Zeke, after holding a short consultation with a young man who stood close beside him. "There are too many Britishers here."

"Yes; and they ought to be shot down as those redcoats were at Lexington," said another.

Any one who had been there could easily have picked out the Tories by the expression of their faces. They were amazed by the news. British soldiers whipped by a mob! They would have been glad to deny it if they could, but there were too many stalwart sailors standing around whose opinions differed from their own, and they thought it would be the part of wisdom to keep their thoughts to themselves. They turned toward their homes, but they had plenty of opportunity to exchange ideas with one another.

The most of those who had listened to the messenger's news also turned away when he got through speaking and walked with their heads on their breasts and their eyes fastened thoughtfully on the ground. Among them was one, Enoch Crosby by name, who seemed to think that the world was coming to an end because the British soldiers had been fired upon; but he did not believe as the Tories did by any means. He was an American; he could not forget that.

Among all the boys of his acquaintance there was no one more loyal to King George than he was. His father had been an officer in the service of the crown before he died, and Enoch believed that a monarch who had been selected to reign over a country, was placed there by divine right. The people had nothing to do with it except to hold themselves in readiness to obey his orders. He had English blood in his veins, and, although he felt the soil of America under his feet, he had been, almost ever since he could remember, a good and loyal subject of Great Britain, and hoped some day to serve King George with his sword. To have all this thing wiped out in a day by a fight, was rather more than the boy could live up under.

But he was an American. It came upon him with a force sometimes that almost took his breath away. He could still be loyal to his sovereign and ready to smite hip and thigh any one who said anything against him, but his sailor's love of fair play would not let him stand by and see his neighbors imposed upon.

Enoch had been watching this thing for two years and all the while he felt the ropes of tyranny growing tighter. Ever since General Gage had taken up his quarters in Boston he had been growing more and more severe in his treatment of the patriots. The Stamp Act, the Boston Massacre, The Tea Party, and the conduct of his soldiers in destroying the ice on which the boys were accustomed to spend their half holidays -- all these were galling to Enoch, and he hoped that the time would soon come when something would induce the King to do differently. But when Christopher Snyder was killed by Richardson for looking on at a mob who were engaged in throwing clods and stones at him, and Governor Hutchinson refused to sign Richardson's death warrant, it opened the eyes of Enoch and he began to see things in a plainer light. The man was put into prison, but at the end of two years was pardoned out by the King. Enoch found that it was necessary to fight in order to secure his rights, and it cost him a long and severe struggle to come to that conclusion. He was thinking about these things as he walked slowly homeward and went into the house. His mother, with snowy hair and steel-bowed spectacles, raised her eyes from her knitting, and one glance was enough to show her that something had gone wrong with Enoch.

If there was anybody on earth Enoch loved it was his mother. All her surroundings bore evidence to that fact. Enoch was a sailor -- he had made a good many trips along the coast in little trading vessels -- but when he was at home he was not idle. His mother had enough from the earnings of her husband to support her in as good a style as she cared to live; the raiment of herself and son was neat and comely, but that did not prevent her from sticking close to the New England maxim: "Those who do not work should not eat." She had plainly brought Enoch up with the same ideas, for when he was ashore he was always at work at something.

Mrs. Crosby did not go out to listen to the news the messenger had to bring, but Enoch went, and the face he brought back with him excited his mother's alarm at once. Like her son she had been waiting for this day, but she little dreamed that it would come so soon.

"What is it, boy?" she asked, dropping her knitting into her lap. "That man's horse seems to be near tired out. Has he come far?"

"He came from out west somewhere," said Enoch, dropping into the nearest chair. "But I don't know whether he came from Lexington or not."

"What should be going on at Lexington?" asked Mrs. Crosby; although something told her that the news the messenger brought was worse than any she had heard yet.

"They have had a fight out there," said Enoch, resting his head on his hands. "King George can make up his mind to one thing, and that is, he had better keep his men at home. The provincials whipped them because they destroyed property that did not belong to them."

"And they did have a fight sure enough?" said his mother.

"They had such a fight as they used to have with the Indians. They killed almost three hundred of them."

Mrs. Crosby settled back in her chair and looked at Enoch without speaking.


Chapter II.

Enoch's Home.


"Enoch," said his mother, rising from her chair after a moment's pause and leading the way toward the kitchen, "breakfast is ready and waiting. While you are eating it I shall be pleased to hear something more about this fight. It looks to me now as though we had got to do battle with the King."

"That is the way it looks to me, too," said the boy.

The Crosby house would have been an object worth seeing if it had stood in this century. It was a double house built of logs, the places where they met being chinked with clay and the roof was thatched with long grass or rye straw. The windows consisted of small lead frames set with diamond plates of glass hung so that they opened inward instead of outward. As the building stood facing the south the "sun shone squarely in at noon," and gave warning that the dinner hour was approaching.

There were two rooms in which Mrs. Crosby took delight -- her "best room" and her kitchen. The best room was used only on state occasions, that is, when the minister came to see them or some old-time friends dropped in for an hour or two. The andirons were of brass and shone so brightly that one could see his face in them, and in summer time the fireplace was always kept garnished with asparagus and hollyhocks. On the rude mantelpiece stood the high candlesticks made of the same material, and close beside them lay the tray and the snuffers. Here also was the library, small, it is true, for reading in those days was undertaken for improvement and not for pleasure. Books were scarce and cost money; but among them could be found the family Bible, Watts' Poems, Young's Night Thoughts, and Milton's Paradise Lost.

The best room for the family was in the kitchen, and that was where Enoch always liked to be. Sometimes in winter when he did not have to go to sea he read one of the well-thumbed volumes by the aid of a tallow dip. The blaze in the fireplace was always piled high, but even this was but little if any shelter from the cold. The places where the chinking did not fit were numerous, and the way the cold wind poured into the room made the words of an old writer perfectly apparent: "While one side of the inmate was toasting the other was freezing." To make matters still worse "the smoke escaping into the room by no means favored study or any other employment requiring the use of the eyes."

When Enoch followed his mother into the kitchen he saw there a well-filled table which had often made him hungry when he did not want anything to eat; but it had little effect upon him now. There was hot salt pork, vegetables, and bannocks,[3] which were all their simple tastes required. In the place of tea they had milk; for those one hundred and forty men had long ago thrown the tea overboard in Boston harbor, and all that Mrs. Crosby had left was some tied up in a paper and stowed away in one of her bureau drawers. Before they seated themselves at the table they took their stand behind their chairs with bowed and reverent heads, while his mother offered up thanks to the Giver of all good for the provisions set before them. This was a plan always followed in Enoch's home. When his mother was away, at a quilting bee or sitting up with a sick person, Enoch never forgot the custom, but offered up prayers himself.

[Footnote 3: Bannocks are something like the present "hoecakes" of the South -- merely flat cakes of Indian meal or rye, wet with water and baked over the hot coals on the hearth.]

"Now, boy, I should like to hear something about that fight," said Mrs. Crosby, seating herself in her chair. "Have we got to fight the King, sure enough?"

"The things indicate that fact," said Enoch, helping his mother to a piece of the pork and to a potato which had been baked in the ashes on the hearth. "King George has not acted right with us anyway. When young Snyder was killed in Boston because he happened to be near a mob who were throwing stones at Richardson, the King went and pardoned out Richardson, who had been put into prison for it, after he had been there for two years. That does not look as though he felt very kindly toward us, does it?"

"And then the tea," said his mother, who came as near being angry as she could whenever she thought of that. Like all old ladies she loved the "cup which cheers but does not inebriate," and she could not bear to have it taken away from her. "The King ought not to have taxed us for that."

"He might if he would allow us to be represented in Parliament," said Enoch, "but he would not do it. If we have got to be taxed to help carry on the government of Great Britain, we want some men of our own over there to see about it."

"Now tell me about the fight. You said we killed almost three hundred of them."

"Why, mother, you say 'we' as though you were there and helped shoot at those redcoats," said Enoch.

"Of course I do, my son. If your father were here now, he would have taken that old flint-lock down and had it put in running order before this time," said his mother, pointing to the weapon which occupied its usual position over the fireplace. "We are Americans, and whenever we are shot at, we must shoot in return."

Enoch was delighted to hear his mother talk in this way. It showed that she was not loyal enough to King George to fight against her own countrymen at any rate. The boy began and told the history of the fight as he had heard it from the messenger, and, as he talked and told how the minute-men had concealed themselves behind every rock and tree that they came to, his mother's eyes sparkled, and she said that she almost wished that she had been a man and lived in Lexington so that she could have been there too.

"I really wish I had been there," said Enoch, glancing affectionately at the old flint-lock as he said this. "Of course I could not shoot with those who hunt squirrels every day, but I could have made a noise. And to talk about those British soldiers being invulnerable! I tell you they could not stand before the minute-men."

"And to think that we should be called 'rebels,'" said his mother, who could scarcely restrain herself.

"But I say we are not rebels," said Enoch emphatically. "The people in Boston told the King just what they wanted to do, and he turned around and made them do something else. There was not any more loyal paper gotten up than they sent to him."

A long talk on such matters as these occupied them while they were at breakfast, and just as Enoch arose there came a sound like the rattling of a stick between the pickets of the front fence. The boys had not learned to whistle in those days to let a comrade know that there was some one outside waiting for him. Whistling is easier, but the boys made each other known in spite of it.

"That is Caleb Young," said Enoch. "I know him by the way he rattles his stick. I hope we shall hear something more about that fight."

Enoch put on his hat and went out, and there he saw Caleb, dressed after the fashion of a seafaring man as he was himself, leaning on the gate and whistling softly to himself.

"Have you got anything more to tell about it?" said Enoch, coming up to him.

"No more than what the courier has already told," said Caleb. "But say! there is something in the wind."

"I gained an idea from something Zeke said that he was thinking of something else," said Enoch, sinking his voice to a whisper because Caleb did the same. "He would not tell us what it was because there were too many Tories near."

"No, but he was thinking and talking about it since, and he has made up his mind that we are going to do something to equal that battle of Lexington in some way," said Caleb. "He has been talking to that Joseph Wheaton, and he has been advising Zeke what to do. He says it is not right for those Boston people to take all the hard knocks while we get none of them."

"That is what I say. If we are going to hang, we will all hang together."

"But we are not going to hang -- none of us," said Caleb, striking the nearest picket with his closed hand. "There are three vessels in the harbor --  -- "

"Yes; and I am going to keep away from them," said Enoch, pushing himself away from the fence. "You don't make a pirate out of me. I have made my living honestly and I intend to keep on doing it."

"That is me," said Caleb. "I have worked for every cent I have and I am not ashamed to let everybody know it; but if we can capture that vessel we will show the Boston people that they are not alone in this business."

"What vessel do you mean?"

"I mean the Margaretta. She is here as convoy for those two sloops that are loading with lumber, and she is in the service of the crown. If we can get her we will have the sloops easy enough."

"Why, Caleb, that would be piracy," said Enoch, fairly aghast at the proposition. "The Margaretta has not done anything to us."

"Of course she has not, but she is in the service of the King. Those men who went out to destroy those stores were in the service of the King, too; but they got neatly whipped for their pains. Zeke and Joseph Wheaton would not have proposed that plan if they did not think we would make something by it. You ought to have heard mother talk to me while we were at breakfast. She said that if father was alive now he would have taken his old flint-lock down and shot every Tory he could find."

"I guess I know about what your mother said, for mine talked to me in the same way," said Enoch, with a laugh. "Are you one of those who are going to capture that schooner?"

"I am! I am one of the fifteen men and boys who have agreed to be on hand when they hear a cheer sounded. That is going to be our rallying cry, and we must all go to where we hear it. What are you going to do? You are not a Tory."

"Don't you call me that," said Enoch, opening the gate and coming out to meet his friend. "When that cheer is sounded you will see me on hand. When do you propose to take the schooner?"

"Why as to that we have not had a chance to talk it over," said Caleb. "Zeke only spoke of it just a little while ago to see how many men we could raise; and to-night -- here come two of those Tories now," continued Caleb, pushing his hat on the back of his head and shoving up his sleeves. "Now let us see what they have got to say about that fight at Lexington. I do not wish them any harm, but I would like to know that they had been there and I kneeling a little way off with my father's flint-lock in my hand."

"Then you would not have heard anything about that fight," said Enoch, with a laugh. Caleb was noted for his sharp shooting, and if he had got a bead on one of those fellows it would have been all over with him. "I will bet you I would have shot pretty close to him," Caleb added.

"Now don't you go to picking a fuss with them," said Enoch in a lower tone, "because I will not have it."

"Oh, I will pick no fuss with them at all," said Caleb, turning his back to the approaching boys and resting his elbow on the fence. "But they must not say anything against the minute-men. If they do somebody will get licked."

The two boys came nearer, and presently drew up beside the fence beside which Enoch and Caleb stood. They did not expect any greeting, for that happened long ago to have gone out of style between the Tories and the Provincials. Whenever they met on the street they looked straight ahead as if there was nobody there. They did not want to speak to each other for the chances were that there would be a game of fisticuffs before they got through with it.

These boys were evidently better off in the world than Enoch and his friend. They wore cocked hats, neat velvet coats, knee-breeches, silk stockings, and low shoes with huge silver buckles. But their queues were what they prided themselves upon. They were neatly combed and hung down upon their coat collars. The arms of their coats were "slashed" in several places to show the fine quality of their underwear. If they had been boys in our day we should have been obliged to introduce them with cigarettes in their hands.

These sprucely dressed young fellows were Tories of the worst description, but they followed in the footsteps of their fathers. One was a "passive" Tory and the other was an "aggressive" Tory. How these two men differed in opinion and actions shall be told further on.


Chapter III.

Zeke Lewis.


Have you ever met a New England man whom your grandparents used to regard as the very personification of all that was utterly worthless so far as the labor with his hands was concerned? We do not mean by saying this that Zeke Lewis was lazy -- the old folks had a milder term for it. He was always at work at something, but he was shiftless. Nothing that he could do appeared to get him ahead any. Work always looked for him; he never looked for work. If anybody wanted a pair of shoes mended Zeke was always the man looked for. He was generally to be found at the tavern (Zeke did not drink any, we'll say that much for him), or loafing around the corner grocery, and he was always "lying on his oars," that is, ready to pull in any direction in which work was to be found. Zeke would work early and late upon those shoes until he got them done, and he carried his money straight to his wife, who had the faculty of making a shilling go farther than he would. If a vessel was ready to sail, either up or down the coast or on a fishing trip, Zeke always got the first berth. He could do more work in less time and with less trouble than any two men you could find. And he was brave, too. No one ever saw Zeke refuse to go where duty called him.

He was just such a man as you would expect to see after this description of his way of doing business. He was tall, and so round-shouldered that he did not look as though he had any chest at all; he was strong; so strong that when he got hold of a rope everybody knew he was there. There were two things about him that were noticeable -- his smiling, good-natured face and his queue, which was always freshly combed and looked as though it had come from the hands of a dresser. But then his wife always attended to that. She took it down and combed it every day.

Zeke was always in straits where money was concerned. No matter how hard he worked or how little money he spent upon himself he never could make both ends meet. One night he came home after a hard day's work in the hay-field. He found his wife sitting in the kitchen engaged in knitting, but she made no efforts at all to get supper for her husband. Zeke thought she looked a little paler than usual, but then he was used to that. The patient little woman never had a word of fault to find with him. She believed that Zeke was doing his best, and with that she was satisfied.

"Sick?" asked Zeke.

"No, I am not ill," answered his wife. "I feel as well as usual."

"Something is the matter with you and I know it," said Zeke. "I guess I will have to go to work and get my own supper. I am hungry."

"You will not find a crust of bread in the house," said his wife.

"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Zeke.

"I have looked the house over and I cannot find anything. You ate the last this morning."

"Bussin' on it!" gasped Zeke, backing toward the nearest chair. "And you did not have any?"

"I thought you were at work in the field and would need it more than I. So I let you take it all."

"Whew!" whistled Zeke. "And I thought there was not more than enough to keep a hen from starving when I ate it. Mr. Howard owes me five shillings, but I don't like to ask him for it."

"Are you working for that man? Then you will never get your money."

"What for won't I?"

"Because he will cheat you out of it just as he has cheated everybody else who has worked for him."

"Eh? Do you see these arms?" asked Zeke, getting upon his feet and stretching himself so that his wife could see on all sides of him. "I have not often slung these arms about loose and reckless since I went to school to old Parson Stebbins, and then I slung them at Jeems Howard because I thought he had tried to take my knickerbockers[4] away from me. He has not forgotten that, I am proud to say. My wages will come due on Saturday night and I shall get every cent that is coming to me. But you must have something to eat. Bussin' on it! Why did you not tell me?"

[Footnote 4: Marbles.]

Zeke went out into his woodshed where he kept his shoemaker's tools and began to gather them up in his arms. A pang shot through him while he did so, for he could not help thinking what he was going to do if somebody came to him with shoes to mend while the tools were gone.

"It can't be helped," said he, with a long-drawn sigh. "She took me for better or worst when she married me, and she has had the worst all the time. I will go and see Jeems Howard about them, and see what he will give me until next Saturday. He is the only one around here that I know of who has got any money."

As soon as he had gathered up all his tools Zeke went out of the back door, for he did not want his wife to see him; but there were others that saw him as he walked along the street, and every one wanted to know where he was going to mend shoes. For in those days the cobblers always came to a person's house and did their work there. Zeke always gave some good-natured reply, for no one ever expected anything else of him, and in a few minutes he had walked through Mr. Howard's yard and come up to the back steps.

"I want to see if you will lend me five shillings on these tools until Saturday night," said he, when he had brought the man for whom he was at work to the door. "We want something to eat at our house."

If the man had possessed the semblance of a heart he would have pulled out some money and given it to Zeke; but all was fish that came to his net, and he forthwith began to haggle with him in order to get them as cheap as possible. Zeke wanted more for them than he could afford to give, and he concluded that two and a half shillings were all he could pay. He insisted so strongly upon it that Zeke was about to close with his offer, when a new actor appeared upon the scene. It was Jeremiah O'Brien, of whom we shall have something more to say as our story progresses. Something told him that Zeke was in trouble, and he opened the gate and went in. Like all the rest of the patriots he had but little love for men of Howard's opinion, and he was not anyway backward about beginning his business.

"Zeke, what are you doing with your tools here?" he asked.

"I want to sell them until next Saturday night," returned Zeke.

"How much are you going to get for them?"

"I want five shillings, but Jeems allows that he can't give more than two and a half."

"They are worth two pounds if they are worth anything," said O'Brien emphatically.

"I know they are. Just see that knife. It is sharp --  -- "

"Pick up your tools and come with me," interrupted O'Brien.

"Where are you going?"

"Pick up your tools and come with me," insisted O'Brien. "I don't want to tell you twice."

Zeke smiled, drew himself up to his full height and looked at O'Brien. The latter returned his gaze with interest and Zeke finally thought better of it, gathered up his tools from the step where had placed them and followed him out to the gate.

"Look here," said O'Brien, when they reached the street. "The next time you want to sell your tools that you make a living with, I want you to come to me. Don't go to that old Tory, who is bound to cheat you out of everything you have. You say your wife has not had anything to eat?"

"Not a smell," said Zeke looking down at the ground. "She gave me all she had for breakfast and never has had a bite all day."

"Well, lay your tools down here," said O'Brien, when they came to Zeke's house. "They can stay there until you come back."

"Bussin' on it!" exclaimed Zeke. "What are you going to do?"

"We will go up to the grocery and get some provisions. I am going to send out a vessel next week and you can pay me then."

This made everything all right in Zeke's estimation. He wanted credit, but he little knew how he could get it unless he was regularly employed in some business that would pay him in the end. Of course, when he was at sea on one of Mr. O'Brien's vessels, his wife could go to the store and get anything she pleased; but Zeke knew it was not so while he was working for James Howard. The old Tory was a cheat, and nobody except Zeke or some other fellow who happened to be "hard up" would work for him. He accompanied O'Brien to the grocery store and got everything he wanted. When he came back into his wife's presence he looked more like himself.

This little episode will give the reader a pretty good idea of the kind of life Zeke Lewis led at Machias. Nothing bothered him. His wife being out of provisions was the nearest thing that came to throwing him off his balance; and when the goods obtained in this way were gone, why, then he would go to work at something and earn some more.

We have said that nothing bothered Zeke Lewis. That was what all the people about Machias said, and they had known him for a long time. A man who would not wake up from his shiftless habits and go to work at something in order to support his wife, who depended on him for everything, was not of much use in the world; but on this particular morning, after listening to the story of the battle of Lexington, Zeke began to take a little interest in matters. In fact the people had never seen him so worked up before. He held a short but earnest consultation with Joseph Wheaton, attended eagerly to what the man had to say, and then walked away with his head up, his fingers moving convulsively, and now and then he lifted his hands and brought them together with a loud slap.

"What's the matter with you, Zeke?" asked one of his companions who walked by his side.

"Are there any Tories around here?" exclaimed Zeke, casting his eye behind him. "Then I guess I can speak out here as well as anywhere. I say we ought to go to work and do something to equal those fellows in Boston."

"But there are no troops here," said his companion. "These Tories will not come out so that we can shoot them down as they did at Concord."

"No matter for that. They have got some property here, and we can capture it as well as not."

"I am in for that. Where is it?"

"You know that the Margaretta is here to protect two sloops that are loading up with lumber for the crown. What is the reason we cannot capture her?"

"It would be all right if we could do it; but suppose we should fail? Have you forgotten what the penalty for piracy is?"

"No, I have not forgotten it, and furthermore, I know that we are not going to fail. I will make one of half a dozen men that will capture her to-night. Where are the rest of you?" he continued, glancing around at the men who had come up, one by one, to listen to what he had to say. "Are you all Tories? If you are not, say you will join in."

"She lies some little distance from the wharf," said one of his auditors.

"Are there not plenty of boats that we could get to take us out to her?" asked Zeke. "Some of you are afraid of being killed. That is what is the matter with you."

"If the others are afraid of being shot at I am not," said Mr. O'Brien. "What are your plans, Zeke? But first let us go somewhere so that we can talk without being overheard."

It put a different look on the matter when Mr. O'Brien began to inquire into Zeke's scheme. If he was not afraid to undertake it the rest were not. They crowded up around Zeke to hear what he had to propose.


Chapter IV.

Zeke's Proposition.


"But first I want to see if there are any Tories around here," said Zeke, stopping in his walk and coming back to gaze fixedly into the face of every man who was following him. "We don't want to talk too loud for fear that everything we say will go straight to the ears of that schooner's crew. If there is any man here who can't be trusted let him say so and go back where he belongs."

There were probably a dozen men and boys in the crowd, and every one of them wore a white face as he looked at it; but it was an expression of "defiance and not of fear." Every one of them believed in capturing the schooner, but every one, too, if we may except Zeke and O'Brien and perhaps Joseph Wheaton, who was the first man to conceive of the thing, could not help thinking what their fate would be if they failed. The act they were about to perform was piracy, and they could not make anything else out of it. To board and capture a schooner which had come into their harbor on a friendly mission was something the law did not bear them out in.

"I guess we are all true blue," said Zeke, as he pushed a man out of his way and planted himself fairly in the middle of the group, "and I guess we can talk here as well as anywhere else, if we talk low. We want to keep the Tories from knowing or suspecting anything about it."

"Do you want to seize the schooner?" asked Mr. O'Brien.

"Exactly," said Zeke.

"And you are going to take her out from under that flag whether the crew is willing or not?"

"Certainly. That cross of St. George does not stay above her after we get her into our hands."

"And what will we do if they resist us?"

"Then they just make up their minds that they are going to keep company with those fellows at Lexington."

"Hear, hear!" shouted one of the auditors.

"Silence!" whispered Zeke in a low tone. "Don't say anything to arouse the suspicions of the Tories. We want to get this thing done before they know a thing about it. We will send them to keep company with the three hundred and more who fought our fellows at Lexington," continued Zeke, turning to O'Brien, "and those of us who have guns will get them; and the rest will gather up clubs, pitchforks and anything else that we can make a good fight with. If we can once get a footing on her deck, she is ours."

"Some of the officers will be coming off to church to-morrow," said Mr. O'Brien.

"That is just what I was thinking of, but I had not time to get that far," said Zeke. "We can just go in after them and seize them in their seats, and then go back and finish those fellows left on the vessel."

"I don't believe in any killing," said one.

"You don't!" exclaimed Zeke turning fiercely upon him.

"No, sir, I don't. Piracy is bad enough, but when it comes to killing folks that were put there by the king to look out for their vessel, I say I don't believe in it."

"Then you have no business here in this crowd," said Zeke, taking off his hat and dashing it to the ground. A moment afterward he stepped forward and seized the man by both wrists. He did not attempt to throw him down, but he crossed his hands on his chest and held him there as if he had been in a vise. "And you don't want to hear what our plans are either. Get away from here."

"Hold on," said the man, who was but an infant in Zeke's grasp. "Let me get through with what I was going to say. I don't believe in killing folks that are standing up for their rights, but if we are too many for them, why, then they will give up."

"Well, that is a little more sensible," said Zeke, releasing his hold upon the man. "If they give up that is all we want. I did not mean to hurt you, Zeb, but you don't want to talk that way in this crowd. Old Zeke has got his dander riz now, and any one who does not want to do as I say in this matter can just get right out."

"But what will we do with the schooner after we get her?" said Mr. O'Brien, who wanted to know just how the thing was coming out before he went into it.

"We will make a man-of-war out of her," said Zeke. "We will capture those two sloops now loading up with lumber the first thing we do; then we will go to sea and capture every one who floats the cross of St. George at her peak."

"Hear, hear!" shouted that enthusiastic auditor again.

"I like your pluck, Jacob, because I know you will stand up to the rack when the time comes; but I would a little rather you would keep still now. All you fellows who want to go with me to capture that schooner step over this way."

Zeke walked away half a dozen paces, and when he turned about he found the entire group at his heels.

"I knew we were all true blue," said Zeke, striking his palms together.

"I do not believe in killing men who are standing up for their rights," said Zeb, who stepped over as promptly as the others did. "We must get up a crowd that is bigger than theirs, and then she will give up to us."

"I believe in that, too," assented Zeke. "Now, as we have not got any fife or drum to call us together, let every one who hears a cheer sounded to-morrow come a-running to the wharf where that schooner lies, and bring along everybody that you think will aid in capturing her; but mind you, don't say a word to any of the Tories. Bring with you everything that you can put your hands on that will do to knock a man down with. We will have some small boats there ready to take us aboard of her, and when the schooner is our own, we will see what we will do next. That is about all we want to decide on to-day."

"I declare, who would have thought there was so much in Zeke?" said one, as he stood looking after him as he moved down the road. O'Brien and Wheaton went with him, and they were talking earnestly about something.

"I tell you I thought there was a good deal in him when he grabbed me by the arms," said Zeb, who had not yet got through rubbing the place where Zeke's sinewy hands had clasped. "I felt as if I had let a forty-foot barn fall on me. If he deals with the schooner's crew as he dealt with me, they are ours, sure enough."

"And to think that that man would let his wife starve," said another. "He has got something in him. It may be that young fellow they call Wheaton is at the bottom of it."

Caleb Young was there during the talk, and he was satisfied that war was coming. He was well acquainted with most of the officers and crew composing the company of the schooner, and he knew that they would never surrender their vessel without making a desperate resistance. She was armed, she had small arms aboard, and her crew were sufficiently trained to stand by their captain.

As for the men who had talked so bravely about capturing her -- they had no captain. Everything thus far was going along as Zeke had planned it; but when it come to a clash of arms, Caleb wanted somebody on hand who knew what he was about to take command of him. He was bound to go for he had been one of the first to follow Zeke when he stepped off a few paces; but he really wished he knew who was going to order the thing when he stood before the schooner's company.

"If I am going into this thing Enoch Crosby has got to go too," said he as he bent his steps toward his friend's house. "He is a good boy, and I know he will fight if the worst comes. I want to know what he thinks about this piracy business."

When Caleb had almost reached Enoch's house he began looking around for a stick with which to attract the boy's attention by rattling between the pickets. After a short search he found one, and Enoch was prompt to answer the summons. They had but fairly got started on the subject of seizing the schooner when the two young Tories, which were the objects of especial hatred to them, came in sight. They would rather have seen almost any one else than James Howard and Emerson Miller. The sober look on the latter's face showed that they were not much elated, and the reason was because they did not like to believe that British regulars had been whipped by minute-men. Young Howard, who was always the first to speak wherever he might be, opened the conversation.

"Well, what do you fellows think of that fight?" said he.

"We came out on purpose to hear you express an opinion," said Enoch. "What do you think of it?"

"I can tell you that in short order," said James. "Every one of those men who had guns in their hands at Lexington are going to be hung."

"You will catch them first, will you not?"

"Oh, that is easy enough," said Emerson. "When the regulars get to running around with ropes in their hands and calling for the men who were engaged in that massacre, everybody will be willing to tell on his neighbor. If Caleb was in the fight you would say, 'Here's one of them.'"

"Don't you wish you were there?" asked James, with a grin.

"Yes, I do," said Caleb, promptly. "But I would have been on the side of the minute-men."

"That may be a Britisher's way of doing business, to tell on all those who were in the fight, but it is not our way," said Enoch, quietly. "This thing has gone too far to admit of hanging. You will need an army to take them."

"Well, have we not got one, I would like to know?" asked James. "There will be more men here in a little while, and then you fellows will want to keep dark. What were those fellows talking about that were gathered on the corner so long? We wanted to go over there but did not dare."

"It is just as well that you did not go over," said Caleb. "You would not have heard anything anyway."

"We heard somebody howling 'Hear, hear!' at the top of his voice," said Emerson. "I guess we would have heard something from him."

"No, we would not," said James. "Don't you know that they do not talk when Tories are around? They are afraid we will tell of them."

"And it is a mighty fine reputation for you to have," said Enoch, in disgust. "If I could not keep still in regard to what my neighbors do, I would go out and hang myself."

"Oh, you will hang easy enough," said James, with a laugh. "Don't you worry about that. I will be one of the first to grab the rope and pull you up."

Just how it happened Enoch could not have told to save his life. The place whereon James was standing became suddenly vacant and the spot where his face was occupied by his heels. He fell like a tree struck by a whirlwind, and his head came in violent contact with the ground. He lay there for a second or two as if he did not have his wits about him, and Caleb stood over him ready to receive him when he got up. Seeing no move on his part, he turned to face Emerson.

"Let us hear one word out of your head and I will put you down, too," said he.

"Go away," said Emerson, tremblingly. "I have not done anything to you, and I want you to let me alone. There is a magistrate in this town --  -- "

"Go on," said Caleb. "You can get to the magistrate as soon as you please and tell him for me --  -- "

By this time Enoch began to recover himself. He unlatched the gate, and seizing Caleb around the waist fairly lifted him from the ground and carried him inside. Then he shut the gate and looked over at Emerson.

"You had better go on your way," said he. "Pick up your comrade and go about your business."

"But I would like first to hear him say that he would like to haul Enoch up with a rope," said Caleb, trying hard to get on his feet. "I will knock him down as often as he can say it."

These words Caleb was obliged to shout over his shoulder, for Enoch, still retaining his hold upon him, was carrying him along the walk toward the entrance of the kitchen. He pushed him into the house, and then closed the door behind him.

Having seen his enemy disposed of Emerson bent over James Howard to see if he was still alive. To his joy the prostrate boy opened his eyes and stared about him in a vacant manner.

"That cowardly provincial is gone now," said Emerson. "Enoch took him into the house with him."

"I never will put up with such a blow from a boy who is down on the king," said James, sitting up on the ground. "The young rebel strikes an awful whack, does he not? We will go and see the magistrate about it at once. I am all dirt, I suppose?"

"No, but your queue is full of it," said Emerson, brushing it off as well as he could. "I wish we dared lick him."

"So do I, but we can't touch him now. Wait until those reinforcements come up here that father was talking about last night, and I will have revenge for all that boy's actions. Help me up. Now we will go and see father about it the first thing we do. These rebels are coming to a high pitch when they can strike a gentleman for something he has said."

The young Tories had started out for a walk but they did not take it. They turned about and went back the same way they came, and in a few minutes drew up at Mr. Howard's gate. The old gentleman was at home, sitting in his easy-chair, but he was not taking life pleasantly. There was a scowl on his forehead, for he was thinking about the battle of Lexington. There was one thing about it he said to his wife: Those rebels had got to be whipped into submission, or he and his family must go back to England. How he wished he possessed the power to wipe all those who were in rebellion from the face of the earth! Would not he make a scattering among them before the sun set? While he was thinking about it the boys came up to the gate. If such a thing were possible his son James' face presented a worse appearance than his own. In addition to the scowl which it wore, there was a lump under his eye which now began to grow black. Mr. Howard knew well enough what was the matter.


Chapter V.

A Rebellion In The Court-Room.


"Father, look at my face," said James, who was the first to begin the conversation. "Just look at it."

"Yes, I see it," said the old gentleman, angrily. "You have been having an argument with some of those young rebels and you have got the knock-down end of it. I will wager that Caleb Young and Enoch Crosby know something about it."

"They were both there," said James, seating himself on the steps, "but Caleb was the only one who struck me. Now, father, what am I going to do about it? I can't go around with my face this way."

"Do you mean to say that you gave up to Caleb and that he struck you only once?" exclaimed Mr. Howard. "You would make a pretty fight, you would."

"But, father, you don't know anything about the strength in that fellow's arms," whined James. "I would just as soon have a horse kick me. I want to see the magistrate about this."

"Let us go up there at once," said Mr. Howard, putting on his hat. "We don't want to let the grass grow under our feet until this thing is settled. These young rebels are getting altogether too brash. They want to be shut up for a while. I wish I had them in England. When they were there, they would find themselves among gentlemen, and they could not talk as they pleased."

"Do you believe you can put him under lock and key for hitting me?" said James. He began to be all excitement now. To see Caleb Young put in jail for what he had done would be ample recompense for him.

"I assure you that I am going to try it. How did the argument begin in the first place?"

James hesitated when his father propounded this question. When he came to think the matter over he found that he had given Caleb good reason for knocking him down. He might have to make the complaint under oath when he came before the magistrate, and he concluded that it was best to tell the truth while he was about it.

"I said that all those who were in that massacre would be hung some day," began James.

"Good enough. You told him the truth."

"And I told him that if he were there I would be one of the first to grab the rope and haul him up," continued James. "Caleb or Enoch, I have forgotten which one, replied that if he went and talked that way about his neighbors, he ought to be hanged."

"And he knocked you down for that?" exclaimed Mr. Howard. "You did perfectly right in saying what you did, and if I were magistrate I would shut him up for two or three days at least."

These last words were spoken as they were passing along the streets toward the magistrate's office. There were many people loitering about, for the news of the battle of Lexington had not been thoroughly discussed, and the inhabitants of Machias could not get over it. Every one knew what was the matter with James without any telling. The provincials smiled and nodded their heads in a way that showed young Howard that he was served just right, while the Tories grew angrier than ever, and insisted on hearing all about it. Before reaching the magistrate's office James began to think that he was something of a hero in town, and fully expected to see Caleb shut up for a long time.

When they arrived at their journey's end they found the magistrate there as well as two constables, who were hanging around for a chance to serve some papers which were slowly being made out for them. The magistrate was surprised when he saw such a company of men coming into his office, for be it known that a good many people, both Tories and provincials, had turned about and gone with them. They wanted to see what was going to be done in regard to it.

"Bless us!" he exclaimed, when he saw James' battered face. "What have you been doing?"

"I have not been doing anything," said James, in an injured tone. "A young rebel got mad at me for something I had said and knocked me down."

"Aha! A young rebel!" said the magistrate, the scowl deepening upon his forehead; for he was one of those "aggressive" Tories who believed in making war upon all those people who did not hold to his own opinions. "Do you want to make out a complaint against him? I will fine him a pound at least. These rebels have got to be kept within bounds. I will make out the papers right away. Here are two constables ready to serve them," he added, speaking in a low tone to Mr. Howard. "You had better have two go with them, for there are some rebels around here and maybe they will stand by to protect him."

The magistrate made a great flourish and prepared to go on with his warrant, while James and his father took time to look about upon the crowd that had followed them in. There were more rebels than Tories in the party, and that was easy enough to be seen. Some of the former exchanged a few words in whispered consultation and then went out, but the Tories stood their ground.

"There!" said the magistrate, who at last turned about with the completed document in his hand. "Kelly, take this, go up to Young's house and arrest Caleb in the name of the king. I need not add that if he does not come you will call upon any man present to help you."

"I don't know as I had better go up there alone," whispered the constable. "The rebels are out in full force."

"Then take Nolton with you. You surely do not need two constables to arrest a boy! Take notice of the way he acts and I will fine him for that, too."

The constables went out reluctantly, for they were about to undertake something which the magistrate himself would have shrunk from if he had been in their place. After thinking a moment Mr. Howard drew nearer to the judge.

"You spoke of fining that boy just now," said he. "What is there to hinder you from shutting him up for three or four days? If the rebels are to be held within bounds, I don't know of a better way of doing than that."

"That is what I think," whispered the magistrate. "But you can't do that for assault and battery. If you could prove that he tried to kill James, why then --  -- "

"How do we know that he did not try to kill him?" asked Mr. Howard. "He knocked him down and there he let him lie."

"Well, we will see about it when he comes. I will shut him up if I can."

Meanwhile the two constables had gone on toward Caleb Young's house, where they found his mother, who was overcome with alarm when they told her that they had come for the purpose of arresting her son. Caleb was not at home, she said; she had not seen him since that man brought the news of the battle of Lexington. She guessed he was down at Crosby's house; but what did they want to arrest him for? The constables gave her no satisfaction on this point, but came out and hurried toward Enoch's. They entered without ceremony[5] and found Caleb seated at the table with his friend enjoying breakfast. He had left home before breakfast was ready.

[Footnote 5: The constables were not in the habit of knocking at a private house. They heralded their approach by the command: "Open in the name of the King!" and then went in and did their business.]

"Ah! Here you are," said Kelly. "Come on. We want you."

It was just what Caleb expected. The boys had been obliged to tell Mrs. Crosby that they had a skirmish with James Howard in front of the house, because she knew it all along. The tussle that Enoch made in getting Caleb into the house had told her that there was something unusual going on, and she was anxious to know all about it.

"I am ready," said Caleb, "at any time you are."

"Caleb, you did not kill him?" exclaimed Mrs. Crosby.

"Oh no," replied Caleb, with a laugh. "I told you that I just knocked him down. It will teach him better than to talk of hauling honest boys up with a rope."

Enoch had sat there talking with Caleb while the latter was eating his breakfast, and had never thought of saying a word; but when he saw his friend rise to his feet and pick up his hat, he took it as a signal that it was high time he was doing something. He jumped up and ran out of the house bareheaded and hurried off to find Zeke Lewis. He burst open the door without waiting to knock, and caught Zeke in the act of picking his teeth after enjoying a comfortable breakfast.

"Say, Zeke, the Tories have come to arrest Caleb!" said he, so impatient to tell what he knew that he could scarcely speak the words plainly.

"Do tell!" exclaimed Zeke. "What has he been a-doing of?"

"He knocked down James Howard," said Enoch.

"Serves him right. He has been saying something that he had no business to say. What did he get out this time."

Enoch repeated the conversation that his friend had with James, and Zeke all the time nodded his head as if he knew all about it. When Enoch had finished Zeke wanted to know how he could assist him.

"They are going to fine him for hitting that cowardly Tory, and Caleb has not got any money," said he. "He will have to go to jail, and I will wager that that is where James wants him to be."

"He ain't got no money, ain't he? Well, I have been that way myself, and we will see what we can do to help him out."

It was strange what an uproar the giving of a warrant for the arrest of Caleb Young made in the village. Those "rebels" who had pushed their way out of the court-room while James was making his complaint had found plenty of friends to tell it to, and by the time they reached the street they saw any number of people, all hastening with eager footsteps toward the magistrate's office. When Zeke and Enoch arrived in front of the store, in the back part of which the judge held his court, they found the apartment jammed and the highway for twenty feet each way was packed full.

"Zeke," said a companion, "you don't get a show here."

"I must," replied Zeke. "I have got to see that fellow out."

"Well, get in if you can and if you want any help, just sing out."

It was a matter of some difficulty for Zeke to work his way through the crowd and up within sight of the magistrate's desk, but his size and weight had a good deal to do with it, and Enoch kept close behind him. When he got near enough to the desk he could hear that the magistrate was talking to the prisoner.

"And so you knocked James down?" was the question he heard.

"Yes, sir, I did," answered Caleb. "He said that --  -- "

"I don't want to hear what he said," interrupted the magistrate. "I want to know what you did. You knocked him down and left him lying there. You did not care whether you killed him or not. I shall have to fine you one pound and costs."

If the magistrate had said that he would fine Caleb one hundred pounds he would have stood just about as much chance of getting it as he did to fine him one pound. Caleb had never seen so much money in his life, and he wondered where in the world it was to come from. Seeing that he hesitated, the magistrate went on.

"If you cannot pay that one pound I shall have to shut you up for twenty days," said he. "You will then pay it at the rate of one shilling a day. I think if more of you rebels were shut up, we should have peace here in the colonies."

Zeke had heard all he wanted to hear. It was enough for him to know that the magistrate wanted to shut up the rebels for a while, and that was more than they had power to do. Working his way further toward the desk he seized Caleb by the arm and pulled him back by his side; after which he placed his arms on his hips and looked at the magistrate as if to ask him what he was going to do about it.

"What do you mean by such work as that?" demanded the judge. "We have two constables here --  -- "

"I don't care if you have a dozen," replied Zeke, and his composure was not in the least ruffled by what had happened. "That boy ain't a-going to be shut up, and, furthermore, he has not money to pay his fine. You know that as well as I do. The only thing you can do, judge, is to let him go."

"Hear, hear!" exclaimed one of Zeke's supporters.

"Keep silence in the court-room," exclaimed the magistrate. "Kelly, you and Norton arrest the first man who interrupts me. Zeke Lewis, I will fine you ten pounds and --  -- "

"You will fine nobody nothing," said Zeke. "Come on, Caleb. Let us go home."

"C-C-Caleb, don't you stir one peg from where you are," stammered the magistrate. "Norton, arrest him if he moves."

He was evidently frightened, for it was all he could do to keep up a steady tone of voice. On looking around he could see no Tories present except the constables. The others had gone out as soon as Zeke made a move, and there was no one left to help him. Zeke showed what he thought of the magistrate's order by pulling Caleb's arm through his own and starting for the door with him. The provincials moved on one side to let him pass, and two or three of them gave him a cheer. The magistrate was utterly confounded. He called upon the constables to do their duty, but none of them moved from his place. A glance into the eyes of the "rebels" standing around was enough to satisfy them that they had better keep their hands off. That was the first rebellion that had ever taken place in Machias.


Chapter VI.

Getting Ready For The Fray.


"Three cheers for Zeke Lewis and Caleb Young!" shouted one of the provincials, when they came out of the door and appeared upon the street.

"No, no, lads," said Zeke, raising his hand as if to stop the demonstration. "We have got him out of being fined or going to jail, but remember that we are not done with it yet. It will not be long before we shall see some British regulars up here to ask us what we mean by it. We have got to fight, and we may as well make up our minds to it first as last."

"Hear, hear!" shouted three or four of those who stood around him. "If the regulars come at us, we'll serve them worse than they did at Lexington. Three cheers for them!"

The cheers were given in spite of what Zeke had said, and some of them persisted in shaking Caleb by the hand. They passed on, and in a few minutes were out of the crowd and started toward home. There were three of them who kept Caleb company to see that he reached the presence of his mother in safety, they were Mr. O'Brien, Joseph Wheaton and Enoch Crosby. They did not have much to say about what had happened in the court-room, but Caleb knew why they went with him. On their way to his house they passed within plain sight of the harbor, and the first thing that attracted their attention was the schooner Margaretta, riding proudly at her anchorage, and flying the flag of England from her peak. Zeke thought this a good time to exhibit his hostility to that flag, which he did by shaking his fist at it.

"If it had not been for Wheaton here, I would not have thought of taking that schooner," said he.

"I had an idea that somebody besides you thought of that," said O'Brien, turning around and shaking Wheaton by the hand. "It did not sound like you in the first place, but, when somebody else proposed it, you went in strong for it. What was the reason you did not propose it yourself, Wheaton?"

"You see I have not lived here long enough to become acquainted with everybody as Zeke has," replied Wheaton. "I lived in New York until a few months ago, and I thought the proposition had better come from an older inhabitant. They might think that I suggested it just to hear myself talk; but it would be different coming from Zeke."

"That is just what he told me," assented Zeke. "And I kept thinking what a fool I was not to think of it long ago. Wheaton, when we get that schooner, you must haul down that flag."

"I will attend to that," said the young man, with a laugh. "If the flag of England is going to wave over us as an emblem of tyranny, we want it pulled down. But the fact of the matter is, we have not got any other flag to be hoisted in the place of it."

"No matter for that," said Mr. O'Brien. "We will have that flag hauled down, and that is all we care for. Now, Caleb, go in and see your mother."

Caleb was not a boy who had been educated, but he knew enough to thank Zeke for what he had done; but Zeke patted him on the back and said that was all right, and pushed him through the gate that led into the yard.

"Remember now, that when you hear the cheer to-morrow you are to come down and help capture that schooner," said he. "And bring every friend you see. We may get her without a fight."

"No, we won't," replied Caleb. "I know the most of those men who belong to her, and I know that they will stand by their captain. We shall not have as many men when we get back as we have when we first go aboard that schooner."

"I know them, too," said Zeke, raising his left hand and slapping the other with it with a report like that of a pistol. "But I would stick a pitchfork into my own brother if he were there and should resist me. We are bound to have that schooner."

All were encouraged to hear Zeke talk in this way and Caleb said he "hoped so" and went in to see his mother; while Enoch, who had left the table bareheaded, started homeward on a rapid run. He did not find his mother as excited as she ought to have been. She was sitting in her easy-chair with her knitting before her, and looked at Enoch's flushed face when he came in as calmly as though he had been to the store for some groceries.

"Well," she said, and her voice was as steady as usual, "you have had an exciting scene there in the court-room."

"What do you know about it?" asked Enoch in surprise.

"I just judged by your face," replied his mother. "How did Caleb get the fine that the judge imposed upon him?"

"That old Tory did not get it," exclaimed the boy. "I tell you we have got up a rebellion now, and we may have some soldiers to settle with before we get through with it. It beats anything I ever heard of."

Enoch then went on and told his mother as nearly as he could what had happened there in the court-room. His mother's eyes flashed and she laid down her knitting. He even told her about the plans that had been laid for seizing the schooner, but did not neglect to caution her not to say a word about it where the Tories could overhear it.

"I have agreed to go too, mother," he added.

"Well," she replied, glancing up at the old flint-lock over the fireplace, "that rifle will have to be cleaned up. And you will need some bullets, too. Remember that when your father drew on an Indian after he came out of the service, he was always sure to bring him."

"And if I pull on a redcoat with that gun I don't believe he will do any more shooting at our side of the house," said Enoch, getting up in a chair and taking the musket down. "It is awful heavy, is it not?"

"Yes, and that's the kind it needs to bring an enemy down every time you get a sight at him. Clean it up bright for the least little speck of rust in it will throw your ball where you don't want it to go. I hope the Britishers will give up before you have a chance to shoot at them."

"But if they don't -- then what?"

"You must shoot to hit. Bear in mind that you had an uncle in that fight at Lexington, and we don't know whether he was killed or not. He did not miss, either. Every time he pulled on a redcoat he could tell right where he hit him."

"Of course I can't shoot with him; but, as Caleb said, I can make a noise. I can handle the halyards of a sail better than I can handle this thing."

The cleaning of the gun occupied Enoch for the next hour, and finally he got it so that the water came through clean and bright without a particle of rust in it. He had been outside the kitchen door engaged in his occupation, and when he came in to tell his mother what he had done, he found her in front of the fireplace running bullets.

"Mother, you have no business to do that," he exclaimed.

"I want to get all the balls solid, for if you run them in haste you will see little holes in them," she replied. "The bullets thus formed always go wild, and you cannot do good shooting with them. Now, Enoch, have you got some powder? That you have in the horn has been there for a long time, and I fear that it has lost its strength. You had better go down to the store and lay in a new supply."

Enoch thought that his mother would have felt a little happier if she had been a man, so that she could have taken part in seizing the schooner. He wished that that cheer would sound out now, so that he could go into danger with his comrades and see Wheaton haul that flag down; but he checked himself with the thought that that cheer was not to sound until to-morrow. He wanted to show something else that he had done, so he continued:

"I have picked the flint so that it will strike fire every time. Just see how it works."

He cocked the flint-lock several times and pulled the trigger, and each time little sparks of fire shot down into the chamber. The gun was all right. It only remained for him to hold it true so that the bullets would reach their mark.

"That is right, my lad," said his mother, approvingly. "Before we get through we will show the redcoats that they are making war upon their brothers. Send one shot, Enoch, to pay them for taxing that tea."

Enoch accepted some money to pay for the powder he was to buy at the store, and when he reached the street he saw Caleb coming along as if somebody had sent for him. His face, whenever he met Enoch, was always wrinkled up with smiles, and it proved on this occasion to be the news of what Enoch had already passed through -- the getting ready for the assault upon the Margaretta.

"I went out to clean the gun and when I came back my mother was running bullets," said Caleb; and he rubbed his hands together as if he could hardly wait for the cheer to sound. "She thinks that some of us are going to get hurt."

"I guess I have been through the same thing," said Enoch. "I'll wager that if mother were in my place she would not sleep at all to-night. She told me to give them one shot and think of the tea they have taxed against her. Hallo! Here comes Zeke. He walks as though he was in a hurry."

"Bussin' on it!" exclaimed Zeke, when he came up. "I would like to know what the magistrate and Jeems Howard has been aboard that boat for. You see, we were watching that boat to find out whether or not she was going to stay at anchorage until to-morrow, and that's the way we happened to see them."

"Let them go," said Enoch. "They have probably been telling the captain about our rebellion there in the court-room."

"Well, he can't do anything," said Zeke. "If he turns his guns loose on the town --  -- "

"He can't do that," said Caleb. "War has not been declared yet."

"There is no telling what these Britishers will do when once they get their dander up. But I was just saying, suppose he did turn them loose; we have got two four-pounders that we could bring to bear on the schooner, and make her drop down away from there. But I hope that he won't get away before morning. If he does, I shall be sorry that we did not attack her to-night."

"Where are you going in such a hurry, anyway?" asked Enoch.

"I am going down to see Wheaton about it. If you hear that cheer sounded to-night you will be on hand, won't you?"

The boys said emphatically that they would, and then Caleb went on to tell him what they had done to get ready for the assault, not forgetting to give all the praise to their mothers.

"That's right," said Zeke. "If all the boys were as plucky as their mothers we would have easy times of it. I haven't got any gun to take; but I have a pitchfork handy, and you will see some red dust on it before this thing is over."

"Oh, I hope they won't fight," said Enoch. "We will get a bigger crowd than they can show --  -- "

"I don't care how big our crowd is, we are going to have a fight," interrupted Caleb. "I will wager that you will see some mourning in Machias before the sun gets where he is now."

Zeke walked off laughing as if that was a story rather hard to believe, and the boys kept on their way to the grocery store. They found Emerson Miller there, but he was not so talkative as he was a little while ago. The boys did not like the way the storekeeper acted. He was leaning over the counter talking to Emerson, but when the two entered he straightened up and moved back to the rear end of the store.

"I guess you have got some powder, haven't you?" said Enoch. "Well, if you have, I want a pound of it."

"I would like to know what all you fellows are getting powder for," said the man. "Do you expect the Britishers up here to-night?"

"I don't know about that," said Enoch. "But we intend to be all ready for them when they do come. We will serve them as badly as they were served at Lexington."

"You will, eh?" said the grocery keeper, turning fiercely upon the boys. "What would you do if the Margaretta should cut loose on us and burn the town?"

"We would whip her, that's all," replied Caleb. "She can't do it. She must wait until war is declared before she can do that."

"I don't know whether I will give you any powder or not," said the man. "You boys act almost too independent."

"Just as you please, sir," retorted Enoch, while Caleb was angry in an instant. "If you don't want to sell us any powder, you can say so."

"I will give you some this time, but if you come in here any more you don't want to be quite so bold in regard to what you would do and what you would not," replied the man; but Enoch rightly concluded that this was not his reason. If he refused to give him what he called for, how long would it be before all the provincials in the village would hear of it and come there to see him about it? And if Zeke came he was sure that he would not escape without a whipping. He went and got the powder, while the two boys stood looking at each other in amazement. When the article was done up Enoch paid for it and the two left the store.


Chapter VII

The Bucket Of Yeast.


"Say," whispered Caleb, as soon as they were out of hearing of the store, "that Ledyard Barrow is a Tory."

"That is just what I have been thinking myself," replied Enoch, who was so surprised that he hardly knew what he said. "We have got to be awful careful about this thing or it will get out on us in spite of all we can do. I did not say anything wrong while I was talking to him, did I?"

"No, indeed, you did not. The first thing you know we will have Tories all around us, and the next thing will be for that vessel to trip her anchor and go farther off down the bay. Say, Enoch, I shall have to borrow a little of that powder of you until I can have -- "

"You may have it," interrupted Enoch. "There is more here than I want. But to think that we have unearthed another Tory. That is what gets to me."

"It looks to me as though every neighbor was going to have to fight the man who lives next to him," said Caleb, taking off his hat and scratching his head furiously.

"Well, I would rather they would make themselves known so that we may know just what we have to expect. I wish Zeke would happen along here just now. I would like to know what he thinks about it."

But Zeke had business to attend to where he was, and the boys did not get a chance to speak to him that night. When they came to Caleb's house, Enoch turned in with him to give him what he thought he should want of the powder, and found Caleb's mother engaged in knitting with her Bible open on her knee before her. The boys looked for success in the size of their crowd to enable them to overcome the schooner's crew, while Mrs. Young, like Enoch's mother, looked for it to a source from which it was sure to come if she asked for it in the right spirit. Enoch hastily took off his hat when he entered the house. The presence of that open Book upon her lap called for all the reverence he was capable of.

"Well, Enoch, are you one of the few who have agreed to take the Margaretta?" said Mrs. Young, greeting him with a smile. "I hope you have got your gun cleaned up, for Caleb thinks there is bound to be a fight."

"I don't think so mother," answered Caleb. "I know so. Machias is all right now, that is, there is not any mourning here, but you will see some when we get that schooner."

"When it does come we shall have the satisfying knowledge that we tried to do our duty," said Enoch.

"You forget that there is a penalty for piracy," said Mrs. Young.

"No, I don't," said Enoch, promptly. "They will have to capture every provincial in town before they can begin hanging us. When they try that, you will see a fuss here in Machias."

"That is right, my boy," said the mother, reaching up with the endeavor to pat Enoch on the head. "If you undertake this thing, I hope you will come out safely."

Caleb had by this time produced his powder-horn, and Enoch proceeded to give him half the quantity he had purchased. When he had filled it half full Caleb put in the stopper and slapped the horn into his open palm, giving Enoch a mysterious wink as he did so. Enoch had no trouble at all in interpreting that wink. By it Caleb said that when he was face to face with the schooner's crew he would get at least one shot, if he did not get any more; and Enoch knew what he meant by that. He was almost sure of the redcoat he pulled on, and there would be one less for them to encounter when the order was given to board her and clear her deck.

"But, Caleb, we don't know who our captain is," said Enoch, giving utterance to the thought that had been uppermost in his mind ever since the capture of the schooner was proposed.

"I don't care for that," said Caleb. "When we get to work everybody will be captain. We all want the schooner, and the one that does the most is the best man."

Enoch was obliged to be satisfied with this, and as there was nothing further to detain him he made his best bow and went out. The boys now had nothing to do but various little jobs around the house until the sun rose the next morning. Enoch did carpenter work, fitting some chinking into the walls where the winter's cold came in during severe weather, and Caleb cut some wood and brought it into the house for fear that to-morrow night he might not be there to attend to it.

"There is nobody except me that knows we are going to have a fight before we can claim that schooner," said he, as he paused with his ax raised in the air and glanced toward the place where the Margaretta was lying at her anchorage. "Because we have always been friendly with those boys it is no reason why they will not fight us when they see us coming. I know what I should do if I was there."

With this thought Caleb drove the ax into the log with all his force as if he felt that there was some enemy in there and he wanted to get rid of him, and then his mother called him to supper. He looked up and saw that it was getting dark. He put his ax away in the woodshed and went into the house, and when he was through with his meal his mother said to him -- 

"Caleb, I wish you would take that little tin bucket from the third nail behind the door in the buttery and go over to Mrs. Crosby's, and ask her if she can spare me some yeast for to-night. I want to bake some bread early on Monday morning, and I should thank her for a little."

Caleb at once put on his hat, took the bucket from the third nail in the pantry, bid his mother good-by, and went out. What a difference there was between him and the boys who flourish in our time! Boys in our day would say "yes, ma'am," and loaf around and wait until they got a good ready to start; but to Caleb, his mother's command had to be obeyed right away. He struck up a whistle when he went out, one of those old-fashioned songs that boys do not know in our day, telling himself in the meantime that it was about as dark as he ever saw it. But Caleb knew the way, and he went on his road without a misstep. He arrived at Mrs. Crosby's house, made known his errand and came away again, not forgetting to exchange ideas with his friend Enoch about the cheer that was to sound on the morrow.

"I have not heard anything like a cheer since I have been out of the house," said Caleb. "If I had heard it, you would not have seen me here. The fun will begin to-morrow when we follow them into the church. I hope we shall not do anything wrong by arresting them in their seats."

"Mother has not said a word about it, so I guess it is all right," said Enoch. "It will show them that we are in earnest."

Caleb struck up another whistle and went on his way, and he had almost reached his home when something startling occurred to him. A man suddenly appeared before him and barred his way. Caleb stopped and waited for him to make known his object, but seeing that the man did not speak, he turned out to go by him when the man suddenly reached out his arm and brought him to another standstill.

"Don't be in too big a hurry, my lad," said he, and it shot through Caleb's mind on the instant that he must be a seafaring man, for the tone of his voice indicated it.

"You don't know where Caleb Young lives about here, do you?"

"Well, if I do, that is my own business," replied Caleb, once more making an effort to leave the man behind. "Why don't you go to some house and inquire?"

"Because I think you are the man we want to see," was the reply. "Come on, boys. Keep still now, or it will be worse for you."

In an instant three other men appeared as if they had risen from the ground, and Caleb became aware that he was in the hands of the Tories. It was too dark to see whether or not the men were armed, but something that stuck out by their sides made him think that each of them had a cutlass strapped to him.

"Look here," said he, backing off a pace or two. "Do you mean to arrest me?"

"We will tell you about that when we get you aboard the vessel," said the man who stood in front of him. "You rebels -- Head him off, lads. Knock him down."

The words "rebels" seemed to quicken Caleb's ideas. He saw it all now. He was to be arrested and taken on board the Margaretta and be taken off somewhere so that the magistrate could collect the fine he had imposed upon him. To think with him was to go to work. As quick as thought he ducked his head, not forgetting to throw his bucket loaded with yeast full into the face of the officer, for such Caleb took him to be, and dodging the grasp the man made at him he ran furiously toward his own gate. But he had to deal with men who were as cunning as he was. A fourth man, who stood a little distance behind the officer, clasped him in his strong arms before he had made a dozen steps and threw him to the ground.

"Help!" shouted Caleb, with all the power of his lungs.

"Stop that noise; quick!" exclaimed the officer. "Choke him down."

Caleb did not have time to say all he meant to say when he lifted up his voice in shouting for help, for at that moment the man who had thrown him down changed his grasp from his arms to his throat, and the boy was rendered powerless. It was but the work of a few seconds to tie his hands, and scarcely more to jerk him to his feet and start him down the road toward the harbor. Caleb went because he could not help himself. Two Tories followed close behind him. Each one had hold of his collar, which was drawn so tight that he could not utter a sound. A boat that was drawn up on the beach was ready waiting for them, and Caleb was thrown into it and dragged aft until he was brought up by the stern-sheets. The man whom he took to be an officer turned out to be one sure enough, for he took his seat beside Caleb and went on brushing his coat with his handkerchief to wipe off the yeast.

"I will get even with you, my lad, before we get to New York to pay you for throwing that stuff at me," said he, with something that sounded like an oath. "What was it, you rebel?"

"It is something that won't hurt you any," replied the prisoner, striving to get his throat in order so that he could speak plainly.

"What was it, I ask you!" said the officer, kicking Caleb with his foot. "Do you hear?"

"It is nothing but yeast," said Caleb. "I hope it will raise you up so that it will put a little sense into your head."

It was evident that the rough treatment to which he had been subjected had not taken all the pluck out of Caleb Young. The officer was astonished and gave him three or four kicks in the ribs to show that he did not admire such talk; but the position in which he lay, together with the narrow limits of the boat, rendered the kicks comparatively harmless.

"Shove off," commanded the officer. "Give-away strong and let us get rid of this rebel as soon as we can."

In a few minutes the boat was alongside the schooner, where they found Captain Moore and the other officers waiting for them. A lantern held over the side showed them that the officer had not come back empty-handed.

"You got him, did you?" said the captain, and his voice sounded very unlike the polite tones in which he was accustomed to greet the villagers who came there to see him. He did not live in Machias, but he had been there so often that he was pretty well known to all the towns-people.

"Yes, sir, I have got him," said the officer, touching his hat. "And the rebel threw a bucket of yeast on me when I took him."

"Well, you will pay him for that when we get him to New York," said the captain. "Hoist him up here."

This was the worst part of the treatment to which Caleb had thus far been subjected since his capture. Two of the boat's crew seized him, one at the head and the other at the feet, trying to take him by the clothes but not being particular if they caught up flesh with them, and raised him over their heads, from which position he was received by two more aboard the schooner, who hauled him over the rail and deposited him on the deck as if he had been a log of wood.

"You have got his hands tied, have you not?" said the captain. "Well, release them, and bo'son bring up a set of bracelets and put them on him."

"Do you treat all your prisoners this way, captain?" asked Caleb.

"We treat all rebels this way," was the answer. "The next time you do anything to bring you a fine, be sure you can pay it."

"But, captain -- " began Caleb.

"That's enough," said the captain, fiercely. "I know what you have done and so do you. If you talk any more to me I will put a gag in your mouth."

Caleb did not know what a "gag" was, but he came to the conclusion that it was something to add to his punishment, and so he did not say anything more.


Chapter VIII.

Under Way.


The boatswain speedily returned with the "bracelets" which he had been sent to bring, and by that time some of the crew had untied his hands. They proved to be irons, one for his wrists and another for his feet. In less time than it takes to tell it the irons had been put on and now Caleb was a prisoner, sure enough.

"Now, then, take him down and put him in the brig,"[6] said the captain. "See to it that he does not get anything to eat or a drop of water to drink to pay him for insulting his Majesty's officer by throwing a bucket of yeast at him."

[Footnote 6: The brig is a small, dark apartment on board a vessel in which culprits are confined.]

Captain Moore acted as if he were mad about something, and for fear of the "gag" with which he had been threatened Caleb was unable to say a word to him. The boatswain took him by the arm and hurried him forward. The prisoner was pushed rather than led down the gangway to the brig, which was ready to receive him. He saw that the grated door was open, and when he came opposite to it he was shoved headlong into the dark, not knowing where he was going to bring up. But the brig was not deep enough to permit him to fall. By putting his manacled hands in front of him he brought up against the bulkhead with stunning force, and for a moment he stood there not knowing where he was or what to do.

"There, you rebel," said the boatswain, "I guess you will stay there."

The door was closed and locked behind him, and then Caleb turned about. There was a lantern outside which threw its beams into the brig, and by their aid Caleb was enabled to take a view of his prison. It was about six feet square, large enough to hold all the members of the schooner's company who were liable to be put there for various misdemeanors, and there was not a thing in the way of furniture in it -- no stool to sit down on and no bed to sleep on. Caleb drew a contrast between that room and his plainly furnished little apartment at home and drew a long-drawn sigh.

"Yes, I guess I will stay here," said he, as he seated himself opposite the door so that he could see all that was going on on deck. "Am I a rebel because Zeke Lewis would not let that magistrate fine me? The magistrate did not care what James said, he wanted to know what I did; and if that is justice I don't want to see any more of it. And I must go to New York. And what is going to become of mother in the meantime? I tell you, I hope that the boys' attempt on this schooner to-morrow will be successful. How I can pass the night waiting for them I don't know."

The first thing that attracted Caleb's attention was that his irons were too tight. They pinched him in every way that he could place them, and he first tried to get them off; but his hands were too big. He did not think he could live that way until he got to New York, and he appealed to the first sailor that came along to take the irons off and replace them with some others; but the sailor smiled grimly and shook his head.

"You threw some yeast at the officer, did you not?" said he.

"He tried to take me while I was minding my own business," said Caleb. "You would have done the same thing if you had been in my place."

"Well, you had better let the irons alone. They don't pinch half as hard as the rope will when you get it around your neck."

Here the sailor turned his head on one side and made a motion with his right hand as if he were pulling something up with it.

"I will not be hanged for that, I tell you," said Caleb. "If the officer wanted me, why did he not come up to the house and arrest me?"

"You have insulted one of his Majesty's officers by throwing that stuff on him, and you don't get anything to eat for a day," said the sailor as he turned away. "You will be hungry before you get your next meal."

"Then I have nothing left for it but to go to sleep," said the prisoner to himself. "That is, if I can go to sleep. If I was master of a vessel I would not treat a captive in this way."

That was a long night to Caleb, but he picked out as comfortable a position as he could on the brig's floor and fell asleep while thinking of his mother and Enoch Crosby. He was as certain as he wanted to be that Enoch and Zeke would turn the village up side-down to find what had become of him, and when they had made up their minds that he was on board the schooner, they would not rest easy until they had rescued him. He was aroused by the changing of watches, and then he did not know anything more until the boatswain called all hands in the morning. He straightened up and took his position opposite the door where he could see the crew as they passed to and fro engaged in their duties of the ship. He knew when the decks were washed down, and when they went to breakfast. There was a mess chest standing on the deck right where he could see it, and the Tories took no little delight in biting off their hard-tack and eating their corned beef before him. But Caleb knew that there was no breakfast waiting for him, although he was as hungry as he ever had been.

After breakfast the decks were swept down, and then an order was passed which Caleb could not understand; but he soon became aware that the crew were getting ready to go ashore. It was Sunday, and of course the men dressed in white on that day. Pretty soon an officer passed, and he was got up with all the gold lace that the law allows, but he paid no attention to the prisoner. Presently a boat was called away, and then another, and Caleb could hear the men scrambling down the side in order to get into them, and he knew that the crew had left barely enough men on board to look out for the safety of the vessel. What a time that would be for the men on shore to capture her! While he was thinking about it a sailor came up alongside the grating which formed the door, and after looking all around to make sure that no one was watching him, he put his hand into his bosom and slipped a small package in to the prisoner.

"There you are," said he. "Eat your fill."

The sailor moved away as quickly as he had come, and Caleb was not long in taking care of the bundle. He took it back out of sight, so that if any one chanced to look in to see what the prisoner was doing, he would not have seen him eating the contents of the package. For there was a good breakfast in there, and how the man had managed to steal it was something that Caleb could not understand.

"I wish I had taken a good look at him," said Caleb, with his mouth full of hard-tack and meat. "I believe that when the attack is made, and it will not be long now, I can do him a favor. He is not a Tory. He belongs on our side easy enough."

Caleb did not want as much to eat as he thought he did, for he stopped every few minutes to listen. But he did not hear any sound to indicate that an attack had been made on the schooner's crew, nor any cheer to tell him that all was ready. An hour passed -- such an hour as that was, Caleb hoped he should never live over again -- and then hoarse commands were heard on the deck and then a commotion arose which was greater, if possible, than when the boats were called away. The prisoner arose hastily to his feet and pressed his face close to the grating to see if he could discover anything that created such a hubbub; but he could not see anything. But the men were all on deck, and pretty soon he heard the dropping of hand-spikes and the dash of ropes above him as if the crew were getting ready to train a gun upon the town.

"Bussin' on it!" whispered Caleb, who was so excited by what he heard that he repeated Zeke's favorite expression before he knew what he was doing. "It has come. The boys have made the attack and I shall soon be free. There are two persons I want to remember; one is the boatswain who threw me into this brig, and the other is the man who gave me my breakfast. It is coming sure enough."

After the men had got their gun trained, for Caleb was certain that was what they were doing, there was silence for a few minutes, and then he heard the splash of oars in the water. He heard Captain Moore's voice pitched in a loud key, and then he was sure that all of the crew who had gone off in the boats came aboard. That was something for which he could not account. If the attack was made it had failed, and the crew were on the lookout.

"Now, it is mighty strange how those men came aboard," said Caleb, to himself. "And what was the reason they did not arrest them there in the church?"

If Caleb had been in the habit of using strong language he would have used it now, but he did nothing but stand there and wait. The men had taken the alarm, there could be no doubt about that, for presently he heard the vessel moving a little as if springs had been got out to her cables, and she was being moored broadside to the town.

"I wonder if they are going to fire on the village?" said Caleb in great alarm. "If she does, I wonder what will become of my mother? Why can I not escape?"

He seized the grating with both hands and exerted all his strength upon it, but, although he could make the gate rattle, the locks still held firmly in their place. Fifteen minutes passed in this way, and then he heard a roar over his head as if heaven and earth were coming together. Another followed it, and the prisoner, firmly believing that the schooner had opened on the town, for the purpose of setting it on fire, left the grating and seated himself once more in the further end of the brig. The firing continued -- how long Caleb did not know; but he realized that he was shutting his ears to all sound of the guns.

"This thing has commenced war with me at any rate," said he, to himself, "and if I ever get free and have a gun in my hands that I can use, I will kill a person for every person in Machias that has been struck by their shells."

Finally the firing ceased, and a sound was heard like a man's steps coming down the companion ladder. When he came nearer Caleb saw that it was the man who had given him his breakfast.

"Say," said he, in a low tone. "How many of them did you kill?"

The man looked around to make sure that there was no one in sight and then replied -- 

"None of them. We just fired a shot or two over the town to show them that we are on guard. Have you got some relatives there?" he added, noticing that Caleb drew a long breath of relief.

"I should say so. My mother is out there."

The prisoner was about to ask him what was the reason the attack on the schooner had failed, but he happened to think that by so doing he would let out some things that Zeke had cautioned him particularly to guard against; and another thing was, the sailor passed on about his business. He did not have time to exchange another word with him.

"It is lucky that I did not have time to ask him about the attack on the schooner," said Caleb, once more returning to his seat. "He is not a Tory, but I don't know that he is friendly enough to us to keep still about it. Now I want to know what is the reason I did not hear that cheer."

Caleb did not have more than two minutes to turn this matter over in his mind, when some more sailors were heard coming down the ladder. They proved to be the watch who had been granted shore liberty that day, and their business was to change their holiday clothes for their working suits. They worked as if they were in a hurry, paying no attention at all to the prisoner, and as fast as they put on their working clothes they ran on deck. Some more hoarse orders greeted them, and this time they were followed by the creaking of halyards and the singing of men, which told Caleb that they were getting the ship under way. In a few minutes the rattling of the windlass joined in, and by listening intently Caleb heard a man ordered to the wheel. This was as much as he cared to know. He covered his face with his hands and for a moment groaned aloud. He was off for New York, he would be put in jail there for not paying his fine and there was no telling what treatment he would receive after he got there. And his mother too, who was wondering all this time what had become of him! He did not know what to think about her. Enoch and Zeke would have to look out for her, for the chances were that he would never come back. While he was thinking about it, a sailor passed by so close to the grating that Caleb put out his hand and stopped him.

"Are we going to New York now?" he asked.

At this moment an officer, who had stood a little back out of his sight, stepped into view. It was the boatswain -- the very man of all others of whom he had learned to stand in fear.

"Look here, you rebel," said he, shaking his brawny fist so close to the grating that Caleb instinctively drew back. "If I hear another word out of you I will start you in a way that will make you open your eyes."

The prisoner released his hold on the door and retreated to the opposite end of his cell. He knew what the boatswain meant by saying that he would "start" him. If he had taken pains to cast his eye about the schooner's deck when he was brought below, he would have seen the dreaded "cat" suspended from the main-mast. Its thongs were all knotted to render the blows more severe, and they were covered with blood. The "cat" had evidently been used upon somebody's bare back, and Caleb did not want to bring it into further use. The only thing he could do was to keep still and let time show him what was coming.


Chapter IX.

The "Aggressive" Tory.


To say that the magistrate was intensely surprised by the rebellion that had taken place in his office, would be putting it very mildly. He was completely taken aback, so much so, that, when he saw the coat tails of the last provincial disappearing through the door, he settled back in his chair, let his hands fall helplessly by his side, and looked at Mr. Howard with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets. Mr. Howard was equally astonished. He looked around for a chair and sank into it.

"This beats me," were the first words that he uttered.

"It is a -- a -- revolution," said the magistrate, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his face with it. "The spirit that animated those fellows at Lexington has got up here, has it not? Nolton, you are not worth your salt. Why did you not arrest Zeke when he started to move away with that boy?"

"You told me to do my duty," said the constable, "and I thought it my duty to remain quiet in my place. I wish you had been in my shoes. If I had touched that man I would not have known what hurt me."

"If I was a constable and sent here to preserve order, I would have arrested that man in spite of everything the provincials could do to stop me," exclaimed the magistrate, doubling up his huge fist and pounding the desk with it. "It is all owing to you that this rebellion, or whatever you call it, has got to such a pass. Now what are we going to do? Must we stand by and let those rebels run things to suit themselves?"

"By no means," said Mr. Howard hastily. "There must be some place in the colonies where our men are strong enough to collect that fine of Caleb. What is the use of the Margaretta here?"

"Do you want to send Caleb off to New York?" whispered the magistrate, bending toward Mr. Howard, while his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "I never once thought of that."

"I mean just that and nothing else," said Mr. Howard, in the same cautious tone. "I would like to see those men get up a rebellion in the face of Captain Moore. He would blow the town out of sight."

"I don't know whether I want him to try that or not," said the magistrate, doubtfully. "I have a house up here and I don't want him to put any shells through that."

"It would be very easy for him to send his shells wherever he wanted them to go. I believe in going down and calling upon him right away. You may rest assured that you will not do any more court business while this thing is hanging over you. Besides, the Governor may hear of it and put another man in your place."

"Let us go down and see him the first thing we do," said the magistrate, getting upon his feet. "You men stay here until we come back," he added, turning to the constables. "We may have more work for you."

"Well, you just wager that you can do it yourself," said Kelly mentally, as he helped himself to a chair. "I am not going around where Zeke is any more."

Kelly looked toward Nolton as these thoughts passed through his mind, and from something he saw there he made up his mind that he was not alone in deciding this way. It was very easy for the magistrate to send men into danger, but he took good care to keep out of it himself.

The magistrate put on his hat and led the way toward the door, and Mr. Howard and the two boys followed close at his heels. They stopped when they got to the door and held a consultation as to whether or not they should let the boys go with them, but after a little talk they decided that James should go on board the schooner to show the captain the lump on his eye, which grew bigger and blacker all the while, and Emerson, who saw the assault, should be a witness to it.

"I want to let the captain see that I fined him one pound and costs for a reason," said the magistrate. "Then he will think that I was doing my duty."

They found a boat at the wharf just preparing to go off to the schooner, and the parties all got down into it. The sailors looked at James with surprise and something very like a grin overspread their faces; but they were too well-trained to ask any news. They found Captain Moore in his quarters, and he had his coat off and was lying at his ease on a lounge reading a book. He got up and looked his astonishment when he shook James by the hand.

"A rebel did that," said the boy.

"What makes you call him a rebel?" asked the captain. "Has that affair of Lexington got up here?"

"Yes, sir," said the magistrate. "And thereby hangs a tale as long as your arm. I fined Caleb Young for striking James, but the rebels got around him and took him home."

"And did he not pay his fine at all?" said the captain in surprise.

"No, sir. One rebel told me that the boy had no money to pay his fine, and I should not be allowed to shut him up either, so the only thing I could do was to let him go. The spirit of rebellion is bigger than one would think for."

"Well, I should think it was," said the captain, angrily. "When they begin to interfere with a magistrate for the work he does on his bench, it is time they were being hanged, the last one of them. What did you do then?"

The magistrate began his story at once and told it through without interruption. At last he came to the point which brought him there. He wanted Caleb arrested, taken on board the schooner, and carried to New York and given to some power that could enforce the law. And Captain Moore was the only man they knew who could help them in the matter.

"Do you want my men to arrest him?" asked the captain.

"Yes; and you will have to be pretty quiet while you are about it. Don't let him shout for help or anything else, for, if you do, you will have the village on you before you can think twice."

"Well, things have come to a pretty pass," said Captain Moore, rising to his feet and walking up and down the narrow limits of his quarters. "Do you know that you have given me something hard to do? If I can catch him outside the house all would be well; but suppose I should have to go in after him? Then what will happen?"

"You will have to take your chances on that," said Mr. Howard, who was more in favor of his scheme than he was before. The captain seemed willing to undertake it, and he determined that he should undertake it if he could bring any arguments to make him think that way.

"It all rests with you," said the magistrate. "I have tried to enforce the law and could not do it, and now I leave it to yourself to determine whether or not you have any authority in the matter."

"I don't suppose I have, if you really come down to it," said the captain, gazing thoughtfully at the floor. "But I shall depend a good deal upon those magistrates in New York. They are not very lenient with any one who tries to get up a rebellion here in the colonies, and the news of that battle at Lexington will urge them to be severe on all who try it. I will do it, but you must keep still about it until after I get away."

"You may depend upon us for keeping still about it," said Mr. Howard. "I want that boy fined, and I shall not spoil the thing by saying a word to anybody. At what time do you think the sloops will get loaded up?"

"I shall be ready to start on Tuesday. If I can once get him on board my vessel I will risk anybody's getting him away."

"I knew I would some day get even with that fellow," said James, as he arose to his feet and put on his hat. "I think he will learn that a gentleman has a right to say what he pleases without being knocked down by some rebel."

"I guess he will too, James," said the captain, laying his hand confidentially on the boy's shoulder. "Let me get my hands on him once and I will teach him a lesson."

Captain Moore put on his coat and accompanied them to the deck, and in obedience to his order the cutter was called away for them. The captain watched them until they had gotten ashore, and then intimated to his first lieutenant (he is called the executive officer in our day) that he had something of importance to say to him in his cabin. The lieutenant went, and was thrown into as great a rage as the captain had been when he heard of the rebellion in the magistrate's office.

"Now, Hobson, I want you to capture that fellow to-night," said Captain Moore, in conclusion. "Do you think you can do it?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply. "If those constables are afraid to attend to their business on account of the rebels I am not."

"My advice to you would be that you go ashore and walk twice by that house and see how things are located there. You may have to go in in order to get him. I need not tell you that you have got to be very careful about it. You know the boy when you see him?"

"Oh, yes, sir. And I will take particular pains that he does not call for help, either."

The lieutenant was placed ashore, and walking with his hands behind him, as if he were out for the air and nothing else, he bent his steps toward Caleb Young's home. When he came within sight of it he found Caleb standing in front of the woodshed door, cleaning up the old flint-lock. He was evidently getting ready for another Lexington affair if the British troops came near Machias. At least, that was what the officer thought.

"But you will be safe in jail, paying that fine of yours," soliloquized the first lieutenant, as he walked on his way. "I know now how I am going to work it. As soon as it comes dark I will go to his house and demand admittance in the name of the king, and when I once get my hands on him I will choke him so that he can't holler."

The officer returned on board the schooner in less than an hour, reported what he had seen and the way he was going to get around it. He noticed that his shoes were covered with dust during his walk, and he pulled out his handkerchief and dusted them with it. His brand-new uniform was somewhat dusty, too, and that came in for a share of his attention. He was a good deal of a "dude," this first lieutenant was, and he took pride in looking as neat as if he had just come out of a lady's band-box. He did not think how his uniform would look when he brought it into the presence of the captain all spattered with yeast.

There were some hours of daylight still left, but all the lieutenant had to do was to pick out the men he wanted to accompany him and give them their instructions in regard to arresting Caleb Young. One, to have heard his orders in regard to being quick and still about it, would have thought that Caleb was a big and powerful man, and that it was as much as all of them could do to manage him. But the trouble was the officer was not so much afraid of Caleb as he was of the people who would come to the rescue if he succeeded in giving the alarm.

Supper over the foremast hands enjoyed their hour given to smoking and song, and then the lieutenant came up from below with his side-arms on. This was a signal to his men, who promptly armed themselves, and in a few minutes they were pulling across the narrow bay toward a place where boats did not often land. It was to be a secret expedition all the way through, and when they got back aboard their vessel with their prisoner, they did not want anybody to be the wiser for it.

"Keep as silent as possible," said the officer. "You know Caleb Young better than I do, and if you see him close with him at once. We will give these rebels a lesson that they will remember."

It so happened that the lieutenant drew up behind a tree in front of Caleb's gate just as the boy came out with a pail in his hand to go after the yeast. It was so dark that Caleb could not see anything, and he struck up a whistle and went on all unconscious of the danger that threatened him. As soon as he was out of hearing one of the men whispered -- 

"That's him, sir."

"I know it," replied the lieutenant. "He has gone off on an errand for his mother, but he will soon be back. That's the time we will catch him."

We have already told how desperately Caleb fought for his freedom and how he called lustily for help; but it was rather chilly in the evening, being in the month of May, the people were gathered about the fires in their kitchens with the doors closed, and Caleb's yell did not reach any of them. He knew that he was in the hands of the Tories, but to save his life he could not imagine what he had been captured for. He was choked so violently that he could not utter a sound until he got into the boat, and then he did make out to reply to a question by the officer who was wiping the contents of his bucket off his uniform. In a very few minutes Caleb had been lifted out of the boat to the schooner's deck, the irons had been put on and he was safely in the brig.


Chapter X.

A Visit To The Jail.


For a wonder the evening following the day on which the news of the battle of Lexington was received, was an evening of "do-nothing" with Enoch Crosby. He could not perform any of the odd jobs about the house, he could not read, and under almost any other circumstances he would have regarded the time as wasted. The next day was Sunday, and Enoch and his mother were very much opposed to doing any work of their own on that day; but they remembered the parable of the sheep who fell into a pit on that day, and the owner had pulled him out and carried him home on his shoulder. So they took that parable to themselves, and thought Enoch would not be doing any wrong by attempting to seize the officers of the schooner when they came ashore to attend divine service.

"I tell you, mother, we are already standing on the edge of a much worse pit than the sheep of old fell into," said Enoch. "If the king does not wake up and do something very soon, we are going to see a war here."

His mother did not attempt to deny it. She nodded her head and went on with her knitting, while Enoch got down in front of the fire as close as he could, rested his elbows on his knees, and gazed thoughtfully at the floor. His mother thought he was growing down-hearted, and that would not do for a provincial; so she began and related some adventures of which his father had been the hero after he resigned his commission and came out of the service. Enoch listened intently, and now and then he heard something that made his eyes flash, and he really wished he could have stood beside his father with another flint-lock in his hand.

When Caleb came over after the yeast Enoch detained him as long as he could, but that was not very long, for Caleb was on an errand for his mother. He got the yeast, promised that he would be on hand when that cheer was sounded on the morrow, and went out. Something, we don't know what it was, prevented Enoch from taking up his hat and accompanying Caleb to his home. If he had done so, we should have had two boys in that brig instead of one.

The hands on the old-fashioned clock that stood on the mantle were beginning to come around toward nine o'clock, the hour when all good persons ought to be in bed, when there came a timid knock at the kitchen door. Wondering who could want to see any of his family at that hour Enoch opened it and found Mrs. Young on the threshold. Enoch thought she looked uneasy about something, and without saying a word she stepped into the kitchen and ran her eyes all around it. She was looking for Caleb, but she failed to find him there.

"Has my boy been here to-night?" she asked, in a trembling voice. "I sent him over to borrow some yeast of you --  -- "

"He got the yeast and went home," said Mrs. Crosby. "Have you not seen anything of him?"

"No, I have not," said Mrs. Young, groping for the nearest chair and sinking into it. "He has not been near our house since he came over here."

"Where do you suppose he is?" said Enoch.

"If I knew where he was I should have gone after him," replied Mrs. Young. "He does not generally perform errands in this way."

"No," said Enoch, who grew angry when anything was said against his companion. "He generally does your bidding right up to the handle; and he would have been at your house unless something has happened to him."

"Happened to Caleb!" exclaimed Mrs. Young. "Why -- what --  -- "

"I don't know," replied Enoch. "But you will remember that he did not pay his fine to-day."

The women looked at each other but did not say anything.

"Now it has just occurred to me all on a sudden that that magistrate is going to collect that pound and costs of Caleb in some way," began Enoch.

"And has he arrested him for it?" stammered Mrs. Young.

"I don't know, but I can soon find out," replied Enoch. "I will go down and see Zeke about it."

"Be careful, my son, that you don't fall into the hands of the Tories yourself," said Mrs. Crosby, when she saw Enoch taking down his hat.

"They have not got anything against me," said Enoch, as he opened the door. "I don't know what sort of stories James has told about me, but I know that I took Caleb away from him when he had him down. He can't say anything hard against me for that."

"But you are not a Tory, and that will go against you."

Enoch went out, making no reply, and he left two very uneasy women behind him. They were not frightened, for in those days it took more than a supposition to alarm them. Mrs. Young felt uneasy in regard to Caleb, and Mrs. Crosby felt that Way when she considered that Enoch was going out there in the dark and perhaps would run into the very trap that had been set for his friend.

"I can't help it," said Enoch, as he closed the gate behind him and set off at a rapid run for Zeke's house. "He must be in jail, but I kept my mouth silent in the presence of his mother."

Enoch took to the middle of the street, for he concluded that he would be safer there than on the sidewalk. It was dark, but Enoch knew the way, and presently was standing on Zeke's back steps. It was all dark in the house and that proved that the man he wanted to see had gone to bed; but this was too serious a matter to admit of delay. "With his fist he pounded loudly upon the door, and a voice from the inside immediately asked -- 

"Who is that out there?"

"It is I -- Enoch Crosby," replied the boy. "You'll have to get up and help us again. Caleb is in trouble."

It did not need any second call to bring Zeke out of bed and to his feet. He opened the door, saying as he did so -- 

"That Caleb beats all the boys in the world that I ever heard of. What has he been doing now?"

Enoch replied that he did not know. Caleb had come over to his house to borrow something of his mother, and he had never gone home with it. His mother was at Mrs. Crosby's now looking for him.

"Beyond a doubt he is in jail," said Enoch. "You know he did not pay his fine to-day, and I will bet that that magistrate has arrested him and locked him up."

"Bussin' on it, I believe you are right," said Zeke, hurrying on his clothes. "If he is in jail I wager that he will come out. Come in."

"I guess I had better stay out here. You will have to take a lantern with you, for it is awful dark."

In much less time than it takes to tell it Zeke presented himself at the door arrayed in his usual costume, but he had something else that he did not carry in the daytime. It was a huge club, and he had fashioned it after a style of his own. The club looked too heavy for one man to manage, but Zeke handled it as though it were a walking-cane. In his left hand he carried a lantern which he handed to Enoch.

"You don't think there is going to be a fight, do you?" asked the boy. "If you do I had better go home and get my flint-lock."

"There is no knowing what will happen," returned Zeke, with a peculiar twist of his head. "Suppose he is in jail, and the magistrate has brought up some of them fellows from the Margaretta to act as his guards. I don't know that he has done it, but it is well enough to be on the safe side. Now let us go and see the place where Caleb was arrested. We may be able to find out something from that."

"Now, Zeke, do be careful of yourself," said his wife, who was sitting up in bed.

"You never heard of Zeke being captured yet, did you?" asked Zeke. "Well, you never will."

Enoch, being provided with the lantern, took the lead down the sidewalk toward the place where Caleb had struggled so hard for his freedom. Almost the first thing he saw was the bucket which had contained the yeast. It was thrown up on one side near the fence, and was jammed in the side; but it was empty.

"Here is the place where he was caught," said Zeke, taking the lantern from Enoch's hand and carefully examining all the footprints in the soft earth. "Now, are these constables' tracks or Tories' tracks?"

Enoch did not know. He was all in the dark in more respects than one, and he forbore to express an opinion.

"Now, we will visit the jail," said Zeke, starting off with one of his long strides which compelled Enoch to strike a trot in order to keep up with him. "If he is in there he will come out."

"Where are you going to get some help?" asked Enoch.

"I do not want help. That old Tory knows me, and as soon as he knows my voice he will open that door. Now you mind what I tell you."

In a few minutes they ascended the steps that led to the jail, but all was dark inside. Zeke lifted his club and pounded loudly upon the door. It seemed as if the echoes would arouse everybody within hearing. An answer came from the inside, but it was not such a one that suited Zeke.

"Go away from there!" shouted a voice that was full of rage. "You are not a constable, I know, for they do not make such a noise when they come here. Go away, now, or I will shut you up."

So soon as this answer was received the club fell heavier than before; whereupon there was the creaking of a bed and the sound of bare footsteps on the other side of the door.

"Who's that on the outside there?" came the inquiry this time; and it was not nearly so full of rage as it was before.

"It is me," answered Zeke. "And if you want to see this door stay where it is, you will open it up pretty quick."

"Oh, Zeke, is it you? I'll open the door directly. Why didn't you tell me who you were?"

"Didn't I say he would open the door?" said Zeke, hitting Enoch in the ribs with his elbow. "He knows me."

In process of time the door came open and Zeke and Enoch stepped inside of it. The Tory was frightened, and he grew more so as he glanced at the club which Zeke carried in his hand.

"What do you want here at this time of night?" asked the jailer. "I haven't got but one with me here to-night --  -- "

"Give me your keys," interrupted Zeke.

"Now, Zeke, is not that going pretty far?" asked the Tory, who was really frightened now. "You know I haven't any right to give you my keys --  -- ."

"Give me your keys," said Zeke in a louder tone, at the same time seizing the jailer by the collar with one hand while with the other he raised his club and held it over his head. "This is the last time I shall ask you."

"Of course if you are bound to have the keys there they are," said the jailer, going to his bed and feeling under his pillow. "You will remember that I give them up to you because I had to --  -- "

"That is all right," said Zeke, who had kept close by his side. He threw the pillow off as the jailer felt under it, and there lay two heavy horse pistols, of which he took immediate possession. "I will leave these things on the other side of the way and you can easily get them after we go away," he added, as he pushed the weapons into his pocket. "Now let us see if our man is in here."

"Who are you looking for?" asked the jailer. "There is not but one man in here, and he was put in for being drunk."

Zeke did not delay his search for what the jailer had said. He might be telling him the truth and then again he might not. He found the key which gave entrance into the cell-room, the doors of which were all open with one exception, and that one confined a prisoner. Enoch and Zeke were so surprised that they could not express themselves in fitting language. They looked at each other for a minute or two and then Zeke said:

"Bussin' on it, Caleb is not here."

"Are you speaking of Caleb Young?" asked the jailer. "I have not seen him. I did hear that he would be here to keep company with me to-night because he could not pay his fine which the magistrate imposed upon him, but I have not seen him or the constable either."

"Well, he is gone, if it will do you any good to know it," said Zeke, thoroughly at his wits' end. "And now the next question is, Where is he? I got that boy in a scrape, and I am bound to find him and give him up to his mother before I quit looking for him. Enoch, where is he?"

"Have you got through with your business here?" asked Enoch in reply. "If you have let us go. I will tell you what I think of Caleb's disappearance when we get outside."


Chapter XI.

A Plan That Did Not Work.


"Good riddance to bad rubbish," soliloquized the jailer, as he stood in his door and saw Enoch and Zeke cross the way and place his horse pistols close against the fence. "I kinder reckoned on seeing Caleb here to-night, but I am glad he didn't come. That magistrate has arrested him for not paying his fine, but where is he? Go your way," he added, shaking his fist at Zeke, who was hurrying down the street engaged in an earnest conversation with his young friend. "It won't be long before I will have you here, too."

"Now, Enoch, where is he?" said Zeke, after he had placed the horse pistols where their owner could easily find them. "He is not in jail; we know that for a fact."

"No, but he is shut up all the same," replied Enoch. "If we don't find him to-morrow the next thing we shall hear of him he will be safe in New York."

"Bussin' on it, what do you mean?" inquired Zeke, profoundly astonished. "Who is going to take him to New York?"

"The Margaretta."

"Whoop!" yelled Zeke. "I can't make head nor tail of what you are saying."

"The magistrate and Mr. Howard have gone to work and had him arrested," said Enoch, confidently. "They know he would be rescued if he was put in jail, and so they have taken him aboard that schooner."

Zeke stopped in his walk and held the lantern up and looked searchingly into Enoch's face. He saw nothing there but an expression of pain, and he knew that Enoch was in earnest in all that he said.

"And when they get him to New York are they going to put him in jail until that fine is paid?" asked Zeke.

"I believe that is what they mean to do. I wonder why they don't take him to Boston; but then I suppose the schooner is not going that way."

Zeke lowered his lantern and resumed his walk with his eyes fastened on the ground. Enoch did not interrupt him, for he knew that he was meditating on something.

"Well, then, there is not anything more that we can do to-night," said he. "I believe you have hit the truth on the head. Now you go home and let your mother see that you did not run into any traps while you were gone. I'll go and see Mrs. Young, and tell her that her boy will be all right to-morrow. You will be on hand when you hear that cheer?"

"Yes, and I will be on hand no matter whether I hear it or not. If Caleb goes to New York I am going to go, too. I will be around when you take those men out of their seats in church."

Zeke did not say anything in reply. He was thinking too busily. He raised and lowered his lantern three times in succession, just as a man-of-war does when she meets one of our vessels at sea, and hurried off. Enoch watched him until he saw him go into Mrs. Young's gate, and then turned toward his home.

"It come onto me all of a sudden and so I spoke it out," said he, to himself. "It is the neatest thing I ever heard of. If he had been in jail we would have had him sure, for I never saw Zeke so mad as he was when he held that club over that jailer's head. I wish I could get just one word to Caleb. He would know that folks were suffering here on account of his long absence."

It did not take long for Enoch to explain the situation to his mother when he got home. Mrs. Young had gone away before he came, for she kept thinking that Caleb would get away somehow and that he would come home and find her gone.

"She need not have worried on that score," said Enoch, when his mother explained this to him. "He is in the brig on board that schooner, and he will stay there until we capture the officers to-morrow. Good night, mother, I guess I will go to bed."

This was all an excuse on Enoch's part. He went to bed, but not to sleep. He felt as many an old soldier feels on the night preceding a heavy battle. He knew that he had to take chances of coming out uninjured, and the thought of what those dear to him might say and feel if he should fall, effectually banished sleep from his eyes. Not once did he close his eyes in slumber, but he was up at the first peep of day and engaged in building a fire. It might be the last fire that he would ever set to cook his own breakfast with, but his mother did not see any traces of misgiving on his part. He greeted her with his regular morning kiss, and went about his duties as he always did; but his ears were sharply tuned to catch that cheer which he knew would be sounded before night.

"Now, mother," said Enoch, when nine o'clock was drawing near and the dishes had all been washed and put away, "I guess I will go down to the wharf and see what is going on there. If Caleb is aboard that boat he has got to come off. What would I do if that fellow was in a New York jail? The magistrate fined him that much on purpose. It is more money than Caleb ever saw."

"Be careful, my son, that you don't get into trouble yourself," said his mother.

This was all the parting that took place between them. Enoch went without his gun, for he did not want to attract attention, as he would have done if he had had the piece on his shoulder. More than that, Zeke had not told him to bring anything with him, and he concluded that there would be enough men on hand to arrest all the officers who came ashore to church. Before he had left his home fairly out of sight he found Zeke loafing about on a corner. It was not often that Zeke spent his time in that way. He was generally going ahead as if he had some business to attend to.

"Good morning," said Enoch, as soon as he came within speaking distance. "You see I have not brought my gun with me."

"That's all right," said Zeke. "Are you going to help take those fellows out of the church? All right again. Now I am here, and O'Brien and Wheaton are on the other corners, to stop everybody that is on our side and tell them not to show themselves about the church until after the officers get safely in. Then when you see us three moving up, you can come too."

"Have you heard anything about Caleb?"

"No, sir, not a thing. You hit it right last night the first time trying. He is aboard that boat."

"Now, Zeke, you must capture that boat the first thing you do," said Enoch, earnestly. "I did not go near his house this morning because I did not want to see his mother."

"I have been up there, and she had her book open and was reading it. She seems to find a great deal of comfort in that book. Now you slip around behind some of these houses, but be sure that you keep me in sight. I will tell you when the proper time comes."

"And when that time does come remember that you don't stop for anything. My friend is on board that boat."

Zeke smiled but said nothing. He did not have his club in his hand, but he felt as confident as though he had it. Enoch obeyed orders and sauntered out on a street which led him away from all sight of the church and the Margaretta; but he took care to keep Zeke's figure in sight. He found some other men there, too, who were there with the same object that he was, and one and all knew that Caleb was a prisoner on board the Margaretta. They were highly indignant over it, too, and Enoch told himself that if they acted that way when they made the attack on the vessel, Caleb would not remain a prisoner much longer.

It seemed hard that, after taking so much pains to have their plans work correctly, they should turn out a failure at last. It all happened through the enthusiasm of that man, Zeb Short, who had been taken to task for saying that he did not believe in fighting the schooner's company. Zeb was true blue; there was no doubt about that. But he did not obey the orders he had received and keep out of sight of the church. He sauntered around through the back streets, but he came back to the church as soon as possible, and loafed around there, watching all the people who went in. Nobody had ever seen him go near a church before, and consequently their curiosity was excited. But Zeb paid no attention to that. He was going to capture those officers if it lay within his power to do it, and if it came to a fight, why, he would be there to lend a hand in it.

At last the captain was seen, with his white knee-breeches, velvet coat all covered with gold lace and his queue neatly done up behind. The captain saw Zeb there, and for a moment stopped as if he wanted to speak to him, but he thought better of it and passed on into the church. He was gone but a minute and then looked cautiously out again. Where was Zeb Short? He was some distance up the road going with all the speed he could command toward the place where he had left O'Brien a few minutes before. At the same time three or four other men, whom the captain knew to be provincials, came toward the church from in front, and they were walking as though they had business on hand.

"It has come, and much sooner than I had expected," said the captain. "We have got to get out of here now."

Captain Moore stepped back into the church and closed the door behind him. He looked in vain for the key, but it was not there, so he was obliged to let it go unlocked. He went into the body of the church with a quick step, and bending down he whispered some words to each officer he came to. In an instant the officers arose and followed him. The captain spoke to every man who belonged to his schooner, and when they had all gotten upon their feet, he moved down the aisle toward the preacher's desk. The latter had just gotten up to read a hymn, but he stopped when he saw all those men coming toward him. The captain knew his man, and forthwith stepped up and said some words to him, while an officer who belonged to the schooner kept on ahead and hoisted one of the windows. Then he stepped out lively, and hanging by his hands dropped to the ground. The other members of the schooner's company followed close behind him, the captain coming last, and the minister closed the window after them.

"Here we are, O'Brien," panted Zeb Short, breathing hard after his rapid run. "They are all in. I saw the captain go in just now. Hurry up."

"Where were you?" asked O'Brien.

"I was down there in front of the church," said Zeb. "I wanted to be sure that they all went in and that they did not leave anybody outside to keep watch."

"Were you not ordered to keep out of the way of that church?" asked O'Brien hotly.

"Course I was. Zeke told me to go around the back way, but I did not stay there. We have got seven men to capture, and since Zeke told me that there is fifteen in our party, I conclude that we are going to take them very easily."

"Well, you have raised a fight by your heedlessness," said O'Brien, starting for the church. "Those men are armed, and of course they will not give way to us. You have got to fight now whether you want to or not."

"I am there," said Zeb, drawing himself up to his full height. "It might as well be on shore as on the deck of the vessel."

"There is Zeke now, and he has got Wheaton with him," said O'Brien. "Do not say anything to him about what you have seen, for if you do, you will have a fight on your hands before you bargained for it."

"For doing my duty?" exclaimed Zeb.

"You did not do your duty. It was your place to keep out of the way of that church, and you ought to have done it. Here comes Zeke now, and he has got most of the fellows with him."

"Are you all ready?" asked Zeke, as he came up.

"All ready. We had better get into that church as soon as we can. There are seven of them."

Zeke raised his hand as if to intimate that that was his idea exactly, and he started off with the full expectation that in less than five minutes' time he and his party would have the most of the officers of the schooner's company at their mercy. When he got within hearing of the church he would not allow a single man to speak to him, but raised his hand to enforce silence upon every one of them. He cast his eyes around to see that they were all present, then with noiseless footfalls ascended the steps and opened the door. Or, rather, he laid his hand upon the latch and was about to turn and give his whispered instructions: "Don't say a word to anybody but go about it quick and still," when one of his followers happened to glance over his shoulder and saw a sight that filled him with amazement and alarm.

"Here, here, what's this?" he almost shouted.

Zeke turned and about two hundred yards away he saw the officers of the schooner, running close together so as to protect each other and going their level best to reach the wharf. They were going at a rapid rate, too. Zeke saw at a glance that pursuit was useless.


Chapter XII.

Different Opinions.


"Bussin' on it, they are gone!" exclaimed Zeke, with a disconsolate air. "Now some one of you is a traitor. He told him what we were up to, and he went in to get his other officers and got out of one of the windows. Now which one of you is it?"

If there had been a traitor in that little company who had come out to capture the officers of the schooner's crew, Zeke did not take the proper way to find him. He was about as angry as he could well get. He took off his hat, slammed it down upon the ground, and glared from one to the other of his band as if he were just aching for one of them to declare that he was to blame for it.

"Never mind, Zeke," said O'Brien, who was as much cut up as anybody to find that the officers had escaped them. "There is another day coming. Remember that we have not given that cheer yet."

"I know that," said Zeke, picking up his hat. "But we don't want a traitor among us when we go off to capture that schooner. No doubt he will go to the captain and tip him the wink, and the first thing we know she will be out at sea."

"Let us go down and see what they are going to do," said O'Brien, walking toward the wharf. "Perhaps they are going to stay right there."

"I will bet you a shilling that that isn't what you would do if you was commander of the vessel," said Zeke, falling in by the side of O'Brien and moving along with him. "You would let the sloops go."

"No, I would not. If I were sent here to protect them I would stay with them until we were all captured. If the captain pulls up his anchor and drops down the bay, he will stay there until the sloops are loaded and ready to start."

Zeke made no reply; he was too indignant to talk. He walked along by the side of O'Brien, and when they came within sight of the Margaretta they found that there was something of a commotion on board. The men were running everywhere about the vessel in obedience to the harsh orders which came faintly to their ears, and presently the sound of dropping hand-spikes was heard, and a group of sailors were seen gathering about a gun which was pointed over the town.

"They are going to shoot at us!" shouted three or four of the men in Zeke's company.

"Let them shoot!" replied Zeb Short. "If we don't leave men enough behind us to make them pay for every drop of our blood that they will spill here to-day, we ought to be killed."

Not a man was seen who showed a disposition to run and find a safe place from the ball in the cannon which they knew would come flying toward them in a minute more. They all stood up, and although there were some pale faces among them, they waited with a dogged determination to see if the captain was going to shoot them down. Another minute passed, and then there was a roar aboard the schooner and something passed above their heads so close that they felt the wind of it. Another and another followed it, and during all this time Zeke and his men stood there on the wharf in plain sight, resolved that they would not go until the schooner got through firing. But not one of the balls entered the village. They all went over it and were intended, as the sailor had informed Caleb Young, to let the citizens of Machias see that the crew of the Margaretta were on the alert. Finally the guns ceased firing and the crew proceeded to secure them; and when this was done they turned their attention to something else. The schooner was too far off for them to hear the orders that were issued, but they saw the motions, and knew that the vessel was getting under way. She was not going to wait for the sloops after all.

"Bussin' on it!" exclaimed Zeke, taking off his hat and throwing it on the ground beside him. It seemed as if Zeke's hat was the first thing to stand his exhibition of fury whenever he got that way. He plucked it off and threw it as far from him as he could, and then was ready to go on with his grievance.

"Are they going to get under way sure enough?" stammered Enoch.

"You have been to sea often enough to know what 'stand by the capstan' means," retorted Zeke. "Of course she is going to get under way and let these sloops take care of themselves. You have seen Caleb Young for the last time."

"Don't put too much faith in what Zeke says," said Mr. O'Brien. "That schooner is going to get under way, but she is only going to drop down a few miles where she can have more sea-room. Do you know that Caleb is on board that schooner?"

"No, sir; but he is not in jail, and I don't know where else he could be. I believe Mr. Howard had him taken on board, too."

"Let us go with her and see where she is going to bring up," said Zeb Short, who felt very uneasy every time he looked at Zeke. "Perhaps we can make her surrender."

"Yes, you will make her surrender," said Zeke, in accents of disgust; but all the same he arose, as the others did, and walked along toward the point which was about three miles off. The schooner fairly beat them in the race because she had her mainsail up by this time, and was going ahead as fast as a four-knot breeze could send her. The men kept her in sight until she rounded to under the point and cast anchor about a quarter of a mile from shore.

"Do you see that, Zeke?" said Mr. O'Brien, cheerfully. "She is going to wait for the sloops. When they come down all ready to sail she will go on with them to New York."

"I am in favor of going up and getting one of the sloops and attacking her," said Enoch, whose eyes brightened wonderfully when he saw the Margaretta come to anchor. "We can't get her in any other way."

"I believe the boy is right there," said Wheaton. "If we are going to take that schooner at all, we must go out to her in some way."

A long discussion followed on this point, some were decidedly in favor of Wheaton's proposition and some were not. Every man had something to say, but without coming to the point, and before long the sun began to sink out of sight behind the hills.

"Well," said O'Brien, jumping up and turning his face toward home, "you have settled the matter for one day at least; but when to-morrow morning comes you will surely hear that cheer. We will take a sloop and come down here and capture that schooner."

"Hear! Hear!" shouted one of the men.

"All of you who are in favor of going with us we shall expect to see down here," continued O'Brien. "Those of you who don't favor it, stay at home."

"Of course if you are going to fight the schooner, we shall go too," said another, who could not see the beauty of taking a sloop to go out where the schooner was and be licked. "When you give that cheer you will find us all ready."

"I wish you had been as ready to-day as you say you will be to-morrow for we would have had that schooner in an hour from now," said O'Brien. "I hope you will come prepared to do your duty."

Zeke and his friends walked home, but they did not say much during their journey. He and Enoch were very much disappointed, and they began to think that the enthusiasm that some of their party had displayed was all put on for the occasion. They had the best of reasons for believing that Caleb was a prisoner on board that vessel, and that a few more hours would find him safe in New York and that they would never see him again. They were more anxious to fight now than they had ever been before; and when Enoch parted from him at his gate, Zeke said:

"That's what comes of postponing a dangerous thing like this. Those fellows yesterday were all eager to fight, and you saw how some of them backed out down there at the point."

"You are going to take that schooner, are you not?" asked Enoch.

"To be sure we are," said Zeke, striking his palms together. "If there is one man left of our party, he is going to sail that boat into the harbor."

"I am glad to hear you say that," said Enoch, smiling and rubbing his hands together. "The only brother I have is aboard that boat, and I am bound to get him out if I can."

"You keep your ears open and you will surely hear the sign," said Zeke, impressively. "Then you come a running."

Enoch replied that he would be there as soon as any of them, and continued on his way toward home. On the way he was obliged to pass Mr. Howard's house, and he saw somebody sitting on the porch whom he hoped he might never see again. It was the boy whose father had placed Caleb a prisoner aboard the schooner. He was sitting on the porch with his wounded eye done up, and when he saw Enoch approaching he got up and came down to the gate; but Enoch noticed that he did not come within reach of it. He stopped just outside of the touch of Enoch's arm.

"Well, Enoch, you did not get them, did you?" said he.

"Get what?" said Enoch in reply.

"Oh, I don't suppose you know that there was fifteen or twenty men who went down to the church this morning to arrest the officers of the schooner," said James, with a laugh. "I know all about it. You did not guard the windows as well as the door, and so they slipped out. You will have to be sharper than that if you hope to gobble Britishers."

Enoch thought he had got all he wanted to know out of James, and turned to go on again, but before he had made many steps James called after him.

"I have got something more that I want to tell you," said he. "How many of you did they kill when they opened fire on you?"

"They did not kill any of us. They shot over our heads just to let us know that they were on the watch."

"Yes; and they could have wiped you all out if they had had a mind to. You want to go easy around that schooner, for they have got one of you boys there in irons."

"You know that, do you?" said Enoch. He drew cautiously up to the gate, but James was on the watch and he stepped back a pace or two.

"Yes, sir, I know it. The captain said he would arrest him, and he was not with you fellows down to the church; so he must be on board the schooner. He is going to New York, and he will find men there who are strong enough to make him pay his fine."

"If you will just step outside that gate for one minute I will put your other eye in mourning, and then you will have two eyes just alike," said Enoch, who was almost beside himself with fury.

"No, I thank you," said James, with a laugh. "My other eye suits me exactly. You will get yourself arrested, too, if you don't look out. Caleb will pay his fine at the rate of a shilling a day, and that will take him thirty days to square it all up. Thirty days shut up away from home and friends and surrounded with men who don't like you, will teach him a lesson."

"Well, I will tell you one thing," said Enoch, whose pale face showed how angry he was. "Don't let me catch you outside this gate again. And when Caleb gets back -- he will be out before the thirty days are up --  -- "

"He will, eh? How is he going to get out?"

"He will get out; don't you forget it. And when he comes back, you had better stay in the house unless you want your other eye tied up too."

James did not say any more, for something Enoch had said had started a serious train of reflections in his mind. He looked sharply at Enoch for a second or two, and then turned and walked into the house, while Enoch kept on toward home.

"If Caleb won't lick him I will lick him myself," soliloquized the boy, who was so excited that he could scarcely keep from going back and assaulting James in his own dooryard. "I don't know now how I kept my hands off him."

"Well, what did that young rebel have to say to you?" said Mr. Howard, as James entered the sitting-room where his father was. "Did you tell him about Caleb?"

"I did, and he was as saucy about it as you please," said James. "He says that Caleb won't stay in prison for thirty days, and when he comes out he will fix my other eye to be tied up, too."

"He won't stay there for thirty days!" said his father. "What does he mean by that? They can't capture the schooner, for if she sees a boat coming out with a lot of men on board, she will slip her anchor and put out to sea. I guess he will stay there thirty days."

"I guess I had better stay in the house altogether," said James, with an air of disgust. "I have made Enoch mad at me, and he will beat me if he sees me on the streets."

"Why don't you let him punch you?" said Mr. Howard. "Then we will have him shut up too."

James did not see fit to answer this question. He looked at his father with surprise and then walked out on the porch again.


Chapter XIII.

The Cheer.


When Enoch reached home it was pretty near night. He found his mother there, engaged in her usual occupation of reading the book, and without saying a word she put it down and got up and embraced her boy as though she had not seen him for long months.

"Why, mother, you must have thought I was in some danger," said Enoch.

"You failed, did you not?" asked his mother in reply.

"We failed from not surrounding the church as we ought to have done," said Enoch, in a discouraged tone. "They went straight through the house, hoisted the windows behind the preacher and so got away; and we never saw them at all until they were so far away that we could not catch them. There were seven of them there."

"I wanted to go out when they were firing at you but I did not dare. They must have hit some of you, of course?"

"They did not try to hit us. They just fired over our heads, and then got the schooner under way and dropped three miles down the bay. I wanted that the fellows should capture one of the sloops and go out there and take her, but they would not agree to it. Caleb is on that boat and he is in irons, too."

"How do you know that?"

"James Howard told me so, and it was all I could do to keep my hands to myself. If those men are not any braver to-morrow than they were to-day, we will not capture the schooner."

Enoch said this with a despairing air, as if he did not much care whether or not the schooner were captured, and then asked his mother if she had anything to eat. He had not had a mouthful since early that morning and he felt the need of something nourishing. His mother replied by serving up the dinner which she had kept warm for him, and Enoch sat down to it with an appetite which not even the discouragements of the day could wholly interfere with. He told his mother everything that had happened to him since he took leave of her in the morning, including his conversation with James Howard, and by the time he got through Mrs. Crosby was as disgusted as he was.

"It seems to me that by the time that schooner got under way to drop down the bay would have been a good season to have followed her up," said she, picking up the book again. "I am afraid that some of you are going to get hurt to-morrow."

"Do you believe that they will make an attack on her?" exclaimed Enoch.

"Of course I do. Such men as Zeke and O'Brien will not let this thing go by default."

"I hope to goodness you're right. The first thing I do when I find myself aboard that schooner will be to keep my eyes and ears open for Caleb Young. I tell you I will be glad to see him."

His mother's words put a little encouragement into his heart, but still Enoch did not feel inclined to talk. He kept thinking of Caleb all the while, but bedtime came at length, and he kissed his mother good night and went off to his room. He slept, too, for you will remember that he didn't get any slumber on the previous night. He did not know anything more until his mother opened his door and called him to breakfast.

"I declare, mother, I do not often let you get up and build a fire," said Enoch, as he opened the door and walked out on the porch to wash his hands and face. "You see -- what's that?"

Enoch paused with his hands full of soap, which he had been on the point of rubbing on his face, and straightened up. Faint and far off, but still distinct, came the sound for which he had been so long waiting. Clear and loud above all came the voice of Zeke, so penetrating that there was not another voice in the company of men that he had gathered that could imitate him.

"Mother, mother!" exclaimed Enoch, drying his face upon the towel. "The cheer has come. I must be off at once."

"You will not have time to eat any breakfast, so I will fix up a snack for you to eat as you go along," said his mother, walking briskly to the table. "There is a gun, my boy, that never misses its mark," she continued, as Enoch mounted into a chair and took the old flint-lock down from its place. "Don't you get it into any bad habits. May heaven send you back to me safe and sound."

There were no tears shed on either side. Enoch was going to do his duty as any Union-loving boy might, his mother was encouraging him in it, and both of them hoped for the best. Enoch slung on his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, seized the bite which his mother had put up for him, and rushed out to the gate; but he had not made many steps when he saw Mrs. Young coming toward him. Her face was pale, but she did not act as though she had been crying.

"The next time you see me you will see Caleb," said Enoch, never once slackening his pace. "He is aboard that boat and I know it. Good-by."

"Oh, Enoch, be sure and release Caleb for me," said Mrs. Young. "Remember he is all I have."

"When you see me you will see Caleb, too. I shall not return without him."

Enoch ran along, not going half as fast as he might, for he had his breakfast to eat on the way, and when he arrived opposite Mr. Howard's house he saw all of the family out on the porch listening to the cheer which every few minutes came as long and as loud as ever. Enoch was going by without speaking to them, but hearing the sound of his footsteps James came out to the gate and stopped him.

"What is your hurry?" said he. "Where are you going?"

"I have business on hand, and I can't stop to talk you," was the reply.

"That cheer must amount to something, or you would not be in such haste to answer it," said James. "Does it mean that all you rebels are to go down there? There goes another," he added, pointing to a man who just then came out of a house and started toward the wharf, carrying a pitchfork in his hand. "You men are going to get into trouble."

"Well, we are not the only ones who will be there," said Enoch, shouting the words over his shoulder.

"You think you are going to get that schooner, don't you?" yelled James, for the rapid pace at which Enoch was traveling took him almost out of the reach of his (James') voice. "Wait until you come back. The last one of you will be in irons."

We do not know whether these words reached Enoch, but if they did they had no effect upon him. Having crowded all his breakfast into his mouth, he carried his gun at "arms port" and ran with all speed toward the wharf. When he came within sight of it he found that the good work was already going on. There were thirty men there at work at one of the sloops throwing her deck-load overboard, and on the shore were the crew, standing motionless with their arms folded as if they were prisoners. The first man to discover Enoch was O'Brien, who, with his coat and hat off, was busily engaged with the others in unloading the sloop.

"Here you are," said he. "Go up there and take the place of one of those men as guards of the prisoners, while the man you relieve comes here and helps throw off this lumber. You have got a gun. Is it loaded?"

"No, sir; but I can very soon put a load in," replied Enoch. "I will wager that it will stop any Tory inside of two hundred yards," he added, stepping up alongside of a man who stood there with a club in his hand. "How long has this thing been going on?"

"We have but just commenced," said the man. "When I came down here they were just bringing these men off as prisoners."

"Are we going to take the sloop and go out and capture that schooner?"

"That is the intention."

"Well, Mr. O'Brien told me to take your place here now, and you go and help unload that lumber. I have got a gun, and there's a bullet that will hit anything that tries to get away from me."

He held up the bullet so that all the sailors could see it, and then pushed it home. Then he took up his powder-horn and proceeded to "cap" his piece, which he did by pouring a lot of powder into the chamber. Then he brought down the slide, pushed his hat back and was ready for some prisoner to try to escape.

"You fellows are going to get licked as sure as the world," said one of the captives. "You can't take that schooner."

"What makes you think we are going to try?" asked Enoch.

"That is where you are going with that sloop. There will be some troops up here directly, and then you will all go in jail."

"Well, you won't have to go with us to keep us company," said Enoch, with a laugh.

"You are mighty right I won't," said the man, with something that savored of a threat in his tones. "I am on the side of England every day in the week. She will brush you rebels off on one side --  -- "

"Hold on!" exclaimed Enoch, bringing his gun to a "ready." "You must not talk that way while I am about. When we come back we will be on board that schooner."

The man muttered something under his breath and then relapsed into silence; while Enoch turned his eyes toward the sloop to see how far they had progressed toward unloading her. The lumber was tumbled off any way, some going overboard into the bay and the rest being piled up helter-skelter on the wharf, and finally Zeke raised his voice and shouted -- 

"All you men who are going off with us to capture that schooner come on board here."

"Does that mean me?" asked Enoch.

"Yes, everybody. Come on."

"What shall we do with the prisoners?"

"Let them go where they please," answered Mr. O'Brien. "They can't hinder us."

"Now mark my words, sonny," said the man who had been talking to him a few moments before. "I haven't got anything against you, but I really wish you would not go off with that sloop. You are going to be killed, the last one of you."

"We will not be the first men who have fallen before British bullets," said Enoch, shouldering his gun and starting for the sloop. "Look at the ones the redcoats killed at Lexington. We are going to have revenge for that."

When Enoch got aboard the sloop he found O'Brien at the wheel and Zeke was ordering the lines hauled in. After that the mainsail and jib were hoisted -- that was the only two sails she had -- a shove was given at the bow while the stern-line held on, and as soon as the wind took the canvas she moved silently away from the wharf. She seemed to know that she was going on a dangerous mission, for not even her blocks creaked as the sailors pulled at the ropes.

"Well, Enoch, you are here, are you not?" exclaimed a voice at his elbow. "You have got your gun all handy, too."

"Yes, but where is yours, Zeke?" said the boy. "You haven't got anything."

"Yes, I have," said the man, pulling out his club from behind him. "If ever this falls on a Tory's head it is my opinion that he will see stars."

By this time the sloop was squared around with her bow pointed toward the sea and, contrary to the expectation of her company, she took a bone in her teeth and settled down to an exhibition of speed that surprised everybody. They were sure of one thing: The schooner must go faster than they had ever seen her go before in order to escape.

"But perhaps she won't depend on her speed," said Enoch, when somebody made use of this remark close at his elbow. "Perhaps she will stay and fight it out."

"I hope she will," was the reply; and the man showed a pitchfork which he had brought to assist in whipping the schooner's company. "If one of them gets a prod with this he will know what hurt him."

"Now I want all you men to gather here amidships where I can see you. I have something to say to you."

He spoke in a loud voice, and when Enoch turned to see who it was, he found Wheaton standing near the main-mast with his hat off. None of the men knew what there was pending, and one of them inquired, as he moved over to Wheaton's side -- 

"What's up?"

"I will tell you right away," said he. "Thus far in this business we have got along without a leader. We have agreed to everything that anybody had to propose, because we thought his proposition the best; but now we are coming to a point where we need a single mind to direct us. There is one man I have in mind who has done more to assist us in a quiet way than anybody else, and if you don't care I will propose him for our captain from this time on. I will nominate Mr. O'Brien. Those in favor of it will manifest it by saying 'Aye!'"

"Aye!" burst from a score of throats.

There was no need of calling for the nays on this question. As soon as Zeke heard the vote, he elbowed his way through the crowd and took off his hat and made a very low bow to his newly appointed commander. Then he laid his hand on the wheel, which O'Brien readily gave up to him.


Chapter XIV.

The Chase.


When O'Brien gave up his wheel to Zeke he also took off his hat and moved a step or two nearer to his men. Then followed an outcry from the crew which anybody has heard who has been tempted to attend a political meeting in America, to-wit -- 

"Speech, speech!" chorused all hands!

"I have not much to say to you beyond this," said the captain. "We have come out here to capture that schooner, and we are not going back with that flag flying at her peak."

"Hear, hear!" shouted Zeb Short.

"We haven't got any guns, so we will run afoul of her and board her the first good chance we get," continued the captain. "If any man tells you that he surrenders -- I never expect to hear any such cry from any man now before me -- let him go and help him up and treat him as you would like to be treated if you were a prisoner. When we get aboard that boat, if none of her company pull down her flag, Wheaton is the man to attend to it. He proposed this thing, has suggested me for captain and he ought to have the privilege of handling the flag. That ensign has floated the 'mistress of the sea' and I don't believe that any body of men has ever pulled it down before. We will show them before we get through with them that it can't stand up before a 'flock of Yankees.'"

The cheers which greeted this little speech seemed to have raised the sloop fairly out of the water. When she came down again she settled to her work and went ahead faster than ever. By this time she had rounded the point of land behind which the schooner had run for safety the day before, but to the surprise of everybody her berth was empty. The schooner during the night had pulled out and chosen another place of refuge. It looked as though she had abandoned the sloops and left them to watch out for themselves.

"Well, Zeke, what do you think of this?" asked Captain O'Brien, seeking advice of his steersman. That was not exactly the proper thing to do, but this was a household matter, everybody in the village was bent on capturing the schooner, every man in his crew knew as much about handling a vessel as he knew himself, and he did not see why he shouldn't go for help where he was most likely to get it.

"They are afraid of us, Cap," replied Zeke. "There isn't any other place that I know of where she can run for refuge, except it is that little harbor about five miles up the bay. She may have gone in there."

"Why, she could not get in," replied the captain. "She draws too much water."

"She can go in there if the tide is up, and she will have to come out pretty soon or we will catch her, sure," said Zeke. "If I was you I would go up and take a look at that place."

The crew had by this time found out that the schooner's berth was empty, and they all crowded around their captain to see what he thought about it. Contrary to the custom in these days, the captain explained his movements when he brought the sloop about and headed her up the bay, and the men all agreed that that was the place to find her.

Up to this time Enoch had found so much else to occupy his mind that he had not thought to take notice of the crew, but he proceeded to do it now; and the conclusion he came to was that the schooner was never in so dangerous a position as she was at that moment. There were thirty of the company, as we have said, and upon the face of every one Enoch saw an expression of calmness, not unmixed with firmness, which showed that they were fully alive to a sense of the peril they were about to encounter. There were no signs of giving up. They had come out there with a purpose in view, and that purpose must be accomplished before they went back. Everybody expected, to quote from Caleb Young, that there would be mourning in Machias when they got through, but every one hoped that he would get through. Remember that they had no discipline, they knew nothing of that 'shoulder to shoulder' drill which caused men to do their duty wherever they may be, but they simply went into it to let those men, who had been engaged at Lexington, see that they were not the only ones who believed in nipping British tyranny in the bud.

"I believe we are going to capture that schooner," said Enoch, moving aft till he could talk to the man at the wheel.

"Oh, you do, do you?" said Zeke, letting go of the wheel with one hand and pushing his hat on the back of his head. "Course we are. If you see anybody in this crew who dares to say that we ain't a-going to capture her, just take him by the scuff of the neck and drop him overboard. He ain't got any business to travel in this party."

When they had accomplished about two miles and a half of the distance they had to sail, an electric spark seemed to shoot through all the company when somebody descried the schooner coming out of that harbor and drawing a bee-line for sea. Captain Moore had not neglected to take particular pains to insure the safety of his vessel. The tops of her masts were higher than the surrounding headlands, and the first thing he did when he came to an anchor there, was to send a man up to the mast-head to act as lookout. He saw the sloop when she was coming out of the harbor of Machias, and forthwith informed the deck; whereupon an officer ascended to his side, and with a glass distinctly made out the company of hostile men on board of her, and he could even see the guns and pitchforks with which they were armed. Captain Moore instantly saw that he must not be caught in that narrow harbor, for if he was, his capture was certain. He must slip his anchor and get to sea; and the sloop's company saw her when she was two miles and a half away. A cheer long and loud greeted her appearance, and Zeke, who had been crowding the sloop all along so that a man standing in her lee rail could have dipped up a cup of water at any time, strove, if possible, to crowd her still more. The sloop responded nobly, and seemed to have reserved some of her speed for just this occasion, for she went ahead faster than ever.

"I tell you, boy, it is coming now," said Zeke, and for fear that his hat might bother him he took it off and pitched it overboard. "We will soon see how much pluck they have got."

To Enoch, had the contest been a friendly one, it would have been worth going miles to see the race between those two vessels. It seemed strange, too, for an armed boat to run away from a vessel that had nothing bigger than a flint-lock aboard of her, but the thought of what was in store for them should they succeed in coming up with the schooner brought many an anxious face. But there was no sign of backing out. The men having had their cheer out began stripping themselves, and in a little while Enoch could see nothing but sailors with a pair of overalls on. Everything else had been discarded, and the men lay along the rail and waited for Zeke to lay her alongside.

"I just wish we had another sail," said Captain O'Brien, closely watching the distance between the two vessels. "I am afraid she is going to get away from us, but I will follow her clear to England before I will give her up."

"No need of doing that," said Zeke, crowding the sloop until a wave came in over the starboard bow. "She is gaining a little -- a little, to be sure, but you will be aboard of her in less than two hours."

For an hour the schooner and sloop remained about the same, one trying her best to escape, and the other striving by every means in her power to lessen the distance between the two. Captain O'Brien kept a close lookout with his glass, and finally uttered an exclamation indicative of surprise and joy.

"Captain Moore knows that the jig is nearly up," said he, passing his glass to one of his men. "He is going to cut away his boats."

Another cheer broke out from the men who heard this, but they kept watch of the schooner, and very shortly saw, one of her boats fall into the sea. Another and another followed it, until four boats, which were just so much dead weight on the schooner, were following in her wake behind her. Up to this time the sloop had gained half a mile, but before she had gained a mile, Captain O'Brien, who had the glass again, told his men something else.

"They are going to shoot," said he. "All you men forward lie down."

This was what the captain was afraid of. The schooner could bring one gun to bear upon her, and if she kept up the shooting long enough, she might hit the sloop's mast and that would end the chase in a hurry. But the schooner did not shoot right away. She wanted to be sure that her pursuer was in good range before she expended a shot upon her, and so beyond training the gun the crew stood about awaiting the order from the captain to fire.

"He is going to make sure work of us when he does shoot," remarked Zeke, as he looked up at the sails to see that they were kept full. "I wish he would go a little bit faster -- Hal -- lo! That's in our favor."

While Zeke was talking there came a sudden gust of wind, stronger than any that had preceded it, and the schooner's main-topsail went by the board. Of course that did away with two sails, the main gaff-topsail and the main trysail, and her speed was lessened materially. The sloop began to gain at once, and while a portion of the schooner's crew went aloft to clear away the wreck, the rest gathered about the gun and seemed disposed to risk a shot at the sloop.

"Lie down forward!" said Captain O'Brien, sharply. "You don't obey orders any better than a merchantman's crew. Some of you will have your heads blown off directly."

Some of the company obeyed and some did not; but the moment there was a puff of smoke from the schooner's stern they laid themselves out flat on deck.

"It is no use telling us to lie down for such shooting as that," said one of the crew, raising himself on his knees and looking aft to see where the shell exploded. "I would stand in front of a barn door and let them shoot at me all day."

"They have not got the range yet," said Captain O'Brien. "And besides they want to scare us."

"There is some men in this party who don't scare," replied Zeke, trying to crowd his vessel a little more.

"I know that. I should be sorry to think that any of us would scare; but they will get the range pretty soon, and you will see blood on this deck."

Shot after shot continued to pour upon the sloop from the stern gun of the schooner, and every one exploded nearer her than the preceding one. Finally a shot passed through her mainsail, leaving a big rent behind it, and before the crew had fairly comprehended it, another came, passed through the port rail and exploded just as it got on deck. What a moment that was for Enoch! He lay right where he could see the effect of the shell, and two of the men jumped to their feet, gasped for a moment or two and then fell prostrate back again, and one other man set up a shriek.

"I have got it, boys, and we have not got a doctor aboard," said he, in a voice that sounded as though there were tears behind it. "Now what am I going to do?"

"Hold your jaw for one thing," said another, sitting up and beginning to pull up his overalls. "Do you think there is no body hurt but yourself? Look at that."

This man was much more to be pitied than the other one, for a piece of shell had cut his calf entirely away; while the one that made so much fuss about it had simply a crease on the top of his head. The second one made all haste to get below, while the other accepted some pieces of the shirt which Captain O'Brien speedily took off for him and coolly proceeded to tie up his wound.

"Say, Cap, I can stop that fellow shooting that gun," said one of the crew. "I can take his head off easy enough."

"Take it off then," said the captain.

All became silent expectation as the sailor crept up to a convenient place behind the bulwarks, rested his long flint-lock over it and drew a bead on several men who were working about the gun on the schooner's deck. One man was engaged in swabbing out the gun. He had run the swab in, took it out and was rapping it on the edge of a bucket to get off any particles of fire that might adhere to it, when the flint-lock spoke. The man stood for an instant as if overcome with astonishment, then dropped his swab, threw his arms over his head and sank out of sight.

"I did it, Cap, didn't I?" shouted the sailor, who, like all the rest, was surprised at the accuracy of his discharge.

Enoch was greatly excited at the outcome of this shot, so much so that he got upon his feet. He told himself that if one flint-lock would strike a man at that distance another might do it, too, and when the man fell he ran forward and knelt beside the sailor who had performed such a wonderful exploit.


Chapter XV.

Hauling Down The Flag Of England.


"Ah! you have come with an old flint-lock, have you?" said the sharpshooter as Enoch knelt beside him. "Do you think you can hit one of those Britishers working about that gun? Now look here: Sight your gun right there," he continued, making a mark with his thumb nail across the barrel. "Of course if they were in any reasonable distance that would throw the ball away over their heads; but we don't want to kill them so much as we want to scare them. Now try it at that."

Enoch drew up his flint-lock and one to have seen him would have thought that he meant to shoot at the cross-trees. Just then a Britisher ran forward with a cartridge in his hand to insert in the gun, but Enoch was waiting for him. The flint-lock roared, and the man stopped, dropped his cartridge to the deck and hurried aft holding his right hand as if he were very tender of it. The old sailor had made his sights just right.

"That's the way to do it," he exclaimed, stopping in his progress of driving a ball home long enough to pat Enoch on the head. "Throw the balls about their ears. That will frighten them even if it does not hurt them, and what we want is to keep them from firing that gun. Now let me see if I will have as good luck as I did before."

"That is to pay him for capturing Caleb," said Enoch. "I wish I knew where he is now. I don't want to send my bullets into the hull for fear that I will hit him."

The sailor tried it again and with just as good fortune as he had the previous time. Another Britisher caught up the cartridge and was going to put it into the gun, but he also dropped it and lay on the deck where he had stood. By this time all the sloop's men who had guns were congregated in the bow, and before they had all fired one round the gun was deserted.

"I knew we would put a stop to that," said the man who had fired the first shot. "Hold her to it, Zeke. We are gaining on her."

But Captain Moore was not yet whipped. He had three guns on a broadside which had not yet come into play, and all of a sudden his sails were let out and the schooner veered around to bring them into action. Before he had got fairly into position three flint-locks roared and two men dropped, one dead and the other seriously wounded. But the captain took up the position he wanted all the same, and the order to fire came distinctly to Enoch's ears. He thought he had never heard such a roar before as those little guns made when they were turned loose on the sloop. He thought his time had come, and held his breath expecting every instant to be his last. But the shells all flew wild. Not one of them came near the sloop. The provincials straightened up and fired three more bullets at the men who worked the guns, but the schooner was so obscured by the smoke of her cannons that they could not see what havoc they had made.

During this maneuver on the part of the pursued, the sloop had gained amazingly, and now they were within earshot of the Britishers. Thinking to avoid the further effusion of blood by prolonging the fighting Captain O'Brien called out -- 

"Do you surrender?"

"No!" returned Captain Moore's voice. "We will surrender when the last plank goes down."

And Captain Moore showed that he was in earnest. Almost with the words he lighted a hand-grenade which he carried in his arms, and threw it toward O'Brien. It did not come half way to the sloop but it exploded with stunning force and gave the provincials some idea of what was in store for them.

"Bring us alongside, Zeke," exclaimed Captain O'Brien, so impatient that he could not stand still. "If you can not manage her let somebody else go to the wheel."

"Bussin' on it, captain, I am doing the best I can," replied Zeke, working the wheel back and forth as if he hoped in that way to get some more speed out of her. "She will be alongside in five minutes."

But those five minutes were a long time to wait. The flint-locks were in close range now, and every time one of them spoke some body on the Britisher's side went down. It did not seem as though they had men enough to stand such a fusilade. Captain O'Brien was standing there with a rope in his hand, and when he had got it all coiled up he stepped over and took his place among the men who had flint-locks in their hands.

"Now, boys, protect me," said he. "Whenever our boat comes near enough I am going to catch the schooner and lash them fast. Enoch, go back and pick off the man at the wheel."

The boy started at once and without making any reply. He kept along close under the rail to be out of range of any one who was watching him from the schooner's deck, and when he came within sight of Zeke he was horrified to find him with his face all covered with blood.

"Oh Zeke, they have hit you," exclaimed Enoch.

"Don't I know that?" replied the wheelman, who stuck to his work as though there was nothing the matter with him. "But as long as they do not get me down I am going to stand up. Do you see that man alongside the schooner's wheel? Well he is the one that shot me."

Enoch took just one glance at the schooner and saw that the man referred to had just loaded his pistol and was now engaged in priming it. He cast frequent glances toward Zeke and grinned at him the while as if to tell him that his second shot would go to the mark; but he did not take notice of Enoch who, kneeling down behind the rail, brought his gun to bear on him. It spoke almost immediately, and the man dropped his pistol, turned part way around and sank down lifeless where he stood.

"There!" exclaimed Zeke. "That was a good shot. Now see if you can get that man at the wheel. That will leave her without any guiding hand, and before she can bring another man to helm I may be able to come up with her."

"I was sent here for that purpose," said Enoch, rolling over on his back and reaching for his powder-horn. "I am going to pick off every man they send there."

In a few minutes the gun was ready, after trying in vain to retain his hold of the spokes, the steersman went down in a heap. Of course the schooner came into the wind, and Zeke uttered a yell as she veered round broadside to the sloop; and in a moment more there was a rush of men from the deck and Enoch and Zeke were standing alone.

"Boarders away!" shouted Captain O'Brien, as he made the two vessels fast together. "Now, boys, show what you're are made of."

Zeke released his hold of the wheel, and caught up his club which stood beside him where he could get his hands upon it at a moment's warning; he cleared the rails of the vessels without using his hands, and Enoch lost sight of him in the fracas. Somehow, Enoch could not have told how it happened, he was close at his heels when he reached the schooner's deck, and between using his gun as a club to fell a man to the deck and making use of it as a parry to ward off a blow that somebody aimed at his head, he did not know anything more until he heard a voice exclaim in piteous accents:

"I surrender! I surrender!"

"Who is that?" shouted Captain O'Brien. "Do you all surrender? If you do, throw down your weapons."

There was a sound of dropping hand-spikes and cutlasses, and in an instant there was silence on the deck. The smoke of the hand-grenades with which the boarders had been greeted floated away after a while, and then the provincials were able to see what they had done and how great was the number of men that they had to mourn. Enoch was astounded. It did not seem possible for him to step in any direction without treading upon the body of friend or foe. The two bodies of men opposed to each other were about thirty on a side, and at least half that number were lying on the deck dead, or wounded so badly that they could not get up. He looked everywhere for Captain Moore, and finally found him with a saber-cut in his side. His first action had proved his death.

"Now the next thing is Caleb," said Enoch, starting toward the gangway to go below. "I hope that nothing has happened to him."

Enoch did not want to go on talking to himself in this way, for something told him that he might find his friend Caleb cold in death. He knew where the brig was and hurried down to it, and on the way he found half a dozen men who were wounded and the doctor and his assistant attending to their wants. It was a horrible sight, and Enoch turned away his head that he might not see it. A few steps brought him to the brig, and there was a hand stuck out to grasp his own. It was Caleb sure enough, and no signs of a wound on him. He was as jolly and full of fun as ever.

"Enoch, old boy, I knew you would not rest easy until you had got me," said Caleb. "Put it there."

"Are you not hurt a bit?" asked Enoch. He almost dreaded to ask the question for some how he seemed to think that no living boy could come out of that fight without being desperately wounded. Enoch did not stop to think of himself. He appeared to know that he was going to come out all right.

"Open the door and let me out," repeated Caleb, taking hold of the grating in front of him and shaking it with all his strength. "I have been in here long enough."

"Who has got the key?" asked Enoch. "If I can't find the key I shall have to chop the grating down."

"Do you know the boatswain?"

Enoch shook his head.

"Well, he is the one that has the key, and you will have to find him in order to get it. Say!" said Caleb, seizing his friend by the arm and pulling him up close to him. "I ought to 'start' that fellow. He was going to be awful mean to me if we had started for New York. Why don't you go and get the key?"

Enoch went but he did not know where he was going to find the boatswain. At the head of the gangway he met a Britisher coming down with his arm in a sling, and he asked him if he could show the man to him.

"Yes, I can," said the sailor. "He has gone to Davy's locker sure. I'll bet he won't start me any more. Come on and I will show him to you."

Enoch followed him to the deck and there, where the British had gathered to meet the boarders from the sloop and but a little way from his captain, lay the boatswain with an ugly thrust from a cutlass near his heart. By feeling of his pockets on the outside Enoch soon discovered his bunch of keys, and he soon had possession of them.

"You will not get a chance at that boatswain on this trip," said Enoch, as he proceeded to open the door. "He has gone where he can't hurt you nor anybody else by 'starting' him. He is killed."

He opened the door and Caleb fairly jumped into his arms. After they had embraced each other for a minute or two Caleb asked after his mother.

"Of course she felt very bad to know that you had been taken prisoner, but she did not cry," said Enoch. "I told her that when I came back to-night I should fetch you with me, and I am going to keep my promise."

"Let us go on deck and see how things look up there," said Caleb. "You had a lively time taking this boat. I never heard such a roar as these guns made."

If Caleb, when he was down below, thought things were lively, what must he have thought when he came out of the gangway and saw the number of men that had been killed and wounded during the fight! Almost the first man he saw was Captain Moore.

"How many men did you have on each side?" he asked in astonishment. "Did you shoot that old flint-lock of yours?"

"I did, but I shot to maim, not to kill. I couldn't do it. No doubt they would have used me worse than we will them, but you see they did not get the chance. There's Wheaton pulling down the flag. Let us go up and hear what he has to say."

The flag was already down and Wheaton was folding it up tenderly to carry it under his arm. Probably if it had been an American flag and the victory had been the other way, there would not have been so much attention shown it by the Britishers who pulled it down. Wheaton shook Caleb by the hand, asked him how he had fared as a prisoner in the power of the enemies of his country and said as he gathered up the flag -- 

"Captain O'Brien says that this is the first time this flag has ever been hauled down by a foe to England. She has made everybody strike to her, but she has struck to nobody. It would not have been pulled down now if she had treated us right. She will find before she gets through with it that a little flock of Yankees, to which her troops came so near to surrendering at Lexington, are as good as they make them. We have met them, man for man, and whipped them all."


Chapter XVI.

After The Battle.


"There, sir," said Captain O'Brien, drawing a long breath of relief and patting with his hand the British flag which Wheaton carried under his arm, "the Yankees have done the work. But there will be mourning when we get back to Machias. Who would have thought that those Britishers would have fought so desperately."

"Captain, they had guns, you know, and we had nothing heavier than flint-locks. Who would have thought that our men would have fought so desperately to accomplish an object? I tell you that each man deserves three hearty cheers to pay him for what he has done."

The fight was over, but now the dead and wounded had to be taken care of. After a short consultation with Wheaton and Zeke the captain decided that all the wounded men should be taken on board the schooner where there was a doctor and his assistant to take care of them, and all the prisoners were to go on board the sloop.

"You will have to stay aboard here with me and let the doctor look after your wound, Zeke," said the captain. "It is bleeding fearfully."

"Bussin' on it, I won't do it," said Zeke, earnestly. "As soon as I get some water to wash this blood off I will be all right. I stood at the helm of that sloop when she overhauled the schooner, and I am going to stand at her wheel when she goes into the harbor. That's a word with a bark on it."

Zeke turned away to hunt up a bucket to aid him in washing out his wound. Zeb Short was there with a club in his hand, and it was covered with blood, too. He had been listening to the words that passed between the captain and Zeke, and was evidently waiting for a chance to put in a word for himself.

"Were you hit?" asked Wheaton.

"Nary time," said Zeb, and his words and actions showed that it would take a better man than was to be found in the schooner's company to lay him up with a wound. "I don't believe in fighting, and for saying them words Zeke came pretty near punching me; but when you are in for it, why, you have got to do the best you can. How many men will you want to guard the sloop on the way in?"